A Silent Death

Chapter Thirty-Nine

The Jefe’s villa lay at the end of a long bumpy track that wound up through gnarled cork oaks and the fleshy overhanging leaves of sprawling banana trees. Mackenzie’s ancient Seat strained on the gradient, tyres spinning and throwing up clouds of dust in the moonlight. It was little wonder that the police chief had splashed out on a four-by-four. Otherwise the approach to his home would be impassable when it rained.

Finally the track levelled off, then descended steeply to the faux finca below. This was a beautiful house, with arches and shaded terracotta terraces on three levels. Built in the style of a traditional white Andalusian farmhouse, Mackenzie thought that it was probably no more than fifteen or twenty years old.

Beyond banks of azaleas and bougainvillea, Mackenzie saw a swimming pool reflecting moonlight, and after parking next to the Audi, he followed steps down to a lower terrace. From here a spectacular view of the distant coastline opened up a long way below, lights like glowing beads on a string stretched intermittently along its sweeping contour.

The Jefe sat under a bamboo canopy, a glass in his hand, a half-empty bottle, some water and a second glass on the table beside him. Concealed lighting spilled subtle illumination across the terrace, catching highlights of amber in his glass. He stood up to shake Mackenzie’s hand, then waved him into a chair on the far side of the table.

‘Welcome to my humble abode.’

‘Not so humble,’ Mackenzie said as he watched the chief fill his glass then dilute it with a little water.

‘Extravagant now, I suppose. For a man living on his own. But when I built it there were three of us.’

‘Your wife and...?’

‘My son.’ He raised his glass. ‘Salud.’ They touched glasses and drank. ‘How did you get on with the Policía Nacional?’

‘They kept me waiting for over two hours before they took my statement. I don’t think they liked me very much, Jefe.’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, for a start I’m a foreigner.’

‘And?’

‘They didn’t appreciate my pointing out the mistakes made securing the crime scene.’

The Jefe threw back his head and roared with laughter. ‘I bet they didn’t.’ He looked at Mackenzie with amusement. ‘You just say it like it is, señor, don’t you?’

Mackenzie shrugged, not quite sure what was so amusing. ‘What other way is there to say it, Jefe?’

The chief chortled. ‘With tact, my friend, with tact.’

Mackenzie allowed himself a wry smile. ‘You sound like my wife. Or, rather, ex-wife. Well... soon to be ex.’

‘You have children?’

‘Two.’

‘Then you owe it to them to fix whatever is broken in your marriage. You might be feeling pain, but it is your children who are the real victims.’

‘What was it you were saying about tact?’

The Jefe smiled sadly. ‘Not my strong suit either.’

They sat in silence for a while then, sipping the lifeblood of Mackenzie’s native soil, gazing wordlessly at the stars that glittered across a crowded sky. There was no light pollution here, and the clarity was startling.

‘What happened to your wife?’

The Jefe glanced at the Scotsman. ‘Oh, the usual. Cancer.’ He sighed deeply, and some of the bitterness that resided in him seeped out. ‘A diagnosis that comes out of the blue. Shattering your dreams, your hopes and all of your certainties. Then there are the pedlars of false optimism, the doctors with their toxic treatments that are worse than the malady itself. All they can really do is prolong life for a few miserable months. What’s the point in that?’ He sipped his whisky and gazed into his glass for a long time. ‘The thing I have never quite got used to is being on my own. Especially here. Rattling about in this big empty house. At first I wanted to throw everything of Maria’s out. Burn it. Get rid of it. I’m glad I didn’t. At least it feels like a part of her is still here.’ He chuckled and flicked an embarrassed glance towards Mackenzie. ‘There are times when I find myself talking to her. I’ve lost count of just how often I’ve come into the kitchen in the morning and found her at the sink. The kettle boiling on the worktop.’ He hesitated. ‘Not. Or climbing into bed at night and turning to kiss lips on an empty pillow.’ He half-turned in his chair to look back at the house, soft light on white walls against the impenetrable black of the mountain behind it. ‘I love this place. And I hate it. So many happy memories. So many bad ones.’

‘You wouldn’t think of selling, surely?’

‘I’d leave here in a heartbeat, señor. My only future is in looking back.’ He leaned forward to top up their glasses. ‘What do you think of the whisky?’

Mackenzie took the bottle to look at it for the first time and raised an eyebrow. ‘I knew it was good,’ he said. ‘But I’d no idea it was that good.’

‘Sixty-nine Glenfiddich. One of my prized bottles.’

‘I feel privileged.’

‘Don’t. I’ve had it for years, and I’d have finished it long ago. But a whisky that good needs someone to share it with.’

Mackenzie savoured its oaky velvet smoothness. ‘What is it your son does?’

‘He doesn’t do anything, señor. He’s dead.’

Mackenzie closed his eyes momentarily. He could hear Susan whispering in his ear that he should have seen that coming. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, aware of his inadequacy. ‘What happened?’

‘Joachim was a cop. Following in his old man’s footsteps. I think he was hoping that one day he would carry on the family tradition and take over here as Jefe. And, who knows, he probably would have. Except for a terrorist shooting in Madrid that took him from us at a criminally young age. Just twenty-four years old.’

Mackenzie saw the tears in his eyes catch the light of the rising moon.

‘Amazing how quickly those who give their lives are forgotten by their country. The very people for whom they made their sacrifice.’

Now Mackenzie didn’t know where to look. And he was frightened to speak for fear of saying something crass or stupid or just offensive. It seemed he never knew what to say, and when he tried he usually got it wrong. Or so Susan always told him. Silence spoke with more discretion.

It was the Jefe who broke it. He forced a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, señor, I didn’t mean to be maudlin. It’s been an emotional couple of days.’

Mackenzie nodded. ‘Has Cristina worked under you for long?’

‘Not so long. But I’ve known her since she was a child. Knew her parents.’ He shook his head. ‘Gave her away at her wedding after the death of her father.’ He paused. ‘It’s a tragedy what happened to Antonio. And I haven’t told Cristina about Ana yet. Seemed like that might just be more than she could cope with right now.’ He blinked back the threat of more tears. ‘Sometimes... sometimes things just never turn out the way you want them to.’ He forced himself away from the thought. ‘I don’t know how much longer they’ll want to keep you here. I suppose until either Cleland is caught, or he gets away. One way or another, that’s likely to be in the next forty-eight hours.’

Mackenzie emptied his glass. ‘I should have had him. Twice! But today was worse. I let him get away with Ana. If anything happens to her...’ His uncle’s words about his father still resonated, even after all this time. He was a total waster, your father. Thought that nothing was beyond him. Well he learned the hard fucking way just how wrong he was.

‘Not your fault, son.’

Mackenzie didn’t miss the paternal undertone. There was something very Scottish about the Jefe’s use of the word son. And when he thought about it realized that the Jefe was probably just about old enough to be his father.

The chief also seemed to realize the implication of what he’d said and quickly shrugged it off. ‘Anyway, don’t beat yourself up. We’ll get him. I’m just really pissed off that I’ve got a conference in Malaga the day after tomorrow. I’ve tried to get out of it, but obviously they think I’m more value there than here.’ He pulled a self-deprecating face. ‘I just hope I don’t miss all the fun.’