Mackenzie ignored her outstretched hand. ‘No, no, no. My instructions were to accompany Cleland back to the UK aboard the British Airways flight to London that departs in’ — he looked at his watch — ‘just under two hours. If you don’t have him, I’m going back into the airport to get myself something to eat, and then catch that flight home on my own. Nothing I can do here.’
Cristina withdrew her hand, her face hardening as she thrust her jaw towards him. ‘My instructions are to take you to Marviña.’
‘Why?’
‘I’m sorry, señor, as a low-ranking police officer of the female gender, that’s above my pay grade.’ She had no idea how senior an officer Mackenzie might be, and realized she was sailing dangerously close to insubordination.
It was not lost on Mackenzie. He glowered at her. ‘Well I don’t care what your instructions are. I am not answerable to you or your Jefe.’
‘No señor. But as I understand it, this has been agreed by your Jefe in London.’
‘What?’ Mackenzie was startled. ‘Rubbish!’ He pulled out his phone and hit redial. But after further dialogue with the operator at the NCA, and more waiting, it was established that Beard was still unavailable. As was his deputy. Mackenzie ended the call in frustration. Cristina watched him implacably, though he was convinced he saw something like satisfaction lurking behind her dark brown eyes.
‘Maybe you’d like me to take your bag,’ she said, reaching for the handles of his holdall.
He held it away from her. ‘I’m quite capable of carrying it myself, thank you.’ And he set off walking briskly towards where she had parked the police SUV.
Cristina pursed her lips in annoyance and followed.
They drove in silence out of the airport, past rows of cheap car rental firms and long-term parking sheds, past the San Miguel brewery and up the ramp on to the A7 to join the traffic heading west.
The sun beat relentlessly through the side windows of the Nissan as the road climbed up out of Malaga, and sent light coruscating across the Mediterranean below. A gentle sea breeze blew hot among the fronds of the tall palms that sprouted from every housing development along the clifftops.
It wasn’t until fifteen minutes had passed, and they swung off on to the AP7 toll motorway, that Mackenzie finally asked, ‘Where is Marviña?’
‘Beyond Estepona.’ Cristina glanced across to the passenger seat and saw that this meant nothing to him. She added, ‘Another forty-five minutes.’
Mackenzie sat gazing into the heat haze shimmering in the distance, nursing mixed thoughts, before squinting to steal a surreptitious look at the young policewoman behind the wheel. She was not what he would have described as pretty, but not unattractive, although he was not attracted to her himself. Her tanned face was unlined and bore no trace of make-up, hair drawn back in an austere ponytail. No attempt had been made to enhance her appearance, and he realized he liked that about her. Her fingernails were clipped short, but well cared for and polished to a shine. She had fine, long-fingered hands, but they gripped the wheel too tightly, pale knuckles revealing the tension in them. He noticed how she was chewing on her lower lip. And although her eyes were fixed on the road ahead her mind was clearly elsewhere.
He replayed their meeting at the airport and pulled her name back from memory. Cristina Sánchez Pradell. And in recalling it he realized he had not shaken her outstretched hand. Regret stabbed him in the chest. Susan would have said it was typical of the way he alienated people. Sánchez Pradell... He ran the name through his mind again and realized why it was familiar.
‘Officer Sánchez Pradell.’ She turned to look at him. ‘You were one of the arresting officers.’
She nodded and turned her eyes back to the road.
‘You saw him shoot the girl.’
‘Yes.’
‘He blamed you.’
‘Yes.’ She pressed the heel of her hand to the horn and pulled out in front of a car that was threatening to trap her behind a truck. ‘He threatened to kill me and every member of my family.’
Mackenzie said, ‘Which wasn’t much of a threat while he was still in custody.’
She shrugged.
‘And now?’
‘The surviving Guardia from the attack on the truck this morning was my sister’s husband, Paco. Cleland told Paco to tell me that he was coming for me, then shot him in the leg. I think the only reason he didn’t kill him was so that he could deliver the message.’
Mackenzie reran the briefing notes he had read on Cleland. Mad Jock, they called him. Not, apparently, without reason. ‘Are you scared?’
Cristina flicked him a glance. ‘Yes, I am scared. But I also have a husband, a ten-year-old son, a sister with cancer, an aunt who is deaf and blind. And I am scared for them, too. I looked this man in the eye, señor. He is loco. Quite mad.’
Mackenzie closed his eyes and regretted everything about the way he had spoken to her at the airport.
Chapter Ten
From Santa Ana de las Vides, the road wound up into the hills through vineyards that covered the south-facing slopes, vines producing sweet white Alejandria Muscatel grapes and even sweeter wine. The coastline fell away below them as they climbed, and the old whitewashed adobe houses of Marviña spread themselves across the undulating hilltop. On the roundabout at the entrance to the old town stood a road sign the like of which Mackenzie had never seen before. A red No-Entry sign in the shape of a broken heart above a plaque that read No Violencia Machista.
Cristina glanced at him and his consternation produced a smile. ‘A campaign against domestic violence,’ she said.
They turned right into a development of modern apartment blocks, and then right again into a street that led down into an underground car park. There were several police vehicles here, including a number of motorbikes, and Mackenzie followed Cristina through a door leading directly on to the lower floor of the police station.
This was a building of recent vintage, with freshly white-painted walls. Cristina and Mackenzie started up a staircase but were halted by a call from beyond an open door at the foot of the stairs. A gruff voice that carried the clear weight of authority. ‘In here, Cristina.’
They turned back and entered what Mackenzie quickly gathered was the evidence room. Racks of metal shelving stood in rows. At one side of the room the shelves were lined with box folders, labelled and annotated. Files on hundreds of cases. On the other they groaned with cartons containing evidence collected from crime scenes or seized from the homes of suspects. The Jefe was sorting through an ugly collection of weapons.
He swung around as they came in, and started laying them out on the nearest shelf for Mackenzie to see. A long ceremonial sword, another shorter blade in a sheath, a well-worn blue-painted baseball bat, a sledgehammer, a long-bladed knife set in a wooden block that doubled as a club. There was dried blood on it. He said, ‘All seized this morning during a raid on an abandoned housing development on the edge of town. The place was being used as a clubhouse by a gang dealing drugs in the district. My district. They are like rats, these drug dealers. You flush out one infestation, another appears. You cage them for a while, then the courts set them free and they’re back, thumbing their noses at you.’ He stretched out a hand towards Mackenzie. ‘Sub-Inspector Miguel López. Station chief. Jefe to you, and everyone else under my command.’ He grinned. ‘We don’t stand on ceremony here — as long as everyone understands I’m the boss.’