Death in the Sun (24 page)

Guadalupe sits by her mother, dabbing her forehead with a folded, wet flannel. She dips it back into the bowl of water on the bedside table, wrings the excess and whispers that she wishes they could have spent more time together but she had to get out of Almagen as soon as she could. Immaculada smiles, thinly.

Staffe tries to imagine what it would have been like for Guadalupe, growing up here as the bastard daughter of a foreigner; her grandfather the mayor. He remembers what Pepa had told him about how much Immaculada loved Barrington. What might it mean to Immaculada, if she could be forgiven by her daughter for not loving her well enough? He cannot begin to understand what tricks it must play, if you loved a lover more than your child; especially a cheating lover.

Immaculada’s eyes close and he holds his breath. For a moment he thinks she has passed away. But her shallow breasts rise and fall. Guadalupe says to him, ‘I have the painting in the other room.’

‘That’s not what I came for,’ says Staffe. ‘And you should keep it.’

‘Now it’s not worth a bean?’ she says, managing a smile. They both look at her mother, sleeping.

‘You didn’t know it was a forgery?’

She shakes her head.

‘You knew nothing of the scam that your father and Jackson conjured up.’

‘Not the slightest.’

‘Your uncle Edu did.’

‘He always was on my father’s case.’ She dips the cloth into a bowl of water, wrings it and wipes the sweat from her mother’s face and neck. ‘It doesn’t surprise me he found a way to profit from my father’s fame.’

‘Jackson must have spoken about Astrid. He told me he could never harm her, and I believe him, which makes me think her death was an accident.’

‘You know she is dead?’

‘We will later today.’

‘How?’

‘Where is Jackson Roberts, Guadalupe?’

She shrugs.

‘He’s the only one who knows the whole truth.’

‘Sometimes, shouldn’t the truth just be there. Does it always have to be
known
?’

‘They’re going to try to prosecute Rubio Cano for his wife’s murder. I don’t think he did it. He was
there
; just like your truth is always
there
. But he didn’t kill his wife.’

‘You think Jackson did.’

‘No. They both loved her too much. She was killed for money.’

‘My uncle Edu?’

‘Perhaps. Or Angel Cano.’

‘He knew about the paintings, too?’

‘Rubio cut him in, I think. That bar down in Almería was on its last legs, but they couldn’t let it go. Angel needed the money, the rest of them just wanted it.’

‘So Jackson is innocent.’

‘Not exactly. You can expect a visit from Sanchez. He wants to nail you.’

‘Why?’

‘Because he wants to nail Jackson.’

Staffe has learned a little of what it must be like to love your country too much. Perhaps Sanchez is the last generation that understands, absolutely, what there is to preserve of the old life, of the Spain Barrington discovered, then slowly uncovered – in Almagen when he fell in love with the place and one or more of its people, for all its secrets.

‘What will happen to Angel?’ asks Guadalupe. ‘I always did like him. My father would take me to the Quinta Toro during the
fiesta
.’ She laughs, an unhappy laugh. ‘He would disappear off with Rubio and Angel would look after me. He fed me those livers with the star anise. You know, I never tasted anything like it since. It would get so busy in the Quinta Toro in those days. What will happen to it now?’

‘Telefonica are next door. They say they’d like to expand.’

‘When my father and Rubio were done, Rubio would come back into the bar and hug me. He smelled of cheap scent and his eyes would be swimming. My father wouldn’t hug me. I remember, in that crowded bar, he stood all alone. He looked as if he had lost something.’

Staffe leaves Guadalupe to the belated moments of peace with her mother. He eases the large door gently closed behind him, walks down through the white, tight streets built by the Moors. Earlier, he had spoken to the Hesse family solicitor, had told him about Gustav’s will, and the solicitor was delighted. He said Gustav would perhaps be able to find peace, finally.

Staffe passes through the church square. There is more than a little of the
mudejar
about the place of worship and he tries to picture the scene in Africa when they hear that foreigners are gifting them a new school; that water will come up from the dry earth. Life becomes a little less cheap. He feels gooseflesh in the hot sun, thinks also of Yousef, walking to Moulay Idriss with his euros in his
burnous
.

*

Salva has laid a large table in the
plazeta
outside Bar Fuente. Bottles of Contraviesa wine and jugs of beer are set out and everyone is sitting down already. Sanchez is at the head, out of uniform and carving extravagant slivers of Serrano, a fat Cohiba in his mouth and the smell of cologne on the warm breeze. Jesús is on his right, his arm in a sling, and Pepa his left. She is on the phone, reading from a piece of paper, presenting final amendments to her sub-editor. When they searched Quesada’s
finca
above Mecina they had found the keys for an apartment in Palma Mallorca, documents for a boat in Pollensa, and off-shore bank statements for a company based in Caracas.

In front of Pepa, on the table, is her dictaphone – now out of its beautifully wrapped and ribboned cake box, and containing everything that Jackson and Quesada had said down in the bowels of the Plaza de Toros.

Paolo and Marie are at the other end of the table and Frog and a smattering of old goats make up the numbers, plus the mayor, and two empty places. One is for Staffe, who is shown to his seat by Consuela, carrying baskets of bread.

‘Who is the other seat for?’ says Staffe.

Consuela bites her lip and hurries inside.

Frog says, ‘Manolo. We’re paying respects.’

‘I thought you didn’t like him,’ says Staffe.

‘There’s plenty you don’t understand about us, still.’ Frog stands up, offering Staffe a glass of red wine. ‘But you’re good enough.’ He raises his glass. ‘To Manolo.’

Everybody stands. ‘Good health, money and love.’

Salva comes out, carrying a suckling pig on a large silver platter. Consuela follows, carrying the same again, and everyone round the table begins to fuss: recharging their wine and imploring Sanchez to carve the ham faster, before the pig gets cold, but before he can, Salva calls the table to order. He leans across and picks up two plates, holds them high, bringing them down on the pair of crisped suckling pigs, and with a
rat-a-tat-tat
, he carves the pigs simultaneously using only the plates. So succulent are they, their flesh falls away and everyone round the table applauds.

Pepa finally gets off the phone and comes to Staffe, bending down and kissing him on both cheeks, lingering. She whispers, ‘I have something for you.’

He feels a weight in his lap and looks down at a large, brown-paper package. It is tied in baling twine.

She says, ‘It’s everything Raúl had, on Santi Etxebatteria.’

As they eat, the mayor explains that the Academia Barrington will be built on the site of the old
salon
behind the church.

‘The Junta don’t mind about what has happened? The forgeries?’

The mayor says, ‘Barrington is more famous than ever, now. They will come in their droves. To Almagen!’

Staffe looks around, at the barefooted, nut-brown children frolicking in the fountain. The ladies in black are needlepointing in small clusters, sitting on reed chairs with their feet in dust beneath the trees. The old boys are coming up from the
campo
with their donkeys. Staffe wonders what is really best for this special place.

‘And you will be here? You’re staying!’ says Sanchez.

‘I’m staying,’ says Staffe.

‘Of course he is,’ says Marie, craning to allow Paolo to spoon the
cochinillo
into her mouth. In her lap, sleeping baby Enid.

‘To the English Inspector,’ says Sanchez, raising his glass.

‘To strangers!’ shouts the Frog and everybody drinks. They eat quickly, hoovering up the
cochinillo
and little is said for a long while as everyone tries to absorb what has happened; what is to come. Jesús is quietest of all.

Sanchez stands, re-ignites his Cohiba, taking it to the shade of the fig tree in the corner of the
plazeta.

Staffe follows him, refuses a cigar. ‘It’s amazing, how this story told itself.’

‘Sometimes, you find a little truth and a whole lot more reveals itself. Sometimes . . . not.’

‘That’s not true, and you know it. You had to dig.’

‘For the truth?’ says Sanchez.

‘For the body. You dug a channel. You diverted the stream to the body in my sister’s woods.’

‘I knew something had gone on up there‚ it’s true.’

‘But you knew they did for Astrid. Is that why you were moved out to Almería?’

‘I did all right out of it – I soon got ahead of Quesada.’

‘Someone must have told you. They must have told you exactly where.’

‘Can’t we let it lie?’

Staffe shakes his head. ‘That’s not how we got here.’

They both look across to the table outside Salva’s. Jesús struggles to light a cigarette for himself and one for Pepa. They move a little closer.

Sanchez says, ‘Jesús is a fine young man. Amazing, that a son can be a better man than the father. I never thought that.’

‘Will he be all right?’ Staffe and Sanchez look across to Jesús, trying to put a brave face on.

‘He very nearly succumbed to temptation. He thinks he betrayed his father, his whole family, but he has done the only thing a policeman can do.’

‘Because you stepped in,’ says Staffe.

‘Let God bless him. And forgive him his loyalty.’

‘It was definitely Angel who killed Agustín?’

‘Angel has coughed up. He says they never meant for it to happen and they just wanted to scare Agustín, send him on his way, and then when he resisted and it went too far – they had to do what they did, to cover up who had been killed.’

‘The four of them were up in the mountains the night Barrington passed away,’ says Staffe.

‘Astrid wanted to go to Morocco and for Jackson to go with her, and when he said no, she said she would expose them all.’

‘Some of those collectors are very influential people – as you can imagine. They’d have lost a fortune.’

‘On paper,’ says Sanchez.

‘For some people, it’s only the paper that matters. So, when Astrid tried to leave, they stopped her.’

‘Angel swears she fell and fractured her skull.’

‘We shall see.’

They both look up the street that leads down from the church, see the priest walking slowly towards them, with Cortes and Peralta in tow.

‘So they called Quesada, and it was his idea to bury her in the style of a
ladrones
?’

Sanchez nods, takes out the papers from the pocket of his jacket.

‘And Quesada took care of Agustín, Edu and Manolo?’

‘According to Angel. He says the idea was to pin it all on Jackson Roberts, if they ever got caught, but as soon as he knew he was losing his bar, Angel gave up the game. It’s the call of history. Some hear it too loudly.’

‘But Roberts killed Raúl. You’ll catch up with him for that, surely?’

Sanchez smiles. ‘Sometimes, the bad guy can be innocent.’ He pulls out a clear plastic evidence bag from his pocket – a small cutting of cloth that looks like a blotched sample of a Spanish flag.

‘Raúl’s blood,’ says Staffe.

‘And Quesada’s prints.’

‘You saw the rag when I did, from the bridge.’

‘I warned you not to look,’ says Sanchez.

‘To make sure I did!’

The priest approaches Sanchez and they each make a small bow. Sanchez delves into the inside pocket of his jacket, produces some papers which he hands to the priest, who casts his eye over them, walking towards the cemetery, followed by Cortes and Peralta; then Sanchez and Staffe. The rest of the diners follow, and slowly the villagers come out, processing slowly. The gravediggers bring up the rear, their tools slung over their shoulders like guns.

The sun beats down on the shadeless graveyard and the village stands in silence as the diggers open up the tomb, trying not to disturb the dead. It says:

Hugo Barrington

Artist

1914–1999

Much loved in a foreign land

When the corpse is exposed, Cortes steps in, carefully easing the cadaver out and resting it on the ground, uncovering the body which is preserved in a way the victim in the woods never could be.

It is, unmistakably, Astrid.

When Cortes is done, Staffe opens his wallet and hands him the pressed ball of Barrington’s hair. Cortes says, ‘To prove your sister doesn’t live amongst ghosts?’

Staffe looks away, looks all around him, to see if they are being watched from a safe place, but the sun blinds him, so he looks back towards the village. Still‚ he feels the presence of Jackson Roberts‚ out there somewhere.

He shields his eyes and beyond the line of villagers, he sees a woman walking slowly towards him. From the way she moves, he knows her. She wears a white cotton dress that shimmers like water. Her legs are paler than he has become accustomed to and she too holds a hand to her eyes against the brilliance of the sun. Her face is obscured, but his heart skips a beat and he feels hollow in his stomach. At first, he thinks this is because of the portent she must bring. But he knows it is probably something more. For a moment, Staffe thinks he might be in dreams.

Staffe watches her all the way and although Cortes says something to him, he doesn’t hear it. All the time, she gets closer.

Finally, she is in front of him, says, ‘Good afternoon, sir.’

‘Josie? What are you doing here?’

‘It’s Pulford.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Jadus Golding is dead.’

Staffe looks at Josie and wants to hug her, to embrace what he thinks she represents.