A Silent Death Peter May (i read book TXT) 📖

card at the same time as her eyebrows, silently asking if he was the MCKENZEE she was looking for. The card was upside down. He indicated as much with a turn of his finger. She looked at it and quickly turned it the right way up. He walked towards her.

‘Only that’s not how you spell it. It’s M-A-C, with an I-E at the end.’

She frowned, and he saw that she was flushed and flustered and perspiring freely.

‘And you’re late. I mean is this really how you people operate? I expected to be met at the gate by . . .’ He glanced at her uniform for some indication of rank. But there was none, just a police insignia to the right of the reflective yellow across her chest, the word Policía in grey on the left. A checkered black and white strip beneath the yellow of her otherwise black uniform suggested that she might be nothing more than a lowly constable. The only marking on either sleeve was a green and white patch sewn on to her upper left arm and bearing the legend Policía Local Marviña. He hesitated. ‘By . . . someone more senior.’

She bristled. ‘Someone other than a woman, you mean?’

Mackenzie bristled back. ‘Armed guards, I was told. I should have remained airside the whole time. And where is Cleland?’

Her face coloured, and a little of her self-assurance drained away. ‘The exchange has been cancelled.’

‘Why?’

‘Señor Cleland escaped.’

Mackenzie was momentarily speechless. Then, ‘Escaped?’ It hardly seemed possible. And all that went through his mind was that he had missed Sophia’s school concert for nothing. ‘Jesus Christ!’ He rarely blasphemed, believing it to indicate a paucity of vocabulary. But in that moment, as when he had sworn at the receptionist over the telephone, he lacked any other words to give adequate expression to his feelings.

She was defensive. ‘The armoured vehicle bringing him to the airport was attacked by armed men. Three of his guards were shot dead and a fourth seriously wounded.’ She thrust a hand towards him. ‘My name is Cristina Sánchez Pradell, an officer of the Policía Local at Marviña. I have been sent by my Jefe to bring you to our police station.’

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