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

Cristina nodded and half-turned towards Mackenzie. ‘Paco’s my brother-in-law. The one Cleland shot. Señor Mackenzie is with the British police.’ Mackenzie and Paco shook hands. Paco sighed and Mackenzie saw deep sadness in his dark eyes. ‘I know these people,’ he said. ‘Friends of my folks going way back.’

‘How bad is it?’ Cristina asked.

‘It’s bloody. You don’t want to go in there if you don’t have to.’

Cristina nodded grimly. ‘I think we probably have to. How long before homicide arrive?’

‘Well, the pathologist’s already here. He came straight up from Marbella. Homicide are coming from Malaga. It’ll be a while yet.’

‘We don’t want to waste time, then.’ She went into the back of the SUV to remove plastic shoe covers and latex gloves for Mackenzie and herself.

*

The lights in the house were all turned on, and yet it still seemed dark. The front door took them into a single large room with an open fireplace at one end. An old porcelain sink stood against the facing wall, flanked by rough wooden worktops hung with curtains. A window above the sink leaked early light into the room. A table where the family had no doubt eaten for a generation sat square in the centre of the room. An old dresser and wooden drawer units crowded surrounding walls that were hung with old black-and-white family portraits dating back a hundred years or more. There was a photograph of the house taken in another lifetime. Also black-and-white. It hadn’t changed. The same fig trees, the tendrils of their sinewy roots snaking out across the front yard, cast shade from the same sun. The only difference between then and now was that the family were all dead.

Drawers had been ripped out of cupboards and wall units and contents strewn across the floor. Glass and china lay shattered on cold Andalusian tiles among upturned chairs where blood congealed in great dark pools.

A pathologist in white Tyvek crouched over one of three bodies. A young man who Mackenzie guessed was probably in his late twenties or early thirties. But it was difficult to tell. This was a hard life, and people aged quickly under a relentless and unforgiving sun. Also, his face was a bloody, pulpy mess.

An elderly couple lay nearby. His parents, Mackenzie thought. The old woman’s skull had been cleaved almost in two, and there was a gaping hole in the old man’s chest.

Cristina, standing beside him, made a muted gagging sound, and Mackenzie guessed she was fighting to keep down the bile rising in her throat. A smell of blood, like rust, hung heavy in the air.

The pathologist was a young man, hood pushed back from a head of finely cropped dark hair. No doubt he had seen some harrowing things in his time, but even he had paled. He turned his face up towards them. ‘Poor bastards,’ he said. ‘Whoever did this was merciless. Almost as if they’d been tortured.’

‘Why do you say that?’ Mackenzie asked.

‘All three have multiple injuries, Señor. Hands, arms, legs. Brutal stuff. Not enough to kill. Not immediately. But you’d have to be a sadist, or trying to get them to talk. Or both. In the end it looks like they either got what they wanted or ran out of patience. The old man took two barrels of a shotgun in his chest. Seems like they used a machete on the mother. And the son . . .’ He looked down at the sorry mess on the floor. ‘They just beat him into oblivion.’

Mackenzie said, ‘Why do you say they?’

The pathologist shrugged as if it was obvious. ‘The extent of the injuries. The use of multiple weapons.’ He paused. ‘And then there are all the footprints in the blood. I’d say there were at least four, maybe five. I’ll know exactly how many by the time I’m finished here.’

Cristina’s voice was a hoarse whisper. ‘So whatever they knew, or whatever it was their attackers wanted, was beaten out of them.’ She turned towards Mackenzie. ‘This was almost certainly a safe house for drugs.’

But Mackenzie shook his head. ‘Unlikely.’

Both Cristina and the pathologist looked at him. ‘What makes you say that, señor?’ the pathologist asked.

Mackenzie said, ‘If these people had been coerced into keeping drugs, what pretext would they have for not just handing them over? And even if for some reason they had hidden them, how long would it take to beat the hiding place out of them? An old couple like that? And their boy.’ He looked around the room. ‘And if their attackers had got the information they wanted, why would they have had to tear the place apart?’ He hesitated. ‘It doesn’t feel right. Any of it.’

The pathologist said, ‘They’re bringing sniffer dogs up. If there were drugs here they’ll know soon enough.’

Mackenzie nodded and picked his way to the door, back out into the early morning light. He had seen enough. The sun was just below the line of the trees now, and he stepped over the crime-scene tape and into the yard. Cristina followed gratefully behind him. He stopped and scratched his head thoughtfully.

‘What is it?’

He glanced at her. ‘Remember that busted signpost on the road. If we hadn’t had a map we might have taken the wrong turning.’ He turned to look back at the house. ‘I don’t think these poor people had the first idea what their attackers wanted. They came to the wrong bloody finca.’

Realization broke over Cristina like cold water. Her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh my god, we need to get over to the finca at Cabezas del Río.’ She started running for the SUV and Mackenzie had trouble keeping up with her.

‘Hey!’

They looked back from the open doors of their vehicle to see Paco hobbling after them.

‘Where are you going?’

Cristina said, ‘We think they came to the wrong house, Paco.’

A frown of confusion clouded his face before sudden understanding swept