A Silent Death by Peter May (top books to read .txt) 📗

turn the wheel sharply, and the tarmac beneath them gave way to a rutted uneven surface. Cleland’s eyes were fixed now on the guards opposite. He could see that they knew there was something wrong. Then apprehension morphed to alarm as the truck skidded to an abrupt halt. The guard nearest the hatch was on his feet again. But before he could open it, raised voices and gunshots resounded from the cab beyond. And then silence. His hand withdrew from the hatch as if his fingers had made contact with red-hot metal, and it moved instead towards his holster.

He caught Cleland’s eye and the almost imperceptible shake of the prisoner’s head caused his hand to freeze on the leather. Slowly he sat down again, and lowered his gaze to stare at the floor. Perhaps, Cleland thought, like a child this guard believed that if he couldn’t see he wouldn’t be seen.

There were more voices now, shouting beyond the rear doors of the truck, before a single gunshot reverberated around its interior and the doors swung open. Sunlight flooded in, blinding the three men inside. Half a dozen men clustered in silhouette at the back of the vehicle, the dust of a dry dirt road still hanging in the air behind them. Cleland rose calmly to his feet and walked to the open doors. He held out his hands for someone to unlock and remove the cuffs. Then someone else placed a pistol in his open palm. He weighed it for a moment, checked that the safety catch was off, and that there was a round in the chamber before turning back into the darkness.

The two guards remained seated, side by side, inert with fear.

‘Hey!’ Cleland shouted at them, and both men reluctantly looked up to meet his eye. ‘Which of you is Paco?’

Paco’s eyes opened wide with alarm, and he glanced at his fellow officer, the one who had been so preoccupied with the hatch. Then returned them to meet Cleland’s. Paco was a young man. Twenty-six or twenty-seven. Short dark hair, a well-defined jaw shaved to a shadowed shine. His mouth was as dry as desert sand. He could not summon enough saliva even to swallow. His voice came in a whisper. ‘I am.’

Cleland nodded and raised his pistol to shoot Paco’s colleague in the head. Warm blood and brain tissue spattered across Paco’s face and he released an involuntary cry as his fellow Guardia slumped heavily to the floor.

Cleland leaned in, using the barrel of his gun to force Paco’s face around to meet his. He said, ‘You tell Cristina that I’m coming for her. You understand?’ Paco nodded. ‘Good.’ Cleland raised his gun to point it at Paco’s head and for a moment the young man thought he was going to die. Then Cleland smiled and lowered his weapon to shoot Paco in the thigh. Paco screamed and Cleland leaned in again. ‘Don’t forget now.’ And as he straightened up. ‘Better get that seen to before you bleed to death.’

The last Paco saw of Mad Jock was his shadow as he jumped down into the blaze of light beyond the truck, and the callused hands that reached up to grasp him.

CHAPTER NINE

Sunlight cut sharp shadows into the mountains that spread their volcanic tendrils down through the coastal plane to the sea. Malaga gathered itself around the long curve of the bay and spilled out along the coastline east and west, as well as reaching back through fertile valleys into the plantations that climbed up into the Andalusian interior.

Mackenzie’s plane banked as it came in to land, and he saw the vibrant blue of the sea shimmering in the afternoon light. The plane had encountered some gentle turbulence as it descended over the mountains, but the sky was cloudless, and the pilot had told them that the temperature on the ground was in the high twenties. It was hard to believe that just over three hours ago he had been standing in the departure lounge at Glasgow watching rain run like tears down the glass, blurring the runway and reducing the sky to a grey smudge.

He tried not to think too much about his uncle, or the strange compassion which had overcome him as he watched the old man weeping at the kitchen table. He had not, Mackenzie was certain, deserved his nephew’s sympathy. And yet Mackenzie had found himself making a pot of tea, sitting down with him at the table, talking him through Hilda’s illness, the life that lay ahead, and how he would have to adapt to it.

Advice, he thought ironically, that he might have given himself in the wake of his separation from Susan. But separation was not death, even if it felt like it.

He had phoned to order a delivery of Indian from the restaurant at Clarkston Toll, and the two of them had shared a bottle of cheap white wine and eaten lamb bhuna Madras in an oddly comforting silence.

As suspected, he had barely slept, and climbed stiffly out of his bed to dress while it was still dark. At the foot of the ladders, he had heard the old man breathing heavily through his sleep in the back bedroom, and crept into the kitchen to leave him a note. He thought for several long minutes with the pen in his hand before scribbling his address. Then, I’ll be here for the next few weeks if you need me. And signing it simply, John.

He did not expect to hear from him, and hoped that he would not, but something had compelled him to make the offer. He had no idea what or why.

The terminal building was crowded with holidaymakers. Men in cargo shorts and brightly coloured shirts wheeling enormous suitcases, women in short skirts and print dresses and oversized sunglasses, anticipation in their raised voices of sunshine and sangria. Mackenzie felt conspicuous in his dark suit, and although he had dispensed with the black tie, he wore his