Death in the Sun Read Online Free

His shirt is stained dark with sweat all down its back and in patches beneath each arm, the size of dinner plates. ‘What happened?’
    The young cuerpo says, ‘You shouldn’t be here.’
    ‘What are they growing?’
    ‘Strawberries, but not any more. Are you German?’
    ‘Are you Jesús? You have a look of your father – Angel. He’s a friend of mine.’
    ‘My father doesn’t care for Germans.’
    ‘I’m English.’
    Jesús’s lip curls, as if Staffe had said, ‘I’m a war criminal.’
    Staffe takes a step closer, trying to see the subject of attention inside the greenhouse.
    Jesús puts a hand to his hip, rubs his thumb against the butt of his revolver, poking from its holster. ‘Stop!’
    The fat man looks up, makes his way wearily to the entrance. ‘Who is he, Jesús?’
    Staffe says, ‘I have a house in the Alpujarras.’
    ‘You’re no Alpujarreño . Your Spanish is too clean.’ The two men laugh.
    ‘What happened?’
    ‘You must go.’ The fat man reaches behind him, pulls out a radio. ‘Jesús, take him away.’
    Staffe jumps away from Jesús and waves his hands in front of his face, shouts, ‘Wasp! Wasp! I’m allergic. I’m allergic!’
    The fat man and Jesús each take a step back and Staffe carves great swipes in the air at the imaginary wasp, focusing on the scene behind the fat man. The head and shoulders of a fair-haired man stick up from a hole in the ground. His skin is swollen‚ bloodied and torn‚ and his nose is askew. Staffe thinks an eye socket is lower than it ought to be.
    Jesús walks towards Staffe, grabs his arm, leads him away from the entrance, and as they go, Staffe says, ‘Is it a bad one?’
    ‘It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.’
    ‘Don’t worry. I know how it goes. I’m in the police in England.’
    Jesús wipes his mouth. ‘Like I said, read it in the papers.’
    ‘I could hear it straight from the journalist. There’s no law against that, is there?’
    ‘Why would you bother?’ Jesús looks at him and for an instant, Staffe thinks the policeman might expect a convincing response.
    ‘You’ve been in those mountains. There’s nothing to do if you haven’t got a mule.’ He laughs. ‘It can’t do any harm.’
    Jesús sighs. ‘How do you know my father?’
    ‘Manolo Cano‚ your primo ‚ is my best friend here in Spain. Tell me about the journalist. Like you say, it’ll be in the papers tomorrow.’
    Jesús lowers his voice. ‘He’s with La Lente.’ He looks over his shoulder. ‘Now, you need to get yourself back to the hills.’
    Staffe makes his way back through the plastic-sheeted greenhouses and all the time, he feels watched. He turns quickly, thinks he sees the blur of a darting body. A dog, perhaps. He stops dead, listens hard and thinks he can hear a scuttle. Maybe a snake.
    He walks on as softly as he can, through the dust, and eventually spots the drum of NitroFos, close to where Manolo parked the van. He looks around. No Manolo, nor his van. ‘Manolo!’ he calls, peering all around. Twenty metres away, the African in the blue and yellow burnous is still on his haunches and staring right at Staffe.
    Staffe beckons the African to stand, but he stays put, looking anxious, putting his hands together, as if in prayer, rocking back and forth, moving his lips but saying nothing.
    ‘Have you seen a man – my friend, the one with the grey van?’
    He shakes his head vociferously, looking at his black feet on the white stones.
    Staffe stands over him. ‘What happened here?’
    The African man cowers and clamps a hand over his own mouth.
    ‘Tell me.’
    The man removes the hand and says a word with his mouth, but no sound comes.
    ‘You are . . . ?’ Staffe has forgotten the Spanish word for ‘mute’ but the man nods.
    Staffe sits alongside and motions over his shoulder with his thumb, towards the sea. ‘What did happen?’
    The man pokes a finger into the dust. He works his finger round and round until a hole the size of a fist