Death in the Sun Read Online Free Page B

Gutiérrez doesn’t show?
    Since his wound was retreated, Staffe has grown a little stronger every day. But for all those weeks, he has dreaded going back to London and the Force – a little more each day.
    Jadus Golding had looked him in the eye and pulled the trigger, rather than go back to jail.
    Staffe had done everything he knew to help Jadus get clean. He invested his faith in a young man who had been a criminal since before he went to school. Now, he doesn’t know what he will be if he can’t go back to the Force, but he knows that a policeman needs one thing above all else. Forget courage and method and intelligence. If you lack judgement, your days are numbered. That night, his judgement had failed him.
    *
    In Café Tanger, a Muslim affair, he orders a mint tea, looks out towards the port. On the other side of the glass, Moroccan men sit in rows, facing Africa and stirring their tea, passing the hookah pipe.
    ‘Señor Wagstaffe.’
    Staffe turns, jolted by the sound of his own name. ‘Señor Gutiérrez?’
    Raúl Gutiérrez nods and lights a black cigarette.
    ‘Do you want tea?’
    Gutiérrez shakes his head, sucks on his smoke. ‘You are a long way from home, Inspector. A long way indeed from your Leadengate home.’ Raúl sits down. He is fiftyish and clean as a whistling dandy, dressed for the ladies, Staffe thinks, and oozing expensive cologne.
    ‘You’ve done some homework,’ says Staffe, wondering what Gutiérrez has gleaned in the hours since they spoke. He thinks about asking Raúl how he knew his name, but decides to keep that card close.
    ‘And you, too. Now, tell me about your new African friend.’
    ‘How do you know he is a new friend?’
    ‘Information is my life. It is like the sun and water. Without it, I can’t live.’ Gutiérrez motions to the waiter, asks for water. ‘You nearly died. You should be more careful.’ When the water comes, Gutiérrez waits for the waiter to turn away and takes out a quarter bottle of J&B.
    Staffe looks anxiously around.
    Gutiérrez says, ‘I don’t mind Africans, but we are in Spain and if I want to drink whisky in my own country, I will. They know what is what. I don’t know why you said to meet here.’
    ‘The victim was in a hell of a state,’ says Staffe.
    Gutiérrez drinks half his whisky in one, theatrically opening his eyes wide and blowing out his cheeks, smiling. ‘You saw nothing.’
    ‘In England, a crime scene like that would be crawling with journalists, but you’ve got an exclusive – right?’
    ‘You should concentrate on your convalescence.’
    The waiter comes across to the table and speaks rapidly to Gutiérrez, clearly angry. He scoops up the whisky bottle and curses.
    Gutiérrez calls the waiter a ‘fucking infidel’, and a group of four young Moroccans appear from what must be the kitchen at the far end of the café. Two of them hold chef’s knives and all of them smile, as if Gutiérrez might be a big enough shit to make their day. The four youths slowly advance and Staffe holds up his hands. ‘I apologise for my friend. We shall leave.’ He puts down a five-euro note and ushers Raúl Gutiérrez up by the lapel.
    Raúl Gutiérrez says, ‘There’s a proper place round the corner. Come on. I’m buying.’
    Casa Joaquín is one block back from the waterfront and populated by men between forty and fifty-five, all with their hair slicked back, picking at seafood and drinking copas of manzanilla . They stand in clusters and talk passionately about the red shrimp of Almería, the anchovies and the clams. Most seem to know Gutiérrez, who has two glasses plonked down for him on the counter where a space is made.
    ‘I suggest you get me drunk, Inspector. My tongue loosens. And I might even get to talking about Santi Etxebatteria.’
    ‘What!’
    ‘It seems I can be all kinds of uses to you, but what can you do for me?’
    Staffe spears an anchovy, lets the salt make a delicious film in his mouth. He calls for two more