Mackenzie shrugged. ‘It’s virtually the same in both languages.’
The Jefe turned to Cristina. ‘Do you know what an oxymoron is, Cristina?’
‘No, Jefe.’
‘It’s a figure of speech in which apparently contradictory terms appear in conjunction. What our British friend is telling me is that he doesn’t believe that guns can keep the peace.’
It was Mackenzie’s turn to smile. ‘And what you are telling me, Jefe, is that you are no uneducated country cop.’
The Jefe laughed heartily. ‘After a lifetime in the police force himself, my father thought I should aspire to something better. So he sent me to university in Madrid, where I studied Spanish Literature. I wrote my thesis on the contradictions of Federico García Lorca.’
‘But you joined the police anyway.’
The Jefe made a face. ‘It was in my DNA.’
Mackenzie nodded. ‘My father was a policeman, too.’
‘Was he?’ The Jefe grinned approvingly. ‘Then you and I have much in common, my friend.’
The Jefe’s office was an unassuming room with worn carpet on the floor. Framed photographs and commendations covered the walls. Sheafs of pinned paperwork sprouted from a notice board above his desk. A row of silver sports cups stood along the top of a bookshelf on the back wall, and charts lay strewn across a long conference table in the middle of the room. A detachable blue light and the corkscrew cable that connected it to the mother vehicle had been placed on one corner to hold them down. Windows on two walls gave on to adjoining offices. Not, perhaps, so that the Jefe could keep an eye on junior officers, so much as making them aware that he could. He slumped into a comfortable chair, unhooking the sunglasses from his shirt and tossing them carelessly on to the desk. Mackenzie noticed the cross hanging ostentatiously around his neck, making a mental note to resist any further temptation to blaspheme. He was not religious himself, but knew that Spain was a devoutly Catholic country, particularly here in Andalusia where Christianity had sunk its roots deep to stand firm against Islam and the Moorish occupation.
The Jefe waved him towards a seat on the other side of his desk. Cristina remained standing. A tangle of sun-bleached and silvered eyebrows animated the Jefe’s face. ‘You’re probably wondering why you are here.’
This did not seem like a question to Mackenzie, but he understood that a response was required. ‘It had crossed my mind,’ he said.
The Jefe leaned forward. ‘There is a massive search under way, Señor Mackenzie, for your fellow countryman. All the way from Gibraltar to Malaga, and beyond. Every agency is involved. The Policía National, Policía Local, Policía Judicial, the Guardia . . . It is a matter of national pride, you might say, that we recapture this man. When we do – and I say when, not if – there will no longer be any question of extradition. He has murdered Spanish police officers and will face justice here in Spain.’ He paused. ‘But Cleland has been living here among the English-speaking community. It is where he has left all his traces, made all his friends. And your National Crime Agency has graciously agreed to lend us your services to help us find him, since you are fluent in both languages.’
Mackenzie stared at him in disbelief. ‘But I don’t have any underwear,’ he said.
The Jefe stared back at him for a moment, frowning. Before his face cleared, eyebrows shooting up on his forehead, and he laughed. ‘I like you, señor. You have that famous British sense of humour.’
Mackenzie was not at all sure what was humorous about a dearth of clean underwear.
The chief of police lounged back in his seat. ‘Underwear we can do. Hopefully you won’t require too many pairs of socks.’ His smile faded. ‘We want to catch this man sooner rather than later. All the intel we’re receiving leads us to believe that Cleland has a major drugs deal going down sometime within the next week. Which is why his friends were so keen to spring him. The drugs squad in Malaga think that there is a massive haul of cocaine stashed somewhere, probably in this area. They are also of the opinion that Cleland could be key to an exchange being successfully completed. Cash for cocaine. And we’re not just talking millions. We’re talking a street value running to tens of millions. If Cleland accomplishes this exchange he will be wealthy, beyond even his wildest dreams. He will be gone. And with that kind of money, señor, we will see neither hide nor hair of him ever again. So, you see, there is a certain urgency.’
Mackenzie nodded. An urgency that would apply equally to his need for fresh underwear. But he refrained from saying so and thought that Susan would have been proud of him.
Almost as though reading his mind, the Jefe said to Cristina, ‘You can take him shopping for underwear, and then up to Cleland’s villa to let him take a look. I’ll get the front office to reserve him a room at a hotel in town.’ He returned his gaze to Mackenzie. ‘It won’t be five-star I’m afraid, señor.’ He smiled. ‘I have a limited budget.’ He got to his feet. ‘You two will work together.’
Mackenzie glanced at Cristina and saw that this was news to her. And a not entirely welcome revelation.
‘Cristina will be your authority when it comes to interviewing witnesses or getting access to whatever you might need. But you will have no authority yourself, nor will you carry a weapon.’ He grinned. ‘Which should be no hardship, since you do not believe that guns keep the peace.’ His smile faded. ‘Your role will be purely advisory.’ He raised a finger in the air. ‘But if you need anything, anything at all, you come to me.’
*
Mackenzie could barely keep pace with Cristina as she marched across the underground garage to where she had parked
