Now the room resounded to strains of Gaetano Donizetti’s Lucia di Lammermoor. And it only served to underline for Mackenzie the difference between the two men. Cleland with his private education and privileged upbringing, schooled in the appreciation of classical music and opera, while Mackenzie had been listening to Skid Row and Tom Petty and Sheryl Crow.
As Gaetano evoked the windswept slopes of Sir Walter’s Scott’s Lammermuir Hills, Mackenzie turned his attentions to Cleland’s shredder. Sometimes when a shredder’s bin was full, the shredding device itself would jam. He removed its bin. Empty. But several shreds of paper hung loose from the mechanism above. He crossed to the desk and retrieved the screwdriver he had seen earlier, then returned to the shredder to carefully unscrew and remove the lid that covered the paper feeder. And there, jammed between the teeth that shredded documents delivered by the rollers, was the crumpled top third of a sheet of paper.
Very delicately, Mackenzie eased it free, then smoothed it out on top of Cleland’s desk. Cristina peered over his shoulder as he bent over it. ‘What is it?’ Even she didn’t know why she was whispering.
‘A letter or a bill of some kind. The bulk of it’s gone, but we have the letterhead. A name and address.’
She read aloud. ‘Condesa Business Centre. That’s at the port.’
‘What port is that?’
‘Puerto de la Condesa. It’s ten minutes along the coast, just before you get to Santa Ana.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
Puerto de la Condesa was clustered around a sheltered inlet between Santa Ana de las Vides to the east and Castillo de la Condesa to the west. Built in the style of a traditional Spanish pueblo, with white-painted walls below red Roman tiles, colonnades and arches on three levels led to shaded plazas jammed with bars and restaurants. Reflecting white and red in the still blue waters of a crowded marina, the port derived a distinctive identity from a blue and white faux lighthouse at the open end of its breakwater.
Cristina told him that most people thought the puerto dated back to the sixteenth century, like Marviña itself. In fact it had been built in the 1980s by a developer trying to add a touch of class to what had become known as the new Golden Mile.
Apartment complexes built around tropical gardens dotted the surrounding hillsides, spoiled only by the later development of ugly serried blocks of jerry-built apartments more reminiscent of 1960s British council estates – sunshine being the only differentiating factor.
Cristina parked at the entrance to the port and she and Mackenzie climbed to the second level, passing bars that advertised large-screen football for British and Scandinavian holidaymakers, a fish-and-chip shop, a laundry, a café advertising full English breakfast. Through an archway they emerged into the Plaza de la Fuente, with its fountain sparkling in the slanting evening sunlight. Tables belonging to Argentinian and Italian restaurants were laid out in the square, and the smell of food reminded Mackenzie just how hungry he was. He had still not eaten since the morning.
They entered a colonnade mired in shadow and felt the temperature drop. The Condesa Business Centre was set back on the right, behind sandwich boards offering tours to Gibraltar and Ronda and Tangier. Its windows advertised a variety of services, from internet access and mailboxes, to passport renewals, photocopying and fax.
Tourists in shorts and open sandals sat huddled over computers in its dingy interior, indulging in their daily fix of the worldwide web. From behind a counter a tanned young man with a crop of sun-bleached hair offered them a cheery greeting in a very English accent.
‘Evening folks. What can I do for you good people today?’
But Mackenzie couldn’t help noticing the slightly apprehensive eye he cast over Cristina’s uniform. He placed the crumpled and torn top third of the Condesa Business Centre letterhead on to the counter top. ‘Yours?’ he asked.
The young man glanced at it. ‘Looks like it.’
‘You have a client called Ian Templeton.’
‘Do I?’
‘You tell me.’
‘I have hundreds of clients. I don’t recall them all by name.’ He paused. ‘And you are?’
‘Investigator John Mackenzie of the National Crime Agency. I’m working on secondment with the Spanish police.’ He tipped his head towards Cristina, and both men dropped their eyes to the diminutive figure of the young Spanish policewoman. She breathed in to puff up her chest and try to look taller.
‘Okaaay . . .’
‘And you are?’ Mackenzie said.
‘Dickie Reilly.’
‘This your place?’
‘It sure is.’
‘Well, Mr Reilly, we would very much appreciate it if you would check your customer list and tell us if you have an Ian Templeton on your books.’
Both men were startled by the force with which Cristina slapped a photograph of Cleland on to the counter in front of him. She seemed immediately abashed and said quickly, ‘This might help.’
It was the first time Mackenzie had heard her speak English. In an oddly rough voice with a thick accent, as if she were a smoker.
Reilly turned it around to look at it. ‘Oh, yeah, him. He’s a regular. Couldn’t have told you his name, though.’ He searched under the counter for a large hardback notebook and flipped through it until he found the name. ‘Lives up in La Paloma.’
‘Yes,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Does he have a mailbox here?’
‘He certainly does.’ Reilly gave him what he clearly believed to be a winning smile. Mackenzie did not return it.
‘We’d like to see the contents.’
Reilly’s smile didn’t waver. ‘I’m afraid that wouldn’t be possible, Mr Mackenzie. At least, not without some kind of warrant. Customers’ mailboxes are private.’
Cristina said, ‘You’ve been in Spain long, señor?’
Reilly looked uncomfortable for the first time. ‘About five years, officer.’
‘Official resident?’
He attempted a laugh, and waggled his outstretched palm. ‘Sort of.’ But his smile was fading.
Mackenzie said, ‘Either you are or you aren’t.’
‘Well . . .’
Cristina interrupted. ‘This place . . .’ She waved her hand vaguely around
