The Jefe looked up from a pile of paperwork which had been engaging his concentration and seemed pleased to see him. ‘Señor Mackenzie.’ He stood up and held out a hand. ‘Did you sleep well?’
‘Too well, Jefe, and half the day is gone already.’
The Jefe shrugged. ‘It is Spain, señor. We start early and work late. It is too hot once the sun is up.’
‘Crime doesn’t wait for the weather, Jefe.’ Mackenzie’s disapproval was clear.
The other man laughed. ‘You always say what you think, señor. I like that.’
Mackenzie said, ‘Most people don’t.’ He hesitated. ‘Jefe, since Cristina is away this morning, I wondered if I might borrow a car. It feels like I’m just wasting my time hanging about up at the hotel. I could be checking out Cleland’s haunts down at the port.’
The Jefe shook his head. ‘Not possible, I’m afraid. We would need permission from a higher authority. And then there is the question of insurance.’ He sat down and waved Mackenzie into the seat opposite. ‘Cristina will be back this afternoon.’
‘Have there been any developments at all?’
‘The financial police in Malaga have frozen those three bank accounts you uncovered yesterday, so Cleland will be feeling the pinch when he starts running out of ready cash. We’re tapping every underworld source we can to try and get some notion of where he might be hiding out, and who’s helping him.’
‘And how seriously do you take the threat on Cristina’s life?’
The Jefe laughed. ‘I don’t. Cleland’s just looking to scapegoat his own conscience. I’m sure he has other more important things to occupy him now.’
‘What about the message he asked her brother-in-law to deliver?’
‘Amateur dramatics. Just trying to scare her.’
‘He’s succeeding.’
The Jefe leaned forward on his desk. ‘Señor, if I really thought she was in danger I would have her confined to the house under armed guard until Cleland is caught. Trust me, he has bigger fish to fry.’ He sat back. ‘You’re Scottish, Cristina tells me. I spent two weeks in Scotland once. Salmon fishing in the Outer Hebrides. Best fishing of my whole life. Of course, conservation being what it is these days, we had to throw back all the salmon we caught. Do you fish?’
‘Unless I was fishing to feed myself I would consider it a waste of time. Catching fish only to throw them back with their mouths half torn open, seems pointless and cruel.’
The Jefe raised his eyebrows in amusement. ‘I take it that’s a no.’
Mackenzie nodded solemnly.
‘Do you like whisky, then?’
Mackenzie smiled finally. ‘I have been known to sip the odd dram.’
‘I love the stuff. I have a wonderful collection at home. Everything from Lagavulin to Glenmorangie. I prefer the peaty kind myself.’
‘I’m a glens man,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Softer, sweeter whisky, aged in old sherry or madeira casks. Balvenie Double Wood is my favourite.’
The Jefe beamed. ‘I have that very one. The triple wood, too. You must come up some evening and we’ll sample a few. I’m all on my own these days.’ And his face clouded. ‘Since my wife passed.’ But the cloud cleared quickly and he added, ‘If you’re here long enough, that is. We’ll both be happy to get that bastard sooner rather than later.’
Mackenzie nodded his agreement. ‘We will.’
The Jefe sat back in his chair and regarded Mackenzie for several long thoughtful moments. ‘Ah to hell,’ he said. ‘Just don’t crash the bloody thing. And we’ll not tell anyone upstairs.’
Mackenzie opened his eyes in surprise. ‘You’re letting me have a car?’
The chief heaved himself out of his chair. ‘One of the privileges of being the Jefe. Come on,’ he said, and Mackenzie followed him out through the hall and foyer to the steps outside, stopping only to retrieve a set of keys from the front office. ‘Take the Seat at the end of the line. It’s just a little car, and with your long legs you’ll have to tuck your knees under your chin, but it’ll get you from A to B.’
Mackenzie nodded towards the car immediately below them. A shiny black Audi Q5. ‘I was hoping you might offer me that one?’
The Jefe laughed uproariously. ‘That’s my car, you cheeky bastard! You’ll take what I give you, or you can hoof it down to the port under your own steam.’
*
Santa Ana was an ugly utilitarian town that had grown up around a quaint little fishing village stretching between Condesa and Casares Beach. Remnants of the original village were still to be found along the shore, which was littered now with the fishing boats that went out early each morning to supply the dozens of fish restaurants on the coast.
Mackenzie drove quickly through the Santa Ana agglomeration before turning off the A7 to double back through a tunnel that ran beneath it and out into the Port of the Countess. He parked under palms fibrillating with the chatter of tiny green parrots barely visible among its fronds, and walked through the burgeoning heat of the day into the cool shade of an arcade that led him along to the Condesa Business Centre which had proved so fruitful the day before.
He’d had a thought. It had come to him the previous night after turning out the light. It had haunted him through all his dreams and still been there when the sun woke him belatedly this morning. Now it was burning in his brain and he wanted to put it to the test.
The sandy-haired Dickie Reilly was standing behind his counter. He looked at Mackenzie with undisguised dismay when he stepped out of the shade of the arcade and into the gloom of the business centre. He kept his voice low when Mackenzie approached. ‘Repeated visits from the police are not good for business.’
‘Oh? Why’s that?’
‘Because people don’t like the police, Mr . . . Mackenzie, was it?’
Mackenzie smiled. ‘Well, who’s to know? I’m on my own today, and not a uniform in sight. All I’m looking for is a simple answer to a simple question.’
‘Which is?’
‘Where would I go
