Six Wounds E-Book

Morgan Cry

• Herausgeber: Polygon
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Seitenzahl: 457

Beschreibung

'A gripping high-octane masterpiece' – Andrew Child To make the perfect Spanish whodunnit cocktail, take one dead gangster, mix in six shifty expats, add one ruthless baddie and garnish with a suspicious police officer . . . Daniella Coulstoun has recently moved to the Costa Blanca. When the dead body of a prominent London gangster is discovered in the cellar of her bar she quickly becomes the number one suspect. With the police closing in, the local expats turning on her and a psychotic rival to the dead gangster in the background, Daniella knows she needs to nail the real killer, and fast.

Leseprobe

PRAISE FOR MORGAN CRY

‘Sweaty, seedy, fun’

Ian Rankin

‘An immersive thrill-ride through a wild expat Costa del Crime community’

Denise Mina

‘Fast, furious and infinitely entertaining’

Lin Anderson

‘Unputdownable’

Denzil Meyrick

‘Morgan Cry has created the ultimate literary cocktail: perfect measures of thrills, tension, suspense, served on the rocks with a liberal dash of humour’

Sharon Bairden

‘Pure escapism – pick of the month’

LoveReading

‘A hugely entertaining, deftly told crime caper’

Irish Independent

‘Riveting’

Sunday Post

‘Brown may have left behind the dark alleyways of tartan noir for the hot streets of Spain, but he proves that it can be just as dangerous out in the sun, and that he can still make his readers sweat’

Scotland on Sunday

‘A character-driven crime caper that steers clear of grit and sadism without ever feeling too lightweight’

The Herald

‘A fantastic mystery, compelling storyline, tense and gritty . . . Highly recommended!’

crimebookjunkie.co.uk

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Gordon Brown was born in Glasgow, and lived in London, Toronto and a small village called Tutbury before returning home. His day job, for many years, was as a marketing strategy specialist, and he helped found Scotland’s international crime writing festival, Bloody Scotland.

He has also written several short stories including one in the Anthony Award-winning Blood on the Bayou. Six Wounds is his ninth novel (his second writing under the name of Morgan Cry). He’s a DJ on local radio, has delivered pizzas in Toronto, sold non-alcoholic beer in the Middle East, floated a high-tech company on the London Stock Exchange, compèred the main stage at a two-day music festival, and was once booed by 49,000 people while on the pitch at a major football cup final.

First published in Great Britain in 2022 by

Polygon, an imprint of Birlinn Ltd.

West Newington House

10 Newington Road

Edinburgh

EH9 1QS

www.polygonbooks.co.uk

1

Copyright © Gordon Brown, 2022

The moral right of Gordon Brown to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978 1 84697 570 7

eBook ISBN 978 1 78885 489 4

British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available on request from the British Library.

Typeset by Biblichor Ltd, Edinburgh

To all the artists who provided the soundtrack to my writing (with a special mention to Orchestral Manoeuvres in the Dark, Juho Paalosmaa and the world of trance dance).

PROLOGUE

The Raid

The door explodes inwards, ancient wood splintering, sending a hail of lethal flying daggers, some a foot long, into the pub. Everyone inside, hidden behind upturned tables, cowers as the staccato rattle of the wooden bullets crashes around the bar. The door handle, an ancient lump of brass, is a warhead, taking out the top gantry of spirits, vaporising bottles – some that have lain there, untouched, for two decades. The door’s hinges, set free from their frame, embed themselves in the roof and reduce the banknotes, stuck to the ceiling by generations of drawing pins, currency from around the world, to confetti, spraying the room like the wedding from hell. A slice of oak the size of a boxer’s glove rips the lager font from its mountings and the pressurised CO2 forces a fountain of beer into the air. The eight-ball from the pool table is clipped by shrapnel and rises, ricocheting off the baulk cushion before bulls-eying the giant LED TV, which detonates, ejecting a wave of shattered screen. The room is now a murderous cocktail cloud of glass, wood, metal, paper and lager, forcing the already huddled patrons to hunker down further – to whimper, to cry, to moan, to pray.

Through the gap where the door stood, bodies begin to flow in, heads bent down against the settling debris. Figures rolling across the pub with a single objective. Thundering towards the bar: screaming, shouting, leaping. Kicking tables. Flinging chairs to one side. The patrons lying on the floor little more than living hurdles to be negotiated. Crash helmets crown many of the invaders’ heads. They all wear leather jackets or heavy woollen coats and most are sporting steel toecap boots. Some are wearing dark sunglasses. One sports a welder’s mask and, in his world of near perfect dark, he head-plants the pool table, potting two balls and cracking a cue into four pieces.

A light bulb is struck and pops. The circuit breaker kicks in and the pub is thrown into darkness.

But on they come.

The bodies.

The pub’s patrons have no time to respond. No time to repel. No time to act. They only have survival on their minds – that and a ringing in their ears and flashes of light speckling their sight from the explosion. They are befuddled and scared, lying beneath the wave of invaders – their arms wrapped tight, legs curled up – trying to anticipate blows, avoid pain, cringing under the onslaught.

A cry goes up as the bar top is breached, the office beyond invaded, and the fire door, blocked with filing cabinets, is wrenched open. The cabinets are thrown to the floor as the invaders, mere seconds inside the building, flow out of the rear. When they have left, a hush settles upon the scene, like the cowl on the dead. Remnants of plaster and currency float down as a lone pool ball rolls to a halt under a table, and a surviving pint glass falls to the ground, smashing. Beyond the ruined entrance there’s the sound of cheering, engines firing up, spinning wheels and heavy metal music. That noise too fades.

Then there is nothing. And, for the briefest of moments a void exists where the universe once was: a momentary black hole, its event horizon a perfect sphere to the breeze-block building where the raid took place.

Then someone moves.

A patron of the pub.

Towards the office.

They enter and, a heartbeat later, there is a sigh from within.

Then a sentence from without.

‘Did they get it?’

A pause from within.

For a moment there is hope from without.

Then a single word from within. ‘Yes.’

‘Well, team,’ says the voice from without, ‘that’s us fucked.’

‘Christ,’ says the voice from the office. ‘I think there’s a dead body in here.’

‘A dead body?’ says another voice.

‘Yes.’

‘Dead?’

‘I think so.’

‘Who is it?’

‘It looks like Pat Ratte.’

1

Carl Stoker

A Week Earlier

They say the sun shines on the righteous. At least my mum used to say that when I was wee. And it’s true, but it shines just as hard on the less virtuous. It’s just not as palatable to the masses that those with a more selfish agenda should benefit from others, with no comeback for their actions. It hurts more when the morally upright see the morally bankrupt showcasing their new super yachts, treading the glitterati’s red carpets or ordering a bottle of the most expensive champagne the local pub has to offer, just because they can.

I don’t count myself amongst those insolvent of generosity but I can see where they come from. I understand their contempt for those who they see as weak. I don’t approve, but I’m not as sinless as I’d like to think, when it comes down to the brass tacks. That my existence was one of servitude and mindless drudgery in a call centre not long ago has imbued me with a sense of entitlement for the better life I now enjoy. That I am no longer a minion, bowing to some truly horrible people, augurs well for my future. I’m brighter, happier and richer. The source of this new existence is a little more ethically challenging to me than my conscience would like. I have more than my small toe dipped in the world of criminality to pay for my new life. But I’ve convinced myself, on a superficial level at least, that there is justification for all my actions. That somehow I am a worthy recipient of the spoils. That doesn’t sit well with me. I’m of the mindset that if you haven’t earned it you don’t deserve it. And I sure as hell didn’t earn the building I’m sitting in or most of the money in my bank account.

My name is Daniella Coulstoun and I’m the majority shareholder in one of the seediest bars on the Costa Blanca. Buried in the coastal town of El Descaro, Se Busca is a windowless breeze-block cell that serves as a drinking hole for, in the main, British expats. My mother, a stranger to me for most of my adult life, ran this place as her own personal fiefdom for over two decades. Everything in here, from the ceiling papered in cheap foreign currency to the gaudy pink furniture, is a shrine to her poor taste. My mother believed, during the final few years of her life, in the principle that the less cash invested in the pub, the more cash in her pocket.

I’m perched at the bar, café con leche in front of me, looking at three badly typed quotes. Each has a substantially higher monetary total than I feel is warranted. All three relate to my desire to lightly, on a budget, revamp the pub. I’m thinking that all three mistakenly believe I want to rebuild the place as some sort of five-star retreat. I’d envisaged a lick of paint and a few new chairs. The quotes are, in my mind, suggesting gold leaf trim and marble thrones.

When my mother died and I’d inherited the pub I was appalled by its lack of aesthetic appeal. But it has grown on me the longer I’ve been here, my mother’s frugal nature surfacing in me. My journey from disgust to tolerance to tacit acceptance of the pub’s decor has been a slow but sure one. The quotes in front of me are simply reinforcing my arrival at the end of the journey. I push all three pieces of paper to the side and sip at the coffee.

Clyde, a student who is also one of the minority shareholders in Se Busca, is on point at the bar. He’s a nice lad, helpful, hardworking and a hit with the punters. He studies at university in Valencia when not working here – ploughing through a degree in art that he hates but is enduring to please his father’s failed artistic ambitions. Clyde had planned to travel once he’d graduated but since I gifted him a small share in the bar he’s been full of ideas on how we can expand and make more money – and has stopped talking about roving. Mum left me her flat as well as the bar. A two-bedroom apartment up in El Descaro’s old town. She also happened to own a piece of land that a Russian bought from me to turn into upscale homes and that put enough money in my bank to take it easy for a while. And, as a sideline, has allowed me to leave the UK and take up residence in Spain.

I live in the attic above my head. It’s a place that I recently had converted from a bare shell, installing an industrial quantity of sound insulation to keep the pub noise out, and splashing out for serious air conditioning to dampen the heat from the bar beneath and the Spanish sun above.

Tonight, in Se Busca, is darts league night. We’re up against The Fabled Corner, a pub that nestles in the small village of Cuando, which lies about five miles from where I sit. The darts guys from all the participating pubs take the league seriously. Se Busca are the current champions, having beaten DB’s last year by a single point – DB’s being another, less successful, expat bar near the beach area of El Descaro. Sandwiches are already lined up on the pool table for the expected hordes and I’ve ordered in extra lager. The Fabled Corner usually bring a fifty-seater coach full of support with them and all of them drink like booze is about to be banned from the planet. Last time The Fabled Corner played us there was a bar brawl that would have graced John Ford’s best scenes so I’ve hired in a man mountain called Jeep as extra muscle in case things get rowdy. Jeep is old school. Nothing fancy. Blunt force trauma his weapon of choice. He was a super heavyweight fighter back in his day, is twice the mass he was then and steroids have since tripled his muscles. They’ve also addled what brain cells he had. Words with more than one syllable challenge his intellect but he’s effective and, importantly, cheap.

I’m not planning to stay for the darts game. Zia MacFarlane, my partner, has volunteered to help Clyde out at the bar. Zia is singing down at the seafront tonight so in return for pardoning me bar work, I’m the designated taxi driver to ship him to his gig later. As a one-hit-wonder pop singer from the eighties, Zia still harbours hopes of a return to stardom. A dream he has been carrying for forty years.

I decide I fancy a walk to clear my head. The thought of a night in a pub full of punters screaming for a double top isn’t appealing to me right now.

‘Clyde?’ I say.

Clyde is serving Saucy a large vodka and a small tonic. Saucy’s real name is Arthur Heinz and he was once a high-powered accountant who, when sober, still knows more about Spanish tax law than anyone I’ve ever met. He’d be a great man to trust your finances with, if he didn’t prefer the lure of the distilled potato peel to that of the balance sheet.

‘One minute, Daniella,’ says Clyde.

Saucy smiles at me and raises his glass.

‘Can you please make sure he pays,’ I say to Clyde with a sigh.

Saucy is also a minority shareholder in the pub but before I made him such he had a bad habit of drinking for free. One of the conditions of becoming a shareholder was that everyone, except me, pays for booze.

‘Already done,’ says Clyde, holding up some euros.

Saucy staggers to his favourite table and the vodka is gone before he sits down. Clyde takes him another and returns to the bar.

‘What is it?’ he asks me.

‘Do you mind if I go for a walk? Zia can help out with the darts game.’

‘I’d love for you to go for a walk, Daniella’ he says.

‘Love? Clyde, why would you love for me to go?’

‘Daniella, you might be the boss but you’re rubbish behind the bar on nights like tonight.’

‘I’m learning.’

‘My great-gran is a quicker learner of nuclear physics and she’s been dead thirty years.’

I smile and he does likewise. As I said, nice lad.

I drop from the bar stool and acknowledge a few customers as I weave my way to the main door. Clyde grabs the builders’ quotes and stuffs them under the till. He’s with me on the refurb – a quick visit to la ferreteria, a dozen pots of pintura, call in some brush holders and pay them in drink is his call. I agree.

As I leave the pub and push into the late afternoon heat, I breathe in the freshness and let the sunlight bathe my face. My pallor doesn’t suggest that I’m a resident of a sunny corner of Spain. Since I moved here I’ve been more of an indoors girl than the outdoors type. Se Busca has a way of eating your life. Of keeping you prisoner. A time machine where the hours fly. There are supposed to be three shifts in the pub. Eleven in the morning to five. Five to midnight and then there is the late haul. The reality is less clear-cut. The bar staff consists of my partner Zia, Clyde the student and myself. There are a couple of others who help out now and again. Zia is a reluctant member of this chain gang and doesn’t like working solo, a bit of a must to keep costs down. And since I’m not the best at pouring pints we are tight on good staff. But I pay better than other bars and job security is a given because we have the most loyal punters in the town.

‘Daniella Coulstoun?’

The stranger shouting my name is standing in the pub’s dirt-covered car park, leaning on a fresh-out-of-the-wrapper deep black BMW 7 Series. Dust covers every car in this town. His is sparkling, as if he’s just rolled it away from the valet’s white-gloved mitts. He has black, centre-parted hair that rolls onto his shoulders and is wearing a black shirt, loose at the collar, black jeans and black Vans. A silver chain hangs around his neck and, despite the temperature hovering in the late twenties, his armpits are as dry as the Sahara, his forehead clear of sweat. He looks trim and his arms bulge above and below his elbows. Popeye comes to mind.

I say nothing. I’ve learned that strangers come with a health warning in the world of Se Busca.

‘My name is Carl Stoker,’ he offers up.

The name means nothing.

‘I’d like a quiet word with you, Daniella. If you have a minute.’

I can’t place the accent. Not a Brit. Maybe a Scandi. I keep up the silent routine.

‘I knew your mother, Effie,’ he says. ‘We had a small business arrangement. I’m sorry for her passing but, as a courtesy, I would like to talk to you about a mutually beneficial matter.’

‘Arrangement?’ I decide that silence isn’t going to drive this guy off.

‘Your mother and I were business acquaintances,’ he says.

I’m still on an upward learning curve with my mother. We were all but estranged from each other for twenty years. When she moved to Spain I was sixteen. She left me with my aunt, no explanation, and, on a daily basis, I’m discovering Mum was something of a local legend – and not one with a clean record.

‘What type of business acquaintances?’ I ask.

‘Could we conduct this conversation somewhere less inclement?’

He nods at Se Busca but I’m not for talking to anyone connected with my mother in there. My customers have noses that root out crap and I don’t need them anywhere near family business until I know what is going down.

‘There’s a nice café on the front,’ I say. ‘Plenty of parking nearby at this time of day.’ I nod at his car.

‘As you wish,’ he says and opens the passenger door.

Stepping into a stranger’s car strikes me as not the smartest move this side of the Med but if there’s one thing I’ve learned out here it’s to keep all your playing cards, the packet they came in, the cellophane and the spare ace, superglued to your chest. And that means doing any talking away from here. Loose lips sink ships and all that.

The car is as crisp inside as it is out. It could have rolled off the production line yesterday. I point to the road that runs by the pub, and Carl spits some gravel as he exits the car park.

‘Down there,’ I say.

We slip into the port, buildings rising around us, entering a maze of apartments atop shops. Some of the roads are pedestrian only and I guide us to the main square. But I get the feeling he doesn’t need directions.

With one end open to the sea, the square shines in the sun. A few yachts are in the bay playing tag with each other, and the main pier, protecting the marina, is dotted with walkers out for pointless strolls.

Once we are parked and out of the car, I deliberately steer us away from the seafront and into a back alley where a small café sits next to a dead end. It’s a local’s place. No pandering to tourists. A glass tapas bar with a single beer tap guards the open kitchen. The tables and chairs are traditional wood, the floor is tiled. The walls are all but bare, white and recently painted. A single fan beats above – air conditioning is something frowned upon. I pick a table out of sight of the large glass window that looks out onto the lane and order up a café con leche. The stranger asks for water. Me das, un agua sin gas, por favor. His Spanish sounds fluent, his accent good. My Spanish is two up from appalling.

‘Okay,’ I say, as the owner prepares our order. ‘Who are you?’

‘I told you, my name is Carl Stoker.’

I shake my head. ‘That’s not what I mean.’

He has a way of talking that reminds me of Capitán Lozano, a police officer I’ve had a run-in with. The sentences are well constructed, structured, almost as if he’s reading a script.

‘I know who you are,’ he replies. ‘You are Daniella Coulstoun. Your mother, Euphemia Coulstoun was the sole owner of Se Busca until her untimely demise. You now own the bar, or rather you are the majority shareholder. Your minority shareholders are the young student, Clyde, Zia MacFarlane, the ex-pop star, who is your partner, Arthur Heinz, accountant, who is known to all as Saucy, Peter Solo, a failed racing driver, who likes to be called Skid, Jordan Norman and his sister Sheryl, failed models, and George Laidlaw, a failed lawyer. Collectively Effie called them all the Ex-Patriots and, as far as I can ascertain, you have taken over the mantle of your mother as the de facto leader of this little gang. You also have a tie-up with Pat Ratte, pronounced rat, an ex-gangster who used to live up on the hill behind the town, in a large villa, but is now sweating it out in a hotel, waiting to see if he will be charged for killing your mother. Did I miss anything?’

The man has done his homework.

‘My shoe size?’

‘Probably a six.’

‘Good guess. So what do you want, Mr Stoker?’

The water and coffee arrive and Carl drinks the liquid, taking his time.

‘Your mother never mentioned me?’ he questions – after the fourth sip.

‘I hardly talked to my mother in twenty years. She was here. I was answering phones for an insurance company in the UK. But you probably know that as well. She died late last year and I never got to say goodbye. So the simple answer is no, she never mentioned you.’

‘You came out for her funeral and never went home? So I believe.’

‘Something like that.’

Carl’s teeth have that whiter-than-white sheen that’s bought with the sort of money that would pay for a half-decent home extension. They are picture-perfect straight and when he talks his gums show, singing healthy. I’m not close enough to smell his breath but I’m betting we are in minty-fresh-with-added-zest land.

‘How did you know my mother?’ I ask.

‘As I said, we had a business arrangement.’

‘What type of arrangement?’

For the first time, Carl looks around the café. We are the only customers and the owner is cleaning the kitchen range at the far side of the bar.

‘An arrangement that benefited us both,’ he says, as if that explains everything.

‘And?’

‘Do you bet, Daniella?’

‘I’ve been known to put a quid each way on the Grand National, and I was a killer at pitch ’n’ toss when I was at school. But other than that, I think it’s a mug’s game.’

‘Many people enjoy it as a pastime.’

‘I’m sure they do but I had a friend who gambled away his home, wife and eventually his life.’

‘Unfortunate.’ The word comes out with ice on it.

‘Where is this going?’ I ask.

‘Daniella, your mother was a bit of a gambler.’

‘Mum?’

Every day is a school day out here.

‘Well, let me rephrase that,’ he says. ‘Your mum liked to be involved in gambling.’

I’m not surprised. When I’d arrived I’d discovered that my mother had been up front and centre on a million-euro-plus property scam that had gone south. The odd bet here and there seems a little underwhelming in the face of that.

‘I never knew,’ I say.

‘Daniella, she was what could be called a middle man. Or rather a middle woman. Or should that be middle person? I’m never quite sure nowadays. A conduit between the individual who wishes to bet and people like myself.’

‘You’re a bookie?’

He laughs. A small unpleasant rasping sound.

‘You could call me that. I prefer the term gaming consultant. I facilitate wagers.’

‘I thought all that shit was done online nowadays.’

His face crinkles, just a touch, at my use of the word shit.

‘For the more run-of-the-mill bets, that’s true,’ he says. ‘But I am not interested in the run-of-the-mill. I am more a connoisseur of the exotic wager.’

‘Which means?’

‘Let me explain.’

He drains the water and signals for another.

‘Daniella, have you heard of the Puig Campana?’

‘The mountain near Benidorm?’

‘That’s the place. Well, it’s a popular spot for a little hill walking. Unusually it has two peaks. Legend says a French hero, a commander of Charlemagne’s army, cleaved a massive notch in the smaller peak with his sword while fighting a Moorish leader.’

‘I must remember that one for the quiz night,’ I say.

He doesn’t smile.

‘There is,’ he continues, ‘an annual foot race to the top. It’s fiercely competitive and, as a result, generates a little side betting. A wide variety of side betting if truth be told. Money on the first runner to the top, first to both peaks, first man up and back, first woman up and back, first person with the name Jose to the top.’

‘You made that last one up?’

‘No I didn’t and that’s just the start. There are bets on last to the top, second last. You can bet on the forty-third up if you want. First person with a dog. First runner to be hospitalised. Heart attacks, broken legs, medical stitches, stretchered off. You get the gig. Some people will bet on anything. I satisfy that demand.’

‘And that’s a worthwhile commercial exercise?’ I say, mimicking his clipped style.

‘I’ll let you in on a little secret.’ He looks around the café again, ignoring my little jibe. ‘The total sum waged on the Cursa de Puig Campana last year was just over one hundred thousand euros.’

Despite myself, I’m interested. ‘In total?’

‘No,’ he says, laying a hand flat on the table. ‘Just through my book.’

‘And this sort of betting is prevalent elsewhere?’

‘I cater for the bets that the big boys don’t. Take La Vuelta last year. The cycle race. It came right through El Descaro. Knowing the route, I picked six points along the way. Call them imaginary finish lines. You’d be amazed how many people bet on who would cross those imaginary lines first.’

‘But it could be anyone at that point in the race. The finish was fifty kilometres from here.’

‘Exactly. And that allowed me to offer large odds and the punters flooded in. Same principle as your Grand National back in the UK. Most people bet on a name, not form. People like long odds.’

‘And what has my mum to do with all of this?’

‘She helped run my book. Se Busca is a police-free zone. Is it not?’

He leaves that hanging. I know it to be true. We have what can be best called an understanding with both the Guardia Civil and the Policía Local. They leave us alone and we ensure that the less savoury of our clientele don’t crap on their own doorstep. And that would make us the perfect place to transact a bet offline.

‘Effie,’ he continues once his second water has been delivered, ‘would set up a small table at the back of the pub for me at certain times. I’d then conduct my business and your mother would take a cut of the winnings. As the ad says, Simples.’

I have a feeling that nonsense like this coming out of the woodwork about Mum is going to be a less than favourite part of my life for a while yet. Her twenty years out here are a mystery novel to me that is being revealed, page by page, day by day, event by event. Effie, as everyone knew her, cut a huge figure in these parts. A figure that some think I need to replicate.

‘And you want to set up shop in the pub for some event?’ I ask. ‘Is that it?’

‘A big event.’

‘How big?’

‘Have you heard of the El Descaro Classic?’

I shake my head. ‘Enlighten me.’

‘A classic car rally. It’s held every two years. Cars start from all over Europe and end up here. Your mum was involved in getting it up and running in the first place.’

‘Bloody hell, what wasn’t she involved in?’

‘Not much, Daniella. Anyway, the finish point for the event is the Se Busca car park. Your mum would put up a marquee and lay on food and drink. It’s a big deal. Once all the cars arrive there’s a parade through the town and down to the seafront.’

Now I think about it I have heard of it. I’m not a car person but I seem to remember it being described as the London to Brighton Veteran Car Run on steroids. Instead of sixty miles we are talking thousands of miles covered in ancient cars.

‘And this is a big betting thing?’ I ask.

‘Huge. There are eleven start points in nine countries and every one of those countries has expats out here living or holidaying. They’ll bet on a range of outcomes for the race. It’s one of my biggest pay days. But we are only seven months out from the start, and I went surfing on the Internet last night to discover that there’s no update to the rally’s website.’

‘So?’

‘Your mother ran the website. It is the hub for registration and info.’

‘I know nothing about it.’

‘That’s why I’m here. Time to get it together, Daniella. Normally entries are taken from six months out. And you are it for getting the whole race up and running.’

I stare at the café window letting the coffee get to work. I’ve eased into a nice groove here in Spain over the last few months. Zia and I are rolling along just fine, even given our twenty-year age difference. The bar is ticking over and the days are melding into one. My ex-colleagues back in the UK are still sitting at their call-centre desks staring at a screen and wishing it was Friday, so pissed off at my Facebook posts that I’ve noticed I’ve been blocked or ghosted by most. There’s only so many pictures of a cold glass of vino blanco with the Med in the background, sun above, that a wet UK resident can take. So the thought of organising some classic car rally really isn’t on my agenda.

‘I don’t think that’ll be happening this year,’ I say.

Carl leans across the table, lifting his hands and placing them on mine. He presses down with the heels of his palms, crushing my knuckles. I yank my hands to try and free them, but he simply puts on more pressure. His face changes. The smile gone. Eyes solid. Nose flared.

My hands feels like they are about to explode.

As I struggle, he speaks in a whisper – almost inaudible. ‘Yes,’ he says to me. ‘It.’ Pause. ‘Is.’ Pause. ‘Going To.’ Pause. ‘Fucking Happen.’

He leans back, freeing my hands, and the smile reappears. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

I’m unsure what to say. That was down and dirty scary. A real Sopranos moment. Tony in full effect.

‘Maybe a beer?’ he says as if the incident had never happened. ‘To celebrate our new partnership. The queen is dead. Long live the queen. Does that sound about right?’

Nothing about that sounds about right.

2

The Gen on Stoker

I skip on the beer offer, rise and leave without a word. My legs are shaking a little. Carl is a chameleon with a terror side. His welcoming demeanour, flash clothes and smooth talk hide an ability to scare the crap out of you. Seven words and I am reeling.

‘Yes. It. Is. Going To. Fucking Happen.’

I exit the café and draw some fresh air into my lungs before heading for the sea, trying to calm my nerves. I drop onto the sea wall and boat-watch a clutch of small yachts dancing with each other. Beyond them, riding the horizon, is a container ship, ploughing its way south, probably aiming for Alicante or New York or somewhere else.

As I sit, I know I need some more info on Carl and the El Descaro Classic. I call Zia. He answers on the second ring.

‘Hi, lover.’

That usually makes me grin. But not today.

‘Hi, pop star,’ I say with no heart.

That will still make him smile. Zia had one Top 40 hit back in the eighties and has been chasing that fame bubble ever since. He’s currently working on an album although it seems to be taking an age to come together. When I ask about it, which I do a lot as I’m not allowed to go to the studio, he says good things take time. I point out how disappointing ‘Chinese Democracy’ was when Axl Rose eventually got around to releasing it after working on it for a decade – blowing some 13 million dollars in the process. Zia tells me it would be nice to have that much time and money.

‘Where are you?’ he asks.

‘Down at the front. Zia, do you know a guy called Carl Stoker?’

‘A bad bastard,’ is his curt reply.

‘Did Mum know him?’

‘She did and as far as I know she was the only one that could handle him. He used to set up shop in the pub now and again. He’s the go-to guy for under-the-counter betting around here. Why?’

‘He doorstepped me outside the pub. I went for a coffee with him and he more or less told me that any deal he had with Mum, he now has with me. That and something to do with the El Descaro Classic.’

Zia sighs. ‘A real pain. Your mum organised a lot of the rally. It’s a ton of work and it’s a big deal. The last one had close on three hundred cars enter. From all over Europe. As far afield as Russia.’

‘That guy Stoker said they all finish at our car park.’

‘They do.’

‘You couldn’t fit three hundred cars in our car park.’

‘Your mum used the wasteland behind the pub. She paid a contractor to clear the scrub. The ayuntamiento help with some of the costs.’

Se Busca is located on a vacant plot midway between the port and the old town of El Descaro that sits up on a hill. The pub lives in a no-man’s land surrounded by bush and trees. There’s some sort of preservation order on the area and nothing else can be built near the pub. That suits everyone just fine.

‘The rally sounds expensive to put on.’ I say.

‘It is, but your mum wasn’t stupid. She made money on it all.’

‘And what about this guy Carl Stoker? What’s his background?’

‘Not good. He isn’t nearby, is he?’

I look around. ‘No,’ I say.

‘Trust me, Daniella, you don’t want to pry into his dealings. Even Pat Ratte is scared of this guy and Pat ran with the worst of them back in London.’

‘And?’

‘Rumour says Carl was some sort of gun-for-hire.’

‘A hit man?’

‘So they say. He hired himself out at big bucks if you believe the stories. Then, about a five years back, he rolled into El Descaro and next thing he’s the new bookie of choice. He chased all the others out, and I use the word “chase” in its loosest sense. To this day a few of his competition have never been seen or heard from again.’

I swing my legs over the sea wall and bang my heels on the stonework. My heart is sinking faster than a shot-put being pushed off a cliff.

‘So not someone to get involved with,’ I say.

‘You need to talk to George. He knows a bit more than me. He’d be in a better place to advise you on what to do.’

I’m wishing I’d been a bit slower to get into Carl’s car. Thought it through a little.

‘Is George in the pub?’

‘I was downstairs five minutes ago and he wasn’t to be seen. Why don’t you WhatsApp him?’

‘Love you, rock star.’

‘Igualmente.’

I hang up and draw up the WhatsApp screen and type.

‘George, can you talk?’

There’s no instant response and I stand up, stretching out my nervousness. I console myself with the fact that Mum seemed to be able to deal with Stoker. And if she could, then maybe I can, although I’m not filled with joy at the thought. My mum was a very different beast to me. When she’d died of a heart attack on the pub floor, I’d been in the UK and the more I discover about her the less certain I am that I’m the chip off the old block that people seem to expect.

I cross to a café and buy an ice cream to try and calm myself a little. As I lick the cone the WhatsApp noise buzzes from my pocket.

‘What is it?’ It’s from George.

I type back. ‘Ever heard of a guy called Carl Stoker?’

A second later the audio on the WhatsApp bursts into life and I answer.

‘Hi George,’ I say.

George is a disbarred lawyer from the UK who came out with Mum two decades ago to set up a new life, only for Mum to dump him ten years in. Although he stuck by her to the end. He’s also another of the minority shareholders in Se Busca.

‘Why are you asking about Stoker?’ he asks.

I give him the once-over on my meeting with Stoker.

‘Scary bastard, isn’t he?’

‘He seemed so polite at first.’

‘It’s his way. He can be the nicest person on the planet and the devil’s own pitchfork an instant later.’

‘Did Mum know him well?’

‘Your mother had the measure of him. Knew how to handle him. She was the only one who did. I was never sure how. I always thought she had something on him. It would be so like Effie to have gen.’

‘How did you get on with him?’

‘Okay. But I was always talking to him about stuff him and your mum were working on. As I said, when it came to your mum he was a different person.’

‘Why did no one mention him before?’

‘Daniella, no one has mentioned a lot of things to you before. Effie was twenty years out here. She built a business and a lot of relationships. Stoker is only one of many.’

‘And this El Descaro Classic?’

‘A lot of work but a nice earner. It’s a bunch of car nuts getting to drive across Europe in their pride and joys.’

‘And Stoker?’

‘Makes the book on the side. Uses Se Busca as the bookies’ shop for about a week leading up to the race and stays in place until the last car leaves. Then he goes.’

My ice cream is dripping. I flick some liquid to the ground and lick up the mess running down my hand.

‘I take it Mum got a cut of the action?’ I say.

‘That’s how it worked.’

‘How much was the cut?’

‘Twenty per cent of the net profit.’

‘I’m thinking we don’t need this.’

‘I’d love to say it was your call but if Carl wants it to happen, I can’t see any way to say no.’

‘Can’t we find someone else that would want to run it?’

‘Not a chance. No one deals with Stoker unless they have to. And he doesn’t like anyone sticking their nose in his business. He’ll want it all arranged and a quiet corner set aside for him – with absolutely no questions.’

I listen, thinking. George knows a lot about how things work in Se Busca land. And there is nothing about that land that’s normal. It’s a hang-out for the disenfranchised. A place with its own rules and, if it had its way, its own passport – it’s a state for the stateless.

‘George, who would know how the bloody race is run?’

‘You’re in luck, Daniella. Skid is your man. He loves the bloody thing.’

‘Brilliant.’

Peter, né Skid Solo, named after the Skid from the Tiger comic back in the day, is an Ex-Patriot racing nut who believes he still has what it takes to be a champion racing driver. He doesn’t, but there’s no convincing him. He is also, in non-PC parlance, a wheel short of full racing mode.

‘Can he run such a thing?’

‘Not well, he needs help, but your mum used him a lot to do all the crap work and heavy lifting. He knows the ins and outs better than anyone but he’ll fall flat on his arse if you ask him to run it on his own.’

‘Anyone else know much?’

‘Zia, your partner, helped a little. To be fair we all did. Effie roped everyone in come the day.’

‘And you think saying no to Stoker is a bad idea?’

‘In the scheme of crap ideas then it’s the crappiest of crappy ideas in a crappy field. My advice is to arrange the thing, give him a desk and just pray it all goes well.’

‘Thanks, George.’

I kill the call and discard the half-eaten ice cream in the bin. I’ve lost my desire.

3

The Bubble

When I was ten years old I ended up in hospital. Three broken bones in my left leg, all as the result of crossing the wrong person at school. I’d been playing with a couple of tennis balls at break. Handballing the things off a wall. At my best, when I was about thirteen, I could work three balls at the same time but back then two balls was my limit. If I could get into a rhythm I could ride fifty or sixty smacks off the wall before I lost it. And it was the concentration required to hit those heights that had gotten me into trouble.

We had our share of the bad boys in my school class when I was wee. A small red-headed loon called Fraser Smart who thought it the queen’s knickers to flick bogies into your hair. Or there was Neville Ralston. He considered peeing in his pants and then letting you sit in the chair he’d just soaked worth the hiding he got back home for pissing himself. There was even Robbie Dunn, a crabbit little shit who hid around corners and leaped out on you as you appeared. He’d do it all day long with a Tarzanesque yell as he shoved you to one side. But the real bastard was Tommy Todd. An out-and-out mental case. He should never have been at our school. He needed round-the-clock attention, drugs and disciplining. He wasn’t on the spectrum or classed as ADHD or diagnosed bipolar. He had no medical excuse for his behaviour – although heaven alone knows they looked for it. He was simply an evil, vindictive little prick who enjoyed other people’s misery.

I always thought the source of his vile anger came from his height. He was by far the smallest person in our year and made Clive Jennings’ life a living nightmare. Clive was three planets ahead of us all when it came to vertical inches and Tommy was relentless in his pursuit of Clive. That was until the day he pushed Clive over the edge when, literally, he shoved Clive from a twelve-foot wall onto the road below. Clive saw red. Tommy, for the first time in his life, came off second best when Clive picked up a slug of wood from the garden of Mrs Carmichael. He smashed Tommy’s nose with one blow of the plank, earned a suspension for that and Tommy’s reward was a trip to hospital.

The following day I was playing with the two tennis balls at the back of the school shelter, an ancient construction of stone and slate, designed to be a bolt-hole for the kids when it rained. I failed to see Tommy slip around the corner of the shed – which, given that he had a white bandage circling his face like some giant Polo mint, showed how engrossed in the game I was. Tommy nipped in between me and the wall and kicked one of the flying balls, sending it skiting away. Common sense should have told me to suck it up, pick up the other ball and leave. Common sense was having a day off and my anger bunny, with which I live to this day, popped out.

Instead of taking my medicine, I turned on him and launched the ball in my hand at his head. My aim was true and the ball smacked off his damaged beak. A blow that would normally have been little more than mild on the pain scale, registered with Tommy like an incoming cricket ball bowled by the Hulk. And, as the offending ball rolled up against the wall, I knew I was up the shittiest creek of my young life. As my old friend ’Trine said when telling the tale, ‘Tommy went Radio Rental.’

I knew better than to stand and wait on the inevitable retribution, and hit the concrete with one destination in mind – the jannie’s office. Our janitor was called Mr McLarey and he was a menacing son of a bitch. Tommy might have been mental but he would have had to be certifiably insane to square up to Scary McLarey. I’d have made it to safety had I not taken a swan dive over some P4 kids playing marbles. I slammed into a small brick wall, yards from Scary’s door and Tommy was on me like an arrow from Robin Hood. I took half a dozen kicks to my legs before Scary saw what was going down and intervened. Hospital and a cast followed suit.

The lesson from that day stays with me. Don’t cross scary bastards if you can avoid them and, if you do have to deal with them, do it on your own ground, on your own terms and when you are good and ready.

And Carl Stoker is a scary person who needs some quality thinking and planning time applied to him. Not so much a Plan A, B and C – more a bloody perfect Plan A with enough flexibility to allow for the mad nutter that he clearly was. And for that I will have to seek advice. Good solid advice. Advice from someone with the experience of a lifetime of dealing with nutters. I know two people I can approach on that front. And they couldn’t be more different in their backgrounds.

In the red corner we have Capitán Lozano of the Guardia Civil. Lozano is still investigating the death of my mother. At the time, I, along with most other people, thought Mum had died of natural causes – a heart attack brought on by a love of junk food and booze – he had thought differently. He’d suspected someone else had been involved and that brings me to the man in the blue corner – Pat Ratte. Pat is the man who Lozano has down for my mum’s death. Ratte is an ex-gangster from London, although the ‘ex’ is a matter of interpretation. Now in his late seventies, he’s still a powerful man. Ratte is currently out on bail. Unusual for a murder suspect in this country but the evidence is circumstantial at best. He’d supplied Mum with some Ecstasy pills that she took and it’s a matter of debate whether they triggered her heart attack or not. Before he was lifted by the police he had been renting my mum’s flat up in the old town from me but I’d told him to forget that once he was connected to my mother’s death. Pat has admitted to slipping her a half-dozen tablets of Ecstasy on the morning of her death. He says she’d asked for them as a pick-me-up. That she used them regularly. But Ratte is only el investigado at this stage and that’s why he has been given bail. He had a quantity of drugs on him when he was arrested but that wasn’t enough to keep him locked up. He is now in a hotel near the harbour awaiting a trial date.

Both Lozano and Ratte have a lifetime of experience under their belts with people like Stoker. Neither is an ideal choice as a shoulder to cry on. Lozano thinks me a crook and lucky to be walking the streets after my involvement in Mum’s recent property scam. I’m also sure Stoker will be on his radar and I don’t want word to leak back to Stoker that I’m talking to the Guardia Civil about him. That would be bad for my health.

My reasoning behind not wanting to talk to Pat is simpler. He killed my mother. I’d like to believe otherwise and that it was Mum’s sedentary lifestyle that did for her. When we’d cleared her apartment, two freezers stuffed with microwave curries and six crates of rum had to be decanted. Her coffin had carried a triple XL badge on it. Regardless, I still have Pat down for her death. He gave her those pills. Full stop.

Ratte or Lozano. I know of no one else who can help me. As a time-served, call-centre grunt in the claims department of an insurance firm I’ve tackled my share of criminals, but, if I believe Zia and George, Stoker is shaping up to be an Olympic javelin thrower to my schoolkid shot-putting ability.

Ratte’s hotel is two hundred yards, maybe less, from where I stand. Lozano is based about two hundred yards the other way. I’ve no doubt both know Stoker, but only Ratte knows him from the dark side. And I’ve a feeling that will matter.

Ratte has texted and called frequently since his arrest. I’ve blanked him. He’s been told to stay away from Se Busca and, surprisingly, has done just that. I’ve seen him just twice since he was lifted. Once when he honked at me from his ageing Range Rover down by the harbour, and once when I’d seen him sitting in my favourite café in the main square of the old town. Both times I’d ignored him.

I think back on Tommy Todd and how much worse it could have been if I’d been further away from Scary McLarey’s front door. And Ratte is Scary’s front door, but how in the hell do you even begin to engage with a man who killed your mother? Forget the emotional jungle that surrounds such a chat, it could also be seen as a mitigating factor in his favour come court day. The daughter of the deceased happily in conversation with the suspected killer. That would be one for the defence counsel to use. Me talking to him would be a big lever for Ratte to reference as to his innocence.

What to do?

My go-to on these things is Zia. He’s become my confidant in a way I thought no one would. His twenty years on me place a welcome sense of calm on my sometimes-racing thoughts. But I know his answer without calling. Neither Ratte or Lozano should be approached. He’ll tell me that Pat Ratte isn’t someone to trust, that he was involved in my mother’s death and isn’t above raising his hand to solve his problems – male or female. And he’ll say that if I talk to Lozano it will get back to Stoker – and that is a bad, bad path. Zia would just tell me to wake up, smell a truckload of Nescafé and walk away from it all. Let things take their course. But if this guy Stoker needs a little taming then I need to learn a few things quickly.

‘Ze bandit is ours, Señorita Coooolstone.’

The man shouting the words is a rotund, bald-headed figure wearing a pork-pie hat. His name is Davie Brost and he owns DB’s, our less successful expat pub rival, better known to the customers as the Dog’s Bollocks. George Laidlaw introduced me to Davie a month back and we exchanged a few words on the street. And that’s been my total interaction with him since I arrived here. But he’s a jealous son of a bitch. Se Busca does three times the business he does, and is the home of choice for many of the expats around here. Davie wants that mantle, especially now that Mum has gone. As to what he’s shouting about, I’m clueless.

‘We ees taking eet back to our casa, Señorita Coooolstone.’

The faux Mexican accent is obviously meant to add something to the message. He’s grinning like a dung-chewing sloth and waving his hands in the air as he shouts. A few people around him are staring.

‘One weeeek, Señorita Coooolstone, one weeeek.’

He turns up a lane and vanishes, laughing.

Another El Descaro mystery to solve. Zee bandit is ours. Hell knows what that means.