Burned Up E-Book

Stuart G. Yates

• Herausgeber: Next Chapter
• Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

Real estate agent Ryan Chaise lives a quiet life in Southern Spain with his beautiful girlfriend. Everything in his life seems perfectly ordinary.

Except that Ryan has a secret.

A former agent for the British Secret Intelligence Service, Chaise gets embroiled in a world of drug-pushers and gangsters after accidentally killing a petty criminal absconding with a package of cocaine. Forced to protect himself and his family, Chaise's old skills come to the fore as danger and death tolls rise.

Who to trust, who to ignore, who to kill. Chaise has many choices, and he'll need to make the right ones to survive. It's going to be a difficult balancing act.

But does he still have the tools to make it?

Leseprobe

BURNED UP

RYAN CHAISE BOOK 1

STUART G YATES

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

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About the Author

Copyright (C) 2020 by Stuart G. Yates

Layout design and Copyright (C) 2022 by Next Chapter

Published 2022 by Next Chapter

Edited by Fading Street Services

Cover art by CoverMint

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author's permission.

To Mike, who would have enjoyed this story,

and Nan who would have liked it even more.

And to Janice, of course, for making life better.

Lighting the embers…

You shouldn’t pick up strangers on the road. Ever seen the film The Hitcher, the one staring Rutger Hauer? Hitchhiker, a real psychopath, deals out death like a gambler does cards. Dismissive. Advice given freely – don’t risk picking up strangers. It’s not worth it.

This is what happens when such advice is ignored…

ONE

The plan hadn’t been fully worked out in his head and so, almost from the very start, it all went wrong. He’d met the girl in a bar, parking his Suzuki Samurai and strolling in, deciding to buy a beer and some tapas before moving on. Ten minutes later, she came in and he couldn’t take his eyes off her. She dripped sex. She wore a tightfitting blue top that accentuated the curve of her breasts and the thin white skirt, split almost to the top of the thigh to reveal burnished limbs, left nothing to the imagination. He felt sure she wasn’t wearing panties. Eventually, she noticed his gaze and liked what she saw. He knew that by the way she smiled, turned her head away and then looked again. When he returned her gaze, she ran her tongue along her bottom lip. That made him feel good.

She was with some friends and they laughed a lot. He liked that in a girl, hating how some of them were so serious, giving you the hard stare, trying to make you feel like you were not fit to walk the planet. But this one was different. Her name was Sarah. That’s what one of her friends called her when she moved over to the bar to order a round of drinks. He didn’t wait a moment before he sidled over to her.

“Sarah?”

Her eyes flashed. “How did you …?” She caught his look and she smiled again.

They made love up in the hills surrounding the little village. It was a cool night and the mosquitoes didn’t bite that much. She was gloriously slim, her bronzed body sliding through his fingers like cream. He thought that perhaps he could spend more time with her, get to know her properly. When they lay on the ground, spent, her breasts rising and falling with each breath, he studied her lines and realized that here was a girl who could give him everything he had ever wanted.

If only they had time.

They walked around for a while, and he held her to him, kissing her. Looking into his eyes, she moaned, “God, I’m so glad we met!” He liked that, liked the way she yielded to him.

From where they stood, the tiny village twinkled in the hollow of the surrounding hills, a perfect picture from a tourist guide. Simple rustic charm. She sighed, studied his outline in the dark and asked, “Why aren’t you married?”

“Who said I’m not?”

She traced her fingers across his left hand, settling around the knuckle. “I thought that most men wore rings nowadays.”

“Do they? I wouldn’t know – not being married.”

She laughed, more with relief it sounded to him, and they kissed again. The fire rekindled, they went back to where they had parked up their respective vehicles and they made love for a second time in the back seat of her Audi.

“Come home with me,” she said, stroking his face.

“So, you’re not married either?”

“He’s away, in England. Business. He’ll be gone for a few more days.”

“And he’s left you all alone, to fall for temptation? That was foolish.”

“He trusts me.”

“That makes him a real fool.”

She pushed him away, not as angry as she tried to make out, but hurt, nonetheless. “No, he’s not a fool. He’s very successful, even now when things aren’t so good. But …” She shrugged, readjusted her clothing, “He doesn’t satisfy me if you know what I mean.”

He did and grinned. “I see. So that was what this was all about – you being satisfied?”

“Partly. Why, does that bother you?”

He thought about that for a moment, the idea of being used. A thrill ran through his loins. Much to his surprise, the idea excited him. “I’m curious as to what he would say when he finds out.”

Without a moment’s hesitation she said, “Oh, he knows. And he’s perfectly okay with it. In fact, you could say he encourages me.”

“What, to go out with other men?”

“To screw other men. It’s the one thing he can’t give me – so we made a deal. I wouldn’t leave him, and he’d turn a blind eye. We may be married, but we have different surnames. Simple.” She leaned forward and kissed him. “Don’t say you didn’t enjoy it, don’t say it doesn’t turn you on … just a little?”

He tried to deny it, but how could he? Every word she had said was true. So, he laughed instead.

“You’ll stay the night?”

He had to admit, the thought of not only sharing her bed but also waking up afresh in a warm bed was an enticing one. The plan had been to drive through the night, make it to Benidorm by the morning. But what difference would a few hours make, he decided, and nobody would think of looking for him here. Grinning, he pulled her to him, kissed her and said, “That would be great.”

They set off, up into the mountains, him following her in the little Suzuki, making easy progress up the winding path that led to her villa.

But it was dark. Pitch. He didn’t see the turn and the Suzuki fell into a wide, gaping dip. Usually, it would be able to handle something like this, but the dip was wide and deep, and it hit the bottom hard, jolting him out of his seat. He cut the engine, fearful of it bursting into flame. However, the horrible, grinding crunch underneath caused him most concern.

The torchlight cut through the darkness. She came back for him, hands on hips. “Oh dear,” she said.

He was bent down, groping around in the dark, trying to judge the extent of the damage. “By the sound of it, I think the axle might be broke.”

“Don’t worry – we’ll call someone out in the morning. Try not to worry about it until then.” Putting it to the back of his mind, he didn’t worry at all.

Neither did he get much sleep.

It was already blisteringly hot as he scrambled under the ditched Suzuki the following morning to get a better look. It was as he’d feared. The axle was snapped. The hole in which the Suzuki rested was big and deep, cut out of the side of the road and strewn with jagged rocks. He was lucky he hadn’t been seriously hurt. However, that wasn’t his major concern – time was. It would be days, if not weeks before the car would be fixed, time he simply didn’t have. He’d left Sarah sleeping and crept out of the villa before the sun had fully risen over the mountain tops, hoping against hope that his original prognosis was wrong. Now, as the enormity of the situation hit him, he felt the first stirrings of panic low in his stomach.

There was no choice. He’d have to take Sarah’s car. Cursing, he went back up the hill, his shirt already sticking to his back as the heat made itself felt. He slipped back inside the sprawling villa and went straight to where she had dropped her bag and coat. He rifled through various pockets and found the keys. He picked up his own bags from the door and strode outside. As he crossed the drive, he opened the car doors with the key-remote. He slung his bags into the boot and went round to the driver’s door, keeping the shoulder bag with him as always.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Her voice sounded more like a scream and he looked up to see her hanging over the balcony, face contorted into a sort of gargoyle mask. She went back into the bedroom, appearing a few moments later at the front door. She flew out across the forecourt like a tigress, mouth open, teeth bared. He leaned against the car and sighed. Great, just what he needed.

She was on him. “You bastard,” she rasped, pulling him around to face her, “are you trying to steal my car?”

Her hands gripped the front of his shirt and she shook him, face close now.

“Give me my keys!”

He struck out wildly and hit her backhanded. The blow caught her under the left eye, and she fell, hip cracking against the hard ground. She screamed again, but quieter this time. A scream of pain.

“Sorry,” he said, without emotion, knowing what he had to do. She was trying to drag herself away across the ground, blubbering a little, probably realizing what a mess she’d got herself involved in. He reached over, lifted her by the throat with his left hand and hit her again. At the last moment, she managed to twist her face away and he did it all wrong, caught his knuckle on her jaw. He cried out, dropping her like a stone, flapping his hand around like it was a flag caught in the wind. Sudden, surprisingly intense pain brought tears to his eyes and he cursed. He wanted to hit her again, but she was gone, out like a light, a large bruise already developing along her face. The eye too had exploded as it hit the hard gravel. No point in striking her again so he left her and clambered in behind the wheel. Ignoring the pain, he flexed his hand a few times and, to his relief, discovered nothing was broken. However, the knuckles were already swelling. Hurt like buggery too. He took a moment to regulate his breathing, calmed himself and calculated he probably had about thirty minutes to get away before she recovered and phoned the police. Another thirty minutes before the Guardia even bothered to call round to the villa. By that time, he would have made it to the next village, abandoned the Audi and hitched a lift. Not perfect, but possibly safer. No one would be able to trace him. He put the car into gear and moved away.

In the rear-view mirror, he could see her climbing to her feet, a trembling hand wiping the blood from her face. She was tough. He admired that. He noted how her long, slim legs shimmered in the morning sun and a little thrill ran through him. She was gorgeous, and he had made love to her until she was spent. Maybe, in a different life …

He raised his hand in farewell and took the Audi out of the driveway, along the path and past his Suzuki. He’d miss that car. He’d miss Sarah. But hey, they’ll be many more like her, and cars a lot better than the jeep. His hand ached but he allowed himself a smile of self-satisfaction. Perhaps things were going to be all right after all.

All he needed was some luck.

TWO

As the morning progressed, the heat became intense enough to fry eggs on the pavement. No joke. Ryan Chaise had seen that done once, in Eilat. This was Spain, the Costa Del Sol. Inland, hotter than hell on party night with the furnaces newly stoked with the souls of the sinners. Thank God for the air-con, which he turned to full blast.

The office had made the appointment at this ridiculous time, but what could he do? Opportunities were few and far between nowadays, and any pickings were better than nothing at all. Chaise gratefully received the scraps thrown from the king’s table, but if that was all there was, so be it. He had no intention of starving.

He saw them straight away. A couple, on the wrong side of sixty, lily-white legs exposed, both sporting wide-brimmed straw hats, outrageous multi-coloured shirts, and beige shorts with turn-ups. Sensible, but not the most attractive of accessories for the discerning Brit-abroad. Chaise chuckled to himself and pulled his car alongside the kerb, rolled down the window and called out to them, “Mr and Mrs Smithson?”

The man doffed his hat and leaned into the car. Up close, his meaty face oozed with sweat. “Is it always this hot?”

Chaise smiled knowingly. “Only on the cooler days. Get in, we haven’t got far to go.”

Riogordo screamed with the heat, the sunshine reflected off the white-faced walls of the houses clustered close together in the side streets.

“This is quaint,” said Mrs Smithson as they all stood in the hallway of the house they had arranged to view.

Chaise smiled but remained silent. He could have told them about the lack of air-con, the roof that needed replacing, the damp in the garage and the bathroom. He said nothing. Sales were few and he didn’t want to lose this one.

The house, nevertheless, was good value for what it was. Nothing special, but it stood next to a beautifully restored townhouse, a testament of what could be achieved with a little imagination and a lot of money. Chaise did his best to detail all the things the Smithsons could do to improve this, their own house if they chose to buy it. Which would be a bargain purchase, especially now when things weren’t moving.

“It’s not exactly …” The wife’s voice trailed away and when she stepped into the kitchen, she gave a little cry of despair and returned almost instantly, hand over mouth. “There’s something dead in there!”

Chaise closed his eyes. Damn the office for not sending someone out to check the property over first. He dipped into the kitchen, saw the dead cat, and came out again.

“Obviously, we’d clear it all for you before you moved in.”

“It would need quite a lot of work to make it habitable,” said Mr Smithson.

Now, he’s the more realistic one. Got his feet on the ground. He knows he has to spend a little to make the dream into reality. But she, she would be a much tougher nut to crack.

“New kitchen,” said Chaise, “and a bathroom upgrade. Maybe do the patio. Roof is good. So, maybe several thousand? Not a lot to be honest.”

“No, not a lot.” Smithson looked at his wife, who still appeared shocked by the discovery of the cat. “It’s the best we’ve seen.”

She nodded but wasn’t speaking.

“How many bedrooms?”

“Three. It’s the garage which is the best thing – you could convert it into a studio flat. Rental opportunities, or just leave it. Storage is at a premium here. People would kill for a garage.”

Smithson nodded, then grinned. “I hear they like killing.”

“Oh yes,” Chaise said with meaning. “They certainly do.”

They went onto the roof terrace. The view towards the surrounding mountains never failed to impress. The river, from where the village got its name, had dried up and probably wouldn’t experience water again until the spring rains took hold. December was wet, but nothing like March. Well, that was the theory. Sometimes it didn’t quite work like that. He remembered last year when the rain began in December and didn’t stop until the end of March. The worst rains in living memory. Roofs collapsed, rivers burst their banks, cars floated away. And now, in July, the same rivers were dry. Global warming. Crazy.

“Those houses over there, they don’t seem finished.”

Frowning, Chaise stepped up next to Smithson and took in the buildings opposite. A lot of them had upper storeys which had not been completed. “Yeah, it’s got something to do with tax, I think. You only pay tax on a finished property. Something like that.”

“So, they’re illegal?”

“No, not exactly. Just another loophole. Spain has got lots of them. And then there’s the corruption. It’s a way of life here, always has been. But they’re cracking down on that, at last. Lots of mayors in prison.”

“Mayors?” Mrs Smithson held onto her husband’s arm. “Good God. I never knew.”

Chaise shrugged. “It rarely gets into the Tui brochure. Doesn’t serve the tourist trade well.”

“But it’s not dangerous is it?”

Chaise laughed. “Dangerous? Spain?” He shook his head. “Nah, Spain is fine. One of the safest places in Europe.”

“Wasn’t a gangster shot and killed here, not so very long ago?”

“That was further down the coast. Drugs, as usual. But no, the gangsters are on their way out. New agreements between governments, greater openness, more exchange of information. It’ll all be like Disneyland down there soon. Fit only for families and kids.”

That was why Chaise had come here, for his ‘family’ and left the old life behind. The old life that still came to keep him company at night, the memories he’d tried so hard to forget. He thought to start again might help and for a while, it had worked. He decided to go far, far away, South America or New Zealand. A place no one could find him. But his girlfriend was half-Spanish and already had offers of a job there. It seemed the obvious thing to do, the move, so they made the plunge. That was five years ago, and the years had slipped by. They settled into a sort of domestic bliss. Chaise loved Angelina. Whatever happened, they got through it together. Fortunately, nothing had happened, so everyone was happy.

Unfortunately, as Chaise knew only too well from experience, happiness didn’t last for long.

THREE

After dropping the Smithsons at the office and introducing them to Leanne, who would take them through the paperwork, Chaise headed back to his home in the mountains. He hated the city and spent as little time there as possible. Certainly, at this time of year, the heat trapped amongst the oppressive, stuffy streets made the place simply unbearable to work in.

The motorway was quiet, and he made good time; soon he was taking the back road. As he passed through the various villages and took in the rolling hills, he once again gave a little sigh of contentment, as he always did when the stark loveliness of the place struck him. The Spain that few people rarely saw. Not just the beaches and the sea, Spain had so much more to offer. This landscape for one, as if sketched out of the pages of a Larry McMurtry novel; the high sierras ached with unspoiled, gut-wrenching beauty.

He took the car along the winding, twisting track leading to his villa set in the hills surrounding Vélez Málaga. As he slowed down for the speed-ramps just outside Benamargosa, he saw the man at the roadside, bags at his feet, shirt open to the midriff, drenched in sweat. No hat. Idiot! When he stuck out his thumb, Chaise at first ignored him, but soon the guilt played around the nape of his neck and he pulled over.

“Oh, man,” the stranger gushed, enthusiastically pulling at the rear door handle. “Thank you so much.”

“Where you headed?”

“Nerja.”

“I’m not going that far.”

“Okay … well, anywhere close. Vélez would be good. I could hitch another ride from there easy enough.”

Vélez Málaga wasn’t so far, but it would mean a detour. Tired, in need of a plunge in the pool followed by a nap, Chaise didn’t fancy a thirty-minute detour, but the guy looked strung out, dehydrated, so he sighed and said, “All right, climb in, I’ll drop you at Trebiche.”

Grinning his thanks, the stranger threw his bag into the back and got into the passenger seat. Chaise noted how he clung onto a little, intricately patterned canvas shoulder bag, pressing it to his chest as if he were fearful of it being snatched away.

“I’m Ricky Treach,” he said, thrusting out his hand.

Chaise looked at the proffered hand, wet with sweat, and kept his hands on the wheel. “Ryan Chaise. Treach? Wasn’t he a pirate?”

“That’s Teach, better known as Blackbeard. Treach is the name of a rap artist from the States.”

“Oh.”

Chaise mulled over that one as he negotiated the broken, rutted road. The guy appeared educated, knew a little history. How many people knew that Blackbeard’s real name was Edward Teach? Perhaps a university student on a walking tour of La Axarquía, but whoever he was by the look of him he had recently fallen on hard times. From the corner of his eyes, he watched him unwrap his improvised bandage and massage the swollen knuckles. Caused by a punch? Chaise wondered who the victim was. Old stirrings jingled around in his brain, his radar for trouble, which had kept him alive for so long out in the Middle East. Feelings never needed here, he believed had gone. The quiet life. And now, this guy…Something wasn’t right.

Sensing Chaise’s questioning frown, Treach stopped massaging his hand and gripped the bag again. “Bashed it on the wall. Wasn’t looking where I was going.” He gave a short, awkward-sounding laugh.

Chaise shrugged, pushed aside his unease, and concentrated on the road. “Where are you heading after Vélez? Nerja, didn’t you say?”

“Further down the coast, but not too far. My car broke down, you see. I have to get to a friend’s house, then I’ll come back and pick it up.”

Broke down? Why didn’t he just call the grua? That’s what the system was for and it worked well. Everyone who took out car insurance received the services of a roadside pick-up if they ever broke down. So, leaving a car by the side of the road, that just wasn’t supposed to happen.

“It’s so hot,” said Treach, cutting through Chaise’s thoughts. “I honestly believed I was going to die out there.”

“This is the worst time of day. You should have worn a hat. Or found some shade.”

“I would have missed this lift if I had! And,” he shook his head, the long hair flopping across his brow, “I think this will protect me.”

“Yeah.” Unconsciously, Chaise ran a hand over his short-cropped hair. The sign of the rapidly balding man, shorn hair. Better than a Bobby Charlton, that was for sure.

Well, that was his opinion, and he was sticking with it.

Around the next bend came the first sight of the village nestling beside the dried riverbed, which gave the village its name.

“What’s this place called?”

“Benamargosa.”

“You live here?”

“Close.”

“Close enough to walk?”

Chaise frowned. Weird question. He snapped his head to the right. He saw it and cursed himself for not following his initial instincts. Stupid. Losing the edge. One of the penalties of choosing suburban life. That look in Treach’s eyes, the look Chaise knew so well. He readied himself, his voice taking on a hard edge. “Maybe. What do you have in mind?”

There was a long pause. Chaise kept turning his head back to the road, all the while ready for what he knew was going to happen.

He thought it might be a fist, perhaps even a knife. But the Sig-Sauer P220 was something of a surprise. Best automatic pistol in the world, so the experts say. And Chaise was something of an expert himself. Right now, it was sitting in Ricky Treach’s hand, pulled out of that beautiful embroidered shoulder bag, pointed straight at him.

“I’m going to have to ask you to stop the car and get out.”

“Would you mind telling me why I would do that?”

“Well,” Treach smiled, “there are several reasons. The most pressing is that I left something in the first car that picked me up. I didn’t notice until he’d driven off. I have to get it back. I’ll use this car to drive back and find him.”

“I see. Must have something valuable inside it.”

“You could say that.”

“Any other reasons.”

“Yeah. I’ll kill you if you don’t.”

Chaise nodded. Most people would have run off the road in fear by now, hands unable to control the wheel. Fear was like that, played havoc with the nervous system. Chaise never suffered from such a reaction. Even in the very dark days, when he was painting the palace in Baghdad, he never showed any emotion at all, even when Saddam breezed in, grinning like the fat ape he was. Reggie Lawrence used to marvel about that, Chaise’s unflappable exterior. “How come you never sweat, lad?” Reggie Lawrence, an out of work scouser, painting Saddam Hussein’s palace with half a dozen others, including Ryan Chaise, Special Boat Service. Intel Officer. Killer. If Reggie only knew.

“Hey! I’m telling you to stop the fucking car, tough guy, or I’ll blow your fucking head off.”

“That’s clean off, Ricky.”

Treach gaped. “What?”

“The line Eastwood says in Dirty Harry. You fancy yourself as a bit of a Clint, do you not? ‘I’ll blow your head clean off’.”

“Are you some sort of nutcase or something?”

“Yeah. Something like that.”

Without any warning, Chaise rammed on the brakes, pulling down hard on the steering wheel at the same time. The car went into a wild skid, dust and debris flung up in a billowing cloud. Treach, who like most people in those parts, had not bothered to put on his seat belt, hit the dash with a jarring smack, full in the chest. He cried out, the gun almost falling from his fingers, but not quite.

As the car came to a grinding halt, tyres sluicing through the impacted ground, Chaise seized Treach’s gun arm and twisted it viciously. Before Treach could react, Chaise rammed his elbow back into the man’s face. Chaise heard the satisfying snap of shattered bone, the squelch of the blood as it gushed, and Treach’s scream. His fingers, however, held on.

It was cramped in the front of the car, not enough space for Chaise to get a firm hold. He almost had it, but Treach was stronger than he looked. Probably brought on by desperation. They struggled and Treach somehow managed to get his free arm around to claw at Chaise’s face. Another elbow strike put paid to that. Chaise wrenched the arm a little more, bending the wrist down and back. A sound like a piece of cardboard being ripped apart. Treach screamed again.

Then the gun went off.

The noise from the blast in that confined space was enormous, causing Chaise’s ears to ring painfully. A terrible silence followed and Treach went limp.

“Shit.”

The cordite smoke cleared, but Chaise already knew exactly what had happened. He didn’t need to look too closely at the hole in the man’s chest, or the wide-open eyes to realise poor Ricky Treach was dead.

FOUR

Alex Piers’s wife was out. Nothing odd in that, she always was. Most mornings, virtually every night. Amy, their eight-year-old daughter, had gone to summer school. The house echoed to the sound of his shoes as he crossed the wide entrance hall and went straight into the kitchen. An empty, lonely house. He poured himself some ice-cold water from a bottle in the fridge, leaned back on the worktop and looked out through the large patio windows to the swimming pool.

He stared at the pool, his mind an empty shell. For too long he’d thought about where it had all gone wrong, how he could turn it all around, make her love him again. But he knew this would never happen. It was burned too deep. The deceit. The lies. Too much had been said to ever make it all right again.

Two weeks ago, as Amy started summer school, his wife came out with the news.

“We’re going back.”

Alex felt as if he’d been hit by a bus. All the strength left his legs. He collapsed into a chair. Numb, he listened to her. “It’s not working, you know it’s not. And it’s not good for Amy, listening to us rowing all the time.” We hardly ever row, you bitch – you’re never here! He heard the words in his head but from his mouth only silence. “So, it will be best for everyone if we go back at the end of summer. I’ll see my solicitor, get all the paperwork done. All you’ll need to do is sign.”

Mind swirling, he managed to ask the question he already knew the answer to: “With him?”

“What?” Her voice, always so cutting, so sharp. Treating him like an imbecile. Perhaps he was.

He drew in a deep, quivering breath. “Are you moving back with him?”

“Yes. But that’s not the reason.”

Even though he knew this would be the answer, to hear it from her lips cut deep. Leaning forward, he put his face in his hands. “I can’t allow that, Diane. You can’t just walk out of my life with Amy – to live with him.” He’d recovered a little now. Panic, mixed with anger, it all came to the fore. Uncontrolled, ill-thought, ill-judged.

“You can’t allow it? What the hell are you going to do, Alex? Lock us away in the cellar?”

His hands dropped. “You fucking bitch! What gives you the right—”

“Stop right there – you have no place to talk to me about rights, you pompous old fart! You gave up any rights when you went off with her!”

She always used that one, the counterpunch to any accusation. She’d been with other men, he’d doubted he’d ever know how many, but there was one, a few years ago now, that she fell for. She kicked Alex out, took this new guy into her bed. So, Alex strayed. Nothing looked for, nothing planned. He got talking to her in a bar and that was that. Being Alex, he had to tell Diane and she flipped her lid. How is that fair, even explainable? When he begged her to take him back, Diane relented, with one proviso – that he let her continue seeing the other man.

He’d lost some good friends when they found out about his decision.

It had worked at first, until the guy’s wife somehow got their number, rang Diane in the middle of the night, threatened her with solicitors and a lot more besides. Diane backed off, stopped seeing the guy, but for weeks she stomped around the house like a petulant teenager. Alex dare not ask her anything. Eventually, she came round and found another lover. She seemed happy; the rows stopped. But family life? That never existed. They didn’t do anything together and little Amy would sit on the couch, watching Tiny Pop and she’d say, “Come and watch this with me, Mummy and Daddy.” Alex would smile but inside his heart broke, and he wished more than anything that he could turn the clock back, undo all the hurt, the blame. Anything so that Amy’s life could be as perfect as possible.

Then, completely out of the blue, the other guy returned. He’d left his wife and wanted to make a go of it with Diane.

She jumped at the chance. Hell, she loved him. Alex didn’t figure in anything anymore. All he was good for was providing.

Now, he was going to be alone. Diane was returning to the UK and Amy would be going with her. Alex would have to get used to looking out of this window, gazing at the swimming pool, listening to the silence. No more outbursts of giggling from his Amy, her little legs driving herself along like a piston, throwing herself at him, bowling him over, “My daddy!” This was the beginning of the rest of his life.

He could feel his eyes growing moist. He had to harden his heart, stiffen his resolve, follow all the shitty advice that the wise and all-knowing put out about break-ups, and how he could still see her, and that she will always be ‘his Amy’. What the hell did they know? Had they ever once, in their oh-so-perfect lives experienced real pain? The thought made him angry, which was a whole lot more desirable than feeling depressed.

“Wonderful,” he said out loud, drained his glass and pulled in a huge breath, trying to make himself forget before the tears came. He stomped upstairs to get changed. His shirt was stuck to his back and he couldn’t wait to get into his swimming shorts and take a dip. The bedroom was perfect as always. Everything neatly folded, the duvet turned down, the pillows well plumped. Out of habit, he took a look inside Amy’s room. It reflected her age, the posters of her favourite boy band on the walls, mixed in with a couple of Miley Cyrus. Pride of place was a photo of her with her dad, big grins, flanking Mickey Mouse. Disneyland Paris, taken last year. He always stopped and stared at it, especially at times like this. Memories. Good memories. For Amy too, he hoped. He went up and kissed her smiling face. The first tear came then, despite his best efforts.

He padded into the bathroom, splashed his face, and looked at his reflection. He could see the lines, cut deep into the teak coloured skin. He used to say they were laughter lines and he remembered how, when he was spotty teenager, he’d spend hours screwing up his eyes to make himself look tough and hard. Then, later, they became those ‘laughter lines’. He doubted if anybody was fooled. Wrinkles. That’s what they were. He was getting older and as he peered closer, he could see where the white lines ran across his temples, the area where his sunglasses had been. The lines made him look slightly ridiculous. Memory jolted, he patted his trouser pockets and cursed himself for leaving the glasses in the car. If he was going to spend a pleasant hour or two by the pool, he’d need to go and get them, otherwise, the glare from the water would be too bright. He pulled off his trousers, replacing them with swimming shorts, and went outside to the car barefooted.

The patio tiles were red hot and burned the soles of his feet. He hopped and skipped over to the car and pulled open the passenger door, leaned in to reach for the sunglasses tossed carelessly on the dash.

He stopped. Something caught his eye, jammed under the passenger seat. He caught the edge of it sticking out. A parcel, wrapped in brown paper and masses of black tape. He pulled it out. It was heavy, like a bag of sugar, but flatter and more giving, as if what was inside was sand or powder.

The penny dropped then. Not just a penny, more like the proverbial Monty Python ton weight. Straight through his skull.

Drugs.

For some reason he couldn’t fathom, he quickly looked around. There was no one there, and no surveillance cameras were recording his actions. This was his driveway, his house, but hey, who knows, perhaps the drugs squad were already nearby, camped out, ready to spring the big bust. Stupid.

Nonetheless, he tucked the package down his shorts and ran back inside. In the hallway, he fell against the cool wall for a moment to gather his senses. Before he realised he’d forgotten his sunglasses. “Damn!”

He considered fetching them but thinking about it, they didn’t matter anymore. Any idea of a relaxing swim in the pool had suddenly lost all of its attraction.

FIVE

The policeman didn’t smile. He sat behind his desk in the air-conditioned office, leaning forward slightly, running through the report that the Guardia Civil had made after they’d arrived at the scene. Fairly soon, others arrived. Heavy-duty. National Police. Big guys, mean-looking. Even meaner than the Guardia.

After the killing, Chaise clambered out of the car and sat on the side of the road, punching out the number on his mobile. His Spanish was good and there was no misunderstanding. Within five minutes they arrived. In the pause, Chaise made another call to Angelina. Without any preamble, he put it plain and simple, “Hi. I’ve got a problem.”

“Oh God, don’t tell me it’s the car.”

“No. Worse. Much worse.” He tried to keep his voice flat, void of emotion. It was becoming harder. The shock was kicking in now, and his hand shook. “I picked up a guy. He’s dead.”

A silence, whilst the words bit home. “Dead? What do you mean, like a heart attack or something?”

“No. I mean I killed him. Shot him. And he’s dead. Stone cold.”

“Oh my God.”

That little tiny voice, cloaked in total terror, would stay with him for a long time.

The office door opened, jerking Chaise out of his reverie. A ferret of a man came in, eyes darting nervously, saw Chaise, grinned, and sat down. He thrust out a small, sticky hand. “Leonard Phelps. Consular official. Sorry, they asked me to come in. You are …” He studied a page in a small, black notebook, “Mr Chaise?” Chaise nodded. “Good.” He opened his attaché case and, as if noticing the waiting police officer behind the desk for the first time, acknowledged him with a curt, “Buenos Dias, Señor Domingo.” Domingo grunted but didn’t look up from his papers. Phelps sighed and looked at Chaise. “Not good, this.” He pulled out a slip of paper and read through it. “They e-mailed me the details. Thought I’d drop everything, seeing as it’s slightly – you know – difficult.”

“I killed a man, Mr Phelps.”

“Yes. Precisely.” Phelps forced a smile again, but it looked more like he was in pain. “I’m here to give you advice, support, translate any technical jargon you may not understand, but I’m not here to represent you legally. You understand that?” Chaise nodded. “You have a lawyer, here in Spain?”

“I have the guy who did the work for our house purchase.”

“Ah. Well, yes. I suppose … you’ll have to give me his number. I can ring him for you.”

“I haven’t been formally charged with anything, Mr Phelps. I haven’t been arrested.”

“No.” He looked at his sheet again. “No, really? I see … Well, in that case—”

With a sudden burst of movement, Domingo threw down his file and leaned back in his seat, eyes fixed on Chaise. “So, Mr Chaise. You say this man stops you, and he gets in your car. Then he pulls out a gun and you struggle. Then you shoot him.”

Chaise went straight into the explanation, without a pause. “It went off in the struggle. It could just as well have been me that got shot.”

“Yes, I understand that. But why did he have a gun?”

“I have no idea.”

“I think there is a problem with the gun.”

Chaise frowned. “A problem? I don’t understand.”

Domingo’s eyes swept across to Phelps briefly. “How do you say forensics in English?”

Phelps swallowed hard and gave Chaise the translation.

Chaise blinked. “It was his gun if that’s what the problem is.”

Domingo shook his head, the smile lingering. “No. That is not it. The problem is this gun, I think – I might be wrong, you understand, and forensics will tell me if I am – but this gun was used maybe seven or eight days ago in the shooting of another man, Daniel Leary. You know him?”

“No, can’t say I do.”

“You don’t read the papers, the Sur in English perhaps?”