A Silent Death by Peter May (book recommendations website txt) 📕

Cristina bristled, frowned at Ana then turned towards Mackenzie. ‘My aunt does not want rid of us.’

‘If you’d been paying attention,’ he said, ‘you’d have noticed how she keeps fingering her watch, or heard the tension that’s crept into her voice. She might be expecting someone.’

‘Oh, don’t be ridiculous. Ana never has visitors.’

Ana’s head was tilted to one side, as if she were listening to them. And, almost as though she had heard their entire conversation, she said, ‘I’m expecting a visitor, cariño.’

Which took all the wind out of Cristina’s sails. She glared at Mackenzie, then stooped to give her aunt a kiss. The older woman squeezed her hand and whispered, ‘Trust him.’

*

Outside, the afternoon sun cast deep shadows across the street. The heat was marked after the cool of the house. The air felt hot to breathe, and the Calle San Miguel was packed with tourists pushing their way past each other in both directions. Distant music drifted across the rooftops, a church bell was ringing. ‘Is there something going on in town?’ Mackenzie asked.

Cristina seemed distracted. ‘What?’

‘Music. Crowds. Bells. Is it always as busy as this?’

There was irritation in her voice. ‘It’s the feria of Estepona’s patron saint all this week. San Isidro Labrador. There’s music and dancing, and there are exhibitions. Tomorrow there will be a procession from the church, with floats and horses. You won’t be able to move for people. We don’t want to be anywhere near here after six.’ She caught his arm to stop him. ‘How could you possibly have known she was expecting someone?’

He shrugged. ‘An informed guess.’

‘Informed by what?’

‘Observation. Something you would do well to work on if you ever want to be anything more than a constable.’

He saw anger flare in her eyes and thought he should probably have kept that particular observation to himself. But before she could respond, she was distracted by the sound of a girl’s voice calling from the Plaza de Juan Bazán opposite, and they turned to see a group of kids kicking a ball about between the fountains. A girl of around eight or nine waved cheerfully. ‘Hola. Buenas tardes, Cristina.’

Cristina waved back. And she lowered her voice to Mackenzie. ‘She lives along the street. Her mother is the housekeeper that Ana complained about.’

Mackenzie smiled at the child and waved also. Sotto voce he said to Cristina, ‘That’ll be fun for you, then – sacking her mother.’

Cristina threw him a look. ‘I thought you were hungry.’

‘Starving.’

*

When they had moved off through the crowd, a figure emerged from the shadows of a doorway further along the street and sauntered, hands in pockets, into the square. He was tall, with sandy hair flopping across a tanned brow. But his linen suit looked more than a little crumpled, and his white shirt less than pristine. His blue eyes followed the heads of Cristina and Mackenzie until they disappeared among all the others. The football being kicked around the plaza came rolling in his direction and he stooped to pick it up. The little girl who’d had the exchange with Cristina came running up to retrieve it. He held it out, but stopped short of handing it over.

‘Who is it who lives in that house there?’ he said, nodding towards the door from which Cristina and Mackenzie had emerged only minutes before.

The girl reached for the ball, but still he held it beyond her grasp.

‘That’s weird Ana’s house,’ she said.

‘Weird Ana?’

‘The old blind lady.’

‘What would the police want with an old blind lady?’ he asked.

‘Oh, that’s not the police,’ the little girl said. ‘Not really. That’s Cristina. Weird Ana’s her auntie. Can I have our ball please?’

Cleland smiled. ‘Of course.’ And he let her take it from his hands, before turning to gaze thoughtfully up at the little black-painted wrought-iron Juliet balcony on the first floor.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Ana feels the buzzer vibrate twice against her chest. Excitement, fear, apprehension. All very nearly stop her from breathing.

Sergio.

She tries to calm herself, and with a trembling hand depresses the rocker switch that opens the door below. Now she places her hands flat on the table in front of her, forcing herself to take long slow breaths.

Immediately she feels better and closes her eyes, waiting for the most distant of vibrations to tell her that he is on his way up the stairs. The change of temperature tells her that he has opened the door and is standing gazing at her.

Only now does she think about how she must look. No make-up, hair unfashionably short. Overweight, frumpy in an old blouse and jog pants. And more than twenty years older than when he last set eyes on her. She finds it hard to picture herself, but is aware with a sudden stab of apprehension that there can be nothing attractive about what he sees in front of him.

There is no clue in all this silence and darkness as to his reaction. She breathes in his scent, but there is nothing familiar in it. Male hormones, hair oil or perhaps aftershave.

‘Hello Sergio,’ she says, knowing that he will read her lips. Her voice is the merest tickle in her throat and she knows that she has all but whispered his name. In her mind it thunders in the darkness.

Still nothing. And then a movement of air. The warmth of another body in the cool of the room, shutters drawn against the afternoon sun. She feels the scrape of a chair on the floor. But not at the computer opposite. Much closer. She can feel his breath on her face. Soft, like the gentlest whispering touch of gossamer.

And then his hands, gentle and warm, taking hers in his. A tracing of fingers on her palm, the tactile signing that they had learned together all those years before, and she can feel her breath trembling in her chest.

‘Hello, Ana.’

It is extraordinary just how familiar his touch still is, even after all this time, as if it