touched Leila’s things.’
‘Okay. Guevarra then.’
‘Ahmed, could you manage one more question?’ asked Max. ‘I have to ask . . . where were you between say four and six on Saturday afternoon?’
‘I was having lunch with the new family over from Britain. They wanted to talk about the present difficult situation.’
‘Difficult situation?’
‘Yes. The war. The problems in Palestine. The problems here in Spain.’
‘You have witnesses?’
‘Yes. Of course. Would you like their names? Then I came home before five for the meeting with you, Max.’
Ahmed turned to Guevarra. ‘We were expecting Leila, but she didn’t turn up.’
‘Could she have returned to the house while you were out?’ Max asked.
‘Yes, she did. There was a load of laundry on. And she must have had a sandwich. Am I a suspect?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Max.
González glared at Max, and then asked, ‘How long were you in the house alone?’
‘Oh, about twenty minutes.’
‘So you could have gone out?’
‘I could have, but I didn’t.’
‘Okay. We’ll check up on the family.’
‘Did Leila have a mobile?’ asked Max.
‘Yes, of course. She always had it with her. She called me on it on Friday and Saturday.’
‘We haven’t found it.’
‘Maybe it’s in her room. I don’t know . . .’
Guevarra and Ahmed left the room together.
‘It’s that bloody British Muslim kid. I feel it in my bones,’ said González.
‘We’ve no evidence. It’s not illegal to go for a walk in the hills,’ said Max.
‘Yes, but what’s a bloody British Muslim doing up the mountains here? Doesn’t sound right to me. Let’s go and pick the bastard up.’
‘We’ll certainly want to question him. But don’t jump to conclusions. Innocent until proven guilty, remember.’
‘Fuck that. If you feel someone is guilty, you’re usually right.’
‘Do you want me to come?’ asked Max.
‘Sure. You’re the expert. And you’ve been assigned. I don’t want to be accused of bloody bias. Bite to eat first?’
Max did not fancy eating with González. The fat bastard probably had disgusting personal habits. ‘I have to go to the bank and post office. So see you back here at four?’
‘Agreed. Right – León, get a fix on this bloody Muslim adventure centre. Never heard such crap in my life.’
Max slipped away quickly. He could eat in el Paraíso. Alone.
‘Terrible news about that British girl,’ said the waiter as he took Max’s order for garlic soup, the fish and half a bottle of the Márquez de Abaxurra. ‘To think I served her and that young man on Thursday.’
‘You did? What time?’
‘Late afternoon. They sat outside there, quite friendly like, until a car came up. The young man left, and the girl set off on her own afterwards.’
‘You don’t know who was in the car?’
‘I’ve seen him around. Foreign, very dark, grey hair. Runs some centre or other in the mountains.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Any suspicions, Max?’
‘Can’t comment.’
Max had picked up the European edition of the
Guardian
on the way over.
El País
was good, but he still liked to read a British paper now and again. He glanced at the headlines: ‘US Government Warns Terrorist Attack Likely’. Not again. They’d been saying that for over a year. Still no attack. Some balls-up about to hit the press. You always get terrorist warnings just before. Max turned to the inside pages: ‘Intense International Pressure on Palestine to Sign Peace Deal’. He quickly skipped to the sports pages. Celtic beat Rangers. Great. He walked slowly back to the police station. The shops were all shut: siesta sacred.
González was waiting when he arrived.
‘It’s four twenty,’ he announced ‘León has a fix on that Centre – five kilometres north of Capa, off the old Sierra Nevada road.’
Max told him what he had learnt from his waiter.
‘Could be two bastards involved,’ grunted González.
The three of them got into
‘Okay. Guevarra then.’
‘Ahmed, could you manage one more question?’ asked Max. ‘I have to ask . . . where were you between say four and six on Saturday afternoon?’
‘I was having lunch with the new family over from Britain. They wanted to talk about the present difficult situation.’
‘Difficult situation?’
‘Yes. The war. The problems in Palestine. The problems here in Spain.’
‘You have witnesses?’
‘Yes. Of course. Would you like their names? Then I came home before five for the meeting with you, Max.’
Ahmed turned to Guevarra. ‘We were expecting Leila, but she didn’t turn up.’
‘Could she have returned to the house while you were out?’ Max asked.
‘Yes, she did. There was a load of laundry on. And she must have had a sandwich. Am I a suspect?’
‘No, of course not,’ said Max.
González glared at Max, and then asked, ‘How long were you in the house alone?’
‘Oh, about twenty minutes.’
‘So you could have gone out?’
‘I could have, but I didn’t.’
‘Okay. We’ll check up on the family.’
‘Did Leila have a mobile?’ asked Max.
‘Yes, of course. She always had it with her. She called me on it on Friday and Saturday.’
‘We haven’t found it.’
‘Maybe it’s in her room. I don’t know . . .’
Guevarra and Ahmed left the room together.
‘It’s that bloody British Muslim kid. I feel it in my bones,’ said González.
‘We’ve no evidence. It’s not illegal to go for a walk in the hills,’ said Max.
‘Yes, but what’s a bloody British Muslim doing up the mountains here? Doesn’t sound right to me. Let’s go and pick the bastard up.’
‘We’ll certainly want to question him. But don’t jump to conclusions. Innocent until proven guilty, remember.’
‘Fuck that. If you feel someone is guilty, you’re usually right.’
‘Do you want me to come?’ asked Max.
‘Sure. You’re the expert. And you’ve been assigned. I don’t want to be accused of bloody bias. Bite to eat first?’
Max did not fancy eating with González. The fat bastard probably had disgusting personal habits. ‘I have to go to the bank and post office. So see you back here at four?’
‘Agreed. Right – León, get a fix on this bloody Muslim adventure centre. Never heard such crap in my life.’
Max slipped away quickly. He could eat in el Paraíso. Alone.
‘Terrible news about that British girl,’ said the waiter as he took Max’s order for garlic soup, the fish and half a bottle of the Márquez de Abaxurra. ‘To think I served her and that young man on Thursday.’
‘You did? What time?’
‘Late afternoon. They sat outside there, quite friendly like, until a car came up. The young man left, and the girl set off on her own afterwards.’
‘You don’t know who was in the car?’
‘I’ve seen him around. Foreign, very dark, grey hair. Runs some centre or other in the mountains.’
‘That’s interesting.’
‘Any suspicions, Max?’
‘Can’t comment.’
Max had picked up the European edition of the
Guardian
on the way over.
El País
was good, but he still liked to read a British paper now and again. He glanced at the headlines: ‘US Government Warns Terrorist Attack Likely’. Not again. They’d been saying that for over a year. Still no attack. Some balls-up about to hit the press. You always get terrorist warnings just before. Max turned to the inside pages: ‘Intense International Pressure on Palestine to Sign Peace Deal’. He quickly skipped to the sports pages. Celtic beat Rangers. Great. He walked slowly back to the police station. The shops were all shut: siesta sacred.
González was waiting when he arrived.
‘It’s four twenty,’ he announced ‘León has a fix on that Centre – five kilometres north of Capa, off the old Sierra Nevada road.’
Max told him what he had learnt from his waiter.
‘Could be two bastards involved,’ grunted González.
The three of them got into
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