Obsession, p.2
Obsession, page 2
How could I ever forgive either of them for that?
Anyway, we’d spent only two days in Spain that time. We’d been to Anya’s apartment. We’d sat in hotels and the police station and talked and talked and… achieved absolutely nothing.
We had so many questions, about both Anya’s life, and death, but the police had the exact same questions, and no one had any answers. On the advice of a lawyer my dad had hired – why, I’m not really sure – we were all soon flying back to England, Anya’s body not far behind us. I hadn’t been back to Spain since, I don’t think Dad had either, and the police investigation quickly stalled.
Drugs related. That was the official line the police had taken in relation to Anya’s murder. They had no suspect – at least they’d never announced so, either publicly or privately to us – but they believed Anya was mixed up with local gangs who were involved in drugs. A common problem in the area, apparently, given the proximity to north Africa, which made the Costa del Sol one of the primary routes for smuggling illicit drugs into Europe.
The saddest thing was, I knew so little of Anya and what she’d been doing in Spain that I really couldn’t dispute any of the police’s claims about her apparently shady life.
But three months later, with the rest of my life still in pieces, what did I have to lose in trying to find some answers?
‘I thought you couldn’t take any more time off work?’ Cath said, snapping me from my thoughts.
Work? Sod work. Everything else in my life was crap, and even if my job had good prospects – apparently – I’d had just about enough of it and the old boys’ club who ran the show.
The man in front of me wheeled his suitcase-laden trolley away. A smartly dressed woman with bright red lips smiled at me from behind the counter. ‘Hola.’
‘Sorry, Cath, I’ve got to go.’
The tiny Nissan Micra struggled to pick up speed on the motorway that rose and fell with the mountains that hugged the coast of the Costa del Sol. Still, even if progress was slow, the car would get me where I needed to be: Sotogrande. A large, privately owned residential development midway between Estepona and Gibraltar. Originally conceived as a playboy’s gated community, Sotogrande had grown to become pretty much a town in its own right. The area was home to some of the most expensive properties in the entire world, its port a regular stopping place for some of the largest and most expensive super yachts.
I’d never heard of the place before Anya’s death, and hadn’t much liked what I’d seen of it when I’d last been – lavishness and overt show of extreme wealth really wasn’t my thing – and I still had no clue how my sister had ended up there. How she’d found herself living alone in an apartment worth north of seven figures, overlooking a marina crammed with multi-million-euro yachts.
According to the police she’d had no job, which only added weight to their claims of influences from the underworld. But how and why had Anya got mixed up in a world like that? It didn’t make sense to me and I still hoped for a simpler and more likely explanation.
The end of the working day was drawing to a close as I approached my destination. Of course I hadn’t needed a satnav, and I pulled up outside the Guardia Civil station a little after 5pm. In this part of the town, or complex, or whatever Sotogrande was, there was no real hint as to the wealth that made the area tick. The buildings were all the low-rise, whitewashed, quite traditional Andalusian-style buildings that can be found in any large or small town in the region.
I stepped out of the car and crossed the street.
I didn’t understand the full details of the different police forces in Spain. My basic knowledge was that the Guardia Civil were a military-esque policing unit mainly responsible for rural areas, while the Policía Nacional took control of larger towns and cities. The main contact I had worked for the former, but the latter were also involved in Anya’s murder investigation and I didn’t have a firm understanding of who was really in charge and why two separate entities both had a hand. Did they work side by side, tactfully and efficiently, or was it more like I’d seen on countless US movies and TV series where the local police and the FBI battled over jurisdiction, often to the detriment of the job at hand?
The outer doors to the small station were security locked and I pressed the buzzer and looked to the small camera. A few moments later the lock released and I pulled the door open and stepped inside. In mid-autumn the outside temperature was pleasantly warm – certainly compared to England – and the interior felt a little cool and damp.
A sole uniformed man sat behind a desk looking bored.
‘Hola,’ I said to him. My Spanish was useless, and I knew from experience that a large proportion of residents in Sotogrande weren’t native Spanish speakers so I went straight for English after that. ‘I’m here to see Sargento Garcia.’
The man behind the desk glared at me as though I’d said something wrong. Or he hadn’t understood me. Or he just didn’t like me. Without saying a word to me he picked up his desk phone and rattled away in Spanish. After a few seconds he covered the microphone and looked to me. ‘Your name?’
‘Natasha Simonsen.’
I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes – most likely at my surname, which was the only word he spoke as he removed his hand from the receiver to carry on the conversation with whoever was on the other end.
A few moments’ pause.
‘He’ll come and see you soon. Please sit.’ He indicated to the two crappy little chairs under a pamphlet-filled corkboard.
‘Certainly. Thanks so much for your help,’ I said with overt niceness. His face didn’t even twitch.
I took my seat and waited. Ten minutes. Twenty. I resisted the urge to check my phone. For what?
Finally a door opened off to the right of the reception desk and the short, stocky man I knew as Sargento Garcia stepped out in his green uniform.
‘Miss Simonsen. This way please.’ He strode across the other side of the desk and to another door that led down a bland corridor and a minute later we were inside a worn, blue-painted interview room. I’d been in this room the last time. Perhaps they only had one. I remembered it. Remembered the shape and pattern of the myriad scratches on the walls. I’d sat staring at them last time for an age, imagining the story behind each one.
‘I wasn’t expecting you,’ Garcia said, his English good but accented, his tone formal but not unfriendly. Far more amenable than the desk guy.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I came at short notice.’
‘You’re in Spain for a holiday?’
I didn’t respond and he looked over as he took hold of the back of his chair and his face fell a little. ‘Sorry. Of course. Not a holiday. You’re here about your sister. Only… you came all this way?’
‘I thought it would be better face to face.’
He sat down and turned out his hands as though he didn’t agree. ‘How exactly can I help you?’
I took a seat across the small table and thought for a moment. ‘I want to know what you’ve found,’ I said. ‘And I want to help. That’s why I’m here.’
He looked really dubious. ‘Miss Simonsen–’
‘Natasha. Please.’
‘Okay. But, there’s really not much I can tell you that I haven’t said before.’
‘Because you don’t know anything new, or you’re not allowed to tell me?’
He didn’t answer. Though I didn’t really give him much time. ‘It’s been three months,’ I said. ‘Are you even still investigating?’
The slight delay – again – told me a lot.
‘It’s an active investigation,’ he said.
‘But?’
‘But?’
‘I think you were about to say but,’ I told him.
‘I don’t think so.’
‘It’s an active investigation? So you’ve been working on it today?’
‘Today? No, but–’
‘Okay, so there’s the but.’
‘Sorry?’
‘But what?’
He frowned. I wasn’t intentionally trying to aggravate him, but apparently I was.
‘But we have more than only your sister’s case to work on here.’
‘More murders? More important investigations?’
Once again he didn’t answer.
‘Please, Sargento Garcia. I… I just need to know what’s happening.’ I sounded emotional. Not entirely intentional, but my distress seemed to have an effect on Garcia and he sighed and made a funny shape with his lips, as though deep in thought.
‘You haven’t arrested anyone,’ I said.
‘No.’
‘Do you have any suspects at all?’
‘I explained this to your father.’
I frowned. ‘Explained what? When?’
Garcia’s defences went back up again. ‘A few weeks ago. When I last spoke to him.’
‘And you told him what?’
Garcia looked at me curiously. As though I was testing him and he wasn’t sure how to respond.
‘Please? Just tell me.’
‘I’m sure I explained this before. We have no active suspects, but we collected a number of different fingerprints and DNA traces from your sister’s apartment and we think they belong to people who are relevant to the investigation.’
‘Who?’ I said.
‘We’ve spoken to a lot of people. But many of the fingerprints and samples we don’t know who they belong to. We can only match to people we have on record.’
‘But you know some of the people?’
‘Yes.’
This was more than he’d ever told me before. Did Dad know this?
‘And?’
‘And… we don’t know exactly how some of these people knew your sister. Some were simply people here in Spain on holiday. People who didn’t even know each other. People with no criminal records. And with alibis.’
‘You’ve spoken to them?’
‘Yes.
‘But they’re not suspects?’
‘No.’
‘Because?’
‘Because we don’t think they had anything to do with Anya’s murder.’
‘Who are they? You’ve never asked me about any of these people. If I knew their names…’
He glared at me. As though not liking what I was saying.
‘You won’t tell me.’
‘I don’t see the relevance.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because as I said, we don’t think these people were involved. And they have a right to their privacy. And I sense if I told you… you’d go off and try to find them. I don’t think that would achieve what you think it would achieve.’
‘You told me before you think her murder was drugs-related.’
‘We still do.’
‘Based on what evidence?’
‘For example, one set of fingerprints belong to a man close to a gang who we know are involved in supplying drugs.’
I winced. What was Anya doing with people like that? ‘Okay. What else?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘You said that was an example of why you think her death was drug-related. What else?’
Garcia shook his head, looking a little exasperated. ‘I told you that because I’m trying to be helpful, but I–’
‘But that man isn’t a suspect?’
‘Not officially. But…’ Garcia paused then sighed. ‘Out of all the people we considered, he was top of our list.’
Was?
‘What’s his name?’
Garcia stared at me, as though reluctant to answer my question. But then he did. ‘Wesley Pino.’
I’d never heard the name, and was a little surprised Garcia had told me so easily, given his previous caginess.
‘A drug dealer?’
‘Not exactly. But not a good man.’
‘So he was in my sister’s apartment? Do you know when? Have you spoken to him?’
‘No. With a man like that, it’s not so simple to speak to him.’
‘You can’t find him?’
‘It’s not that.’
‘Not what? He’s a potential suspect but you haven’t arrested him, or even spoken to him?’
‘No. I’m sorry. And we won’t.’
I shook my head. What was this? Some kind of cover-up? ‘Why not?’
Garcia sighed again. ‘Because, I’m afraid, Natasha, Wesley Pino is now dead too.’
CHAPTER FOUR
AMY
Summer
This was exactly what she needed. Sunshine, warmth, relaxation. Yes, she certainly needed those three things. Perhaps she didn’t need everything else here, though. The other guests in particular. Not the other hotel guests as such, but the friends and family who had travelled here with her and David. Being alone as a couple would have been ideal.
She smiled a little to herself. No, being here on her own, away from everyone, now that would have been perfection.
Okay, so it was only a few friends and family with them, yet, given everything else that was happening, she felt so… mobbed.
‘Morning, Amy.’
She looked up from her Kindle to see Jannette walking over, sarong on, wide-brimmed beach hat, big beach bag.
‘Morning,’ Amy replied with as genuine a smile as she could muster.
‘You’ve had breakfast already?’
‘Yeah.’
‘You’re keen. I’m skipping it today.’
‘I was up early,’ Amy said. ‘I prefer it down here when it’s quiet.’ She looked across the pool and loungers. Only four other people were out so far.
‘Honey, it’s the most exclusive hotel in Sotogrande. It doesn’t do busy.’
Amy smiled but didn’t say anything.
‘No David yet?’ Jannette asked.
‘I left him in bed. He didn’t get in until after two. Probably a few whiskies too many.’
‘Yeah. Brian was back just before one. He’s the same. Snored like an ox all night. I ended up in the living room. Just as well these suites are so big.’
Just before one? So why was David out so much later?
Jannette sat down on one of the loungers in the next pair along. She unwrapped her sarong. Tasteful white bikini. Killer bod. Well, she got to spend hours a day in the gym, didn’t she? And she was a good fifteen years younger than Amy too. Amy… she was – mostly – happy with how she looked for her age. Considering she still worked four days a week, she felt she did well to get enough exercise in. She watched what she ate, kept an eye on her weight and her figure, but she knew from prior experience that when coming to a resort like this, the vast majority of the women were simply stunning and she naturally shrunk a little, became that little bit more insecure.
Actually, perhaps that was unfair. Not every woman here was a young trophy wife of a rich businessman, though there were definitely plenty of those about. Jannette was one of them. Regardless, Amy was highly self-conscious of stripping down to her swimsuit here, one of the other reasons why she came out early when it was quieter.
‘You’re looking really great, by the way,’ Jannette said as she slapped oil on her already tanned and toned skin. ‘I don’t know how you manage it. Especially after… you know.’
‘Thanks,’ was all Amy said to that.
After… you know? She was intrigued as to exactly what Jannette meant by that, but was way too polite and timid to ask. Was she referring to the fact that – many years ago now – she’d given birth to two kids? That she’d worked her arse off since then, with her job but also bringing up her children, taking little time for herself? Was she referring to the never-ending stress of being married to David? Or to the cancer that she’d battled with for the best part of five years?
Take the compliment, move on, she tried to convince herself.
They shared little other chitchat for an hour or so. The pool area slowly filled. Brian emerged – David’s long-time best friend. Sixty-three, tall, broad with thick hair and beard. He looked like a modern-day Henry VIII. He walked like it too, like he was king. He wore a pair of very short shorts that showed off his crazily hairy legs, and an opened white shirt that showed off the blanket on his chest.
Was he a nice guy? Kind of. If you liked your men to look and act like a bear.
‘Morning, Amy,’ he said as he passed, his voice deep and guttural.
‘Morning.’
He plonked himself on the lounger next to Jannette. The plastic creaked and strained under his weight. ‘No sign of your man yet?’ he asked.
‘Not unless he’s hiding somewhere else.’
Brian laughed. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. He was wasted last night. Trying to keep up with the youngsters.’
By the youngsters, Amy presumed he meant Gus – her son – and his friends.
‘What time’s Hayley coming out?’ Brian asked.
‘She should land later this morning.’
He nodded, then looked away, to the pool, as though he couldn’t think of anything else to say. He never used to be that awkward with her. She’d known Brian nearly twenty years. Back in the day, when he’d been a bit lighter and a bit less hairy, he’d been a real charmer. Outgoing, full of life and banter. He wanted to be everyone’s friend. No, not quite. Everyone wanted to be his friend. Maybe he was still like that with other people, just not with her.
Why?
Brian’s big personality was one of the reasons why he was so good at consulting. People listened to him. They wanted to believe the things he told them. He and David had met working as business consultants at Accenture. David was a couple of years Brian’s junior, and didn’t quite have the gift of the gab, but was brilliantly analytical and methodical. Under Brian’s tutelage, David had eventually risen above his friend to become a partner in his late thirties. Brian never made that final leap, in part, according to David, because Brian had fallen out with certain members of the senior team. Brian was on his way out but determined to move on to bigger and better things.
David, on the other hand, could have stayed and enjoyed a long corporate career, but instead, twelve years ago, the two of them decided to both quit and start up their own consultancy. A big risk. Or so Amy had thought, but David took it all in his stride, never a doubt in his mind as to the future success of the new firm. Even if it had required him to work fifteen-hour days up to seven days a week for several years. But that was David.
