This meant that a version of his plan could be put into action.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Mike had been researching the easiest way to get to Málaga. She had settled on the forty-five-minute train from Fuengirola, which ran every twenty minutes. It gave her a slight problem at the Málaga end because Randy’s flat was out in the suburbs. She changed her mind. She would hire a motorbike – after all, she had her own helmet – as a bike would give her more flexibility. The Yellands’ chauffeur ran her to one of his friends on the outskirts of Fuengirola, and an hour later, she was riding along the fast road cut into the low hills with views down to the built-up coast. She passed under the ski lift near Benalmádena that was ferrying tourists up to Mount Calamorro and, a few minutes later, swept down towards the airport on the western edge of the city.
She didn’t go straight to Randy’s apartment. Dylan had taught her a few techniques, and she could hear him telling her to take care. She pulled over and took off her helmet. A cigarette later, she was happy that she wasn’t being followed.
A pine tree provided her with some shade under which to park the bike, and she took a few minutes before setting off again, with her bag over her shoulder, towards the entrance to the apartment block. It was about five stories high with a large glass door giving access to a communal entrance hall, lifts and stairs. Mike looked up at the small balconies outside and saw caged birds, mountain bikes up on end and lines of drying washing. There was nobody around, and in the foyer, no camera was pointing at the mailboxes that made up one wall. She had a screwdriver ready to force her way into the box marked “Ramon Ramirez”. Having done so, and after quickly putting the contents into the bag slung across her shoulders, she made her way up the stairs to Apartment 8 on the first floor. Typical CIA, she thought to herself. The ground floor is generally too vulnerable and accessible, and too high up limits the possibilities and speed of escape. Yes, she told herself, this is Randy’s apartment.
The corridor on the first floor smelt of burnt cheese, but she couldn’t work out if this was the remains of breakfast or the start of lunch. She assumed that the neighbours might look out of their spyholes, so she acted as normally as possible. Her back-up plans involved on-the-spot variations of “I’m his sister-in-law; can you help me?” But plan A involved a beautiful, small jemmy that would open most doors that weren’t reinforced, barred or double bolted.
A couple of seconds later, she was inside with the door closed behind her. Immediately, she took off the shoulder bag and put it to the side. If anyone in authority came in or challenged her, she was Randy’s sister-in-law visiting from the US. She put on latex gloves.
Mike knew that speed and efficiency were the bywords. The first thing she noticed was that the apartment was clean and tidy – nobody had left in a hurry or, worse, had been killed messily. Secondly, the fridge was empty of anything that wouldn’t last for weeks. There was no milk, salad or fresh meat. This meant that Randy had planned to leave the apartment and for a reasonable length of time. She checked the waste bin in the kitchen, and it was empty. So, it was a planned trip – but where to?
This place is sterile, she mused. How much does he sleep, let alone live, here? The first door she opened revealed a small second bedroom that could have come straight out of a show house. Nobody had used it, and there were no personal effects. Next door was the master bedroom, but even this – while evidently in use – was uncluttered.
The contents of his desk, bedside drawers and shelves turned out to be of little interest. She did note that there were a couple of five-centime coins from Morocco in a small dish on a side table. The dozen-or-so books were mostly thrillers by Michael Connelly or Jeffrey Deaver. There was one very thick paperback that looked anomalous. It had 1421 emblazoned on the spine and was by Gavin Menzies. “The year China discovered America,” she read. What was Randy doing reading this? It didn’t sound like his sort of book. What interest did he have in the Chinese exploration of Africa and America in the fifteenth century? She began to suspect that this apartment was used by more than one person. There was a half-drunk glass of water by the bed, the contents of which she emptied into the toilet and then she quickly stowed the glass itself in her bag, along with the toothbrush from the small bathroom. These might provide fingerprints or DNA if that were ever necessary.
Mike had made her name devising software that searched for what was missing from any scenario or what was incongruous; this was a way to eliminate people from a long list of possibilities and/or identify a residence. If you knew the suspect was male, eighteen years old and lived in a particular town, he probably doesn’t subscribe to Woman’s Weekly magazine, have his nails done every week or buy Spandex pants. He might do any of these things, but the percentages were heavily against it. When added to a hundred other possible activities that an eighteen-year-old man is very unlikely to do, the potential houses where he might live are reduced considerably. If that sounds boring, it’s because it is boring, but if you can reduce 10,000 possible houses in a town to 100 or fewer, this is invaluable.
It wasn’t surprising, therefore, that she was trying to spot what was out of place or what was missing from this apartment. Firstly, she noticed that the only handwriting in all the rooms was in the kitchen on a magnetic reminder pad on the fridge door. There were three words in English, one of which was ‘hake’; the writer had not used the Spanish word ‘merluza’ for the fish. She wouldn’t know Randy’s handwriting, so she tore the page off and put it in her pocket.
She was now clutching at straws. She went back into the bedroom and pulled back the sheets, looking for some evidence of sexual activity – nothing. Cursing herself for being inefficient, she ran back into the kitchen and opened drawers and cupboards. Nothing. She looked down at a wine rack with five bottles in it. They were all red. Randy drinks white, doesn’t he? She tried to remember. She pulled one out and found it had a tag around its neck. Mike couldn’t read the printed message in Spanish, but she could see that it was clearly a corporate gift from Petronello. If Charles Yelland has lied to me again…
After ten minutes, she could still hear no sounds in the adjoining apartments, but she didn’t want to tempt fate. She wasn’t a trained field operative – just an inquisitive amateur who had no idea if she should stay ten or twenty minutes. She lost her nerve and decided to get out. Before leaving, she placed a small listening device somewhere out of sight. This would be triggered by any sound of activity in the apartment and relay this to her phone. Looking around, she couldn’t resist lifting a couple of rugs on her way out, but she found nothing. She had brought some kid’s plasticine with her from England, which was in her bag together with the jemmy and some other tools. Having formed a small lump of it, she used it to prevent the front door from swinging open – it was enough to fool anyone passing by.
As she walked down the stairs, she found herself imagining Randy doing the same on his way out, but to where? Where are you? she asked herself.
Stepping into the sunlight, Mike put on her sunglasses, and her mind wandered on to transport. Did he have a bike, scooter or car, or just use the train? There was nothing to help her in the apartment: no keys, documents, used tickets or helmets. She walked around the side of the block to a small car park. There were a dozen cars, mostly small Seats, Fiats and Fords. She took some photographs on her phone to record the registration plates.
Fifteen minutes later, with warm air blowing on to her face, she was roaring westwards up the autopista towards Fuengirola. An easyJet plane above her was coming into land at Málaga airport as she passed by.
Mike pulled up at the gate to the villa and stood the bike on its stand while she rang the bell. A voice she didn’t recognise asked for her name. Wazz, who was watching the various security cameras, told the man at the gate to allow her access. The man pressed the button inside the gatehouse and then stepped outside to watch the visitor first-hand. Mike rode in through the gates and slowed to acknowledge the new level of security. She noticed he was missing his left eye, which didn’t seem to qualify him for this line of work. He then focused on her with his right eye, which told her that he did indeed qualify – the intensity of his stare bored into her soul.
She rode up to the villa and parked to the side of the garage complex. On removing her helmet, she was reflecting on the fact that her trip had revealed little – and that Randy was still out there somewhere and in trouble. She knew this instinctively.
“Haven’t found what you’re looking for?” came a voice from the outside stairs.
“Who are you? Bono?” she replied, feeling tetchy.
“Sorry, your face is, well, demonstrative.” Wazz was almost at the bottom step.
“That’s what faces are for.” She had said that she was going into Málaga to have a look around.
He held up both arms and smiled in a conciliatory way. “Want a cigarette by the waste bins?”
“I can see why you’re single if that’s your best chat up line.”
“Or we can talk in my office?”
“Where’s that?”
“By the waste bins.”
While her stance in the black wig, the black leather jacket and the black helmet gave off an air of confidence, her eyes did not.
He didn’t speak but just shrugged and used his head to indicate rather unnecessarily where the bins were.
“You are a …” But she didn’t, or couldn’t, finish the sentence. A strange vulnerability persisted in her eyes.
He held his arms open wide. His tight, white tee shirt rode up as he breathed in gently and he offered his chest to her. “You need to punch something?”
“I’m just a bit too tall, but possibly, if I knelt down?” There was no venom in her response.
She acquiesced and followed him around the outside of the kitchen to the first area where they had met.
“Don’t tell me that you went to visit the Francis Bacon exhibition at the Picasso gallery and it was closed?”
“No.” She lit the cigarette that was twitching in her fingers.
“Want to tell me why you needed to hire a bike on a Sunday morning to go to Málaga when you’re meant to be here watching Charles?”
Her right hand was rubbing her left ear, and her left hand was holding the cigarette. “It’s not as it seems.”
“When I said I was boxing when I broke my nose, I failed to say that I wasn’t in a ring or wearing gloves. Life is never quite what it seems.” He was checking the batteries before vaping, but whether this was to give her a moment to reflect was not evident. There was a significant pause.
