cradle. The firemen on the bridge wind the winch and Gutiérrez rises slowly. Higher and higher, he sways in the air and the villagers gasp, mutter. As he reaches the bridge, an untarnished silence descends. There is no wind; no birdsong. The canvas stretcher is soaked in blood and from its middle, a drip of blood falls, and then another, like sap.
A policeman in a blue suit – as opposed to the green of the Guardia Civil, who oversee the law in the countryside – points from the bridge to where Staffe is sitting, beckons him. As Staffe makes his way slowly down the hillside, he sees that the officer must be Cuerpo Nacional – unusual in these parts. The officer is short and wiry with a long, bandido moustache.
‘You are the guirri ,’ says the Cuerpo officer.
‘I am English,’ says Staffe.
‘He was a friend of yours?’
‘Not really.’
‘I hear that you are police, in England.’
‘This is a holiday.’
‘Not convalescence?’ The Cuerpo has a laurel insignia on his tunic and Staffe thinks that might make him a comisario . His holster is impossibly shiny and his moustache jet black, though the groomed slicks of hair beneath his peaked cap are grey. He smokes a Cohiba cigar with its familiar black and gold band. Its deep, sweet tar smells of success, hard won. He looks up at Staffe and over his shoulder as he says, ‘We know this man. He came up from Almería and he was drunk. You were with him and as a policeman you should do better.’
‘ Do better? This is not my fault.’
The officer lowers his voice. ‘He was drunk as a monkey and they’re telling me this was a stupid accident.’ The officer extends his hand to Staffe, shakes it with a limp action. ‘I am Sanchez. Come on, we should get out of their way. Come onto the bridge with me.’
Staffe looks again at the insignia on Sanchez’s uniform. ‘ Comisario .’ He follows Sanchez.
‘Some crazy circle of life, up here in the mountains. I should know.’
‘You’re from up here?’
‘You could say that. It seems the place never lets you go. There’s always some kind of mess needs clearing up.’ The officer smooths down his sleeves and nods to his driver, who starts the car.
Together, they look over the bridge. Way down below, Staffe sees a red rag. When he looks more closely, he sees it is a duster, patches of yellow making it look like the Spanish flag. A blood-soaked duster, he thinks. He looks away from the rag, but thinks the Comisario may have seen him.
Sanchez says, ‘Good luck with becoming an uncle. Up here in the Alpujarras, it’s one big family – but you’re best off out of it.’
‘How do you know about me?’
‘We attend to strangers, Inspector Wagstaffe. And take my advice.’ Sanchez looks down from the bridge, towards where the bloody rag flutters in a strawberry bush in the dry river bed. ‘Forget what you think you might have seen. It’s better that you leave‚’ and Sanchez ushers Staffe away, watches him all the way up the road, back to the village.
When Staffe gets to the last bend, where the bridge is about to disappear from sight in the tight curves that must have done for Raúl, he sees a red motorbike weave up the hillside. He waves, thinking it is Manolo, but it isn’t him. Manolo is above the bridge, still, with Suki. The other red motorbike belongs to Jackson Roberts who rides it fast and sure, away from the ravine that took Raúl Gutiérrez.
*
For the first time in her life, Suki has a strap around her neck. Manolo ties it tight and puts a lead to it. He will make a gift of her to Gracia. That girl will surely know how to care properly. It’s in her blood.
He is on the high side of the ravine and the rest of the village are all on the other side, with the police cars, ambulance and the fire engine. They begin to disperse. Consuela looks up at him and he thinks she smiles, but she looks quickly away and he feels lost. He wants to touch her and he is sure he never will. The sadness feels
A policeman in a blue suit – as opposed to the green of the Guardia Civil, who oversee the law in the countryside – points from the bridge to where Staffe is sitting, beckons him. As Staffe makes his way slowly down the hillside, he sees that the officer must be Cuerpo Nacional – unusual in these parts. The officer is short and wiry with a long, bandido moustache.
‘You are the guirri ,’ says the Cuerpo officer.
‘I am English,’ says Staffe.
‘He was a friend of yours?’
‘Not really.’
‘I hear that you are police, in England.’
‘This is a holiday.’
‘Not convalescence?’ The Cuerpo has a laurel insignia on his tunic and Staffe thinks that might make him a comisario . His holster is impossibly shiny and his moustache jet black, though the groomed slicks of hair beneath his peaked cap are grey. He smokes a Cohiba cigar with its familiar black and gold band. Its deep, sweet tar smells of success, hard won. He looks up at Staffe and over his shoulder as he says, ‘We know this man. He came up from Almería and he was drunk. You were with him and as a policeman you should do better.’
‘ Do better? This is not my fault.’
The officer lowers his voice. ‘He was drunk as a monkey and they’re telling me this was a stupid accident.’ The officer extends his hand to Staffe, shakes it with a limp action. ‘I am Sanchez. Come on, we should get out of their way. Come onto the bridge with me.’
Staffe looks again at the insignia on Sanchez’s uniform. ‘ Comisario .’ He follows Sanchez.
‘Some crazy circle of life, up here in the mountains. I should know.’
‘You’re from up here?’
‘You could say that. It seems the place never lets you go. There’s always some kind of mess needs clearing up.’ The officer smooths down his sleeves and nods to his driver, who starts the car.
Together, they look over the bridge. Way down below, Staffe sees a red rag. When he looks more closely, he sees it is a duster, patches of yellow making it look like the Spanish flag. A blood-soaked duster, he thinks. He looks away from the rag, but thinks the Comisario may have seen him.
Sanchez says, ‘Good luck with becoming an uncle. Up here in the Alpujarras, it’s one big family – but you’re best off out of it.’
‘How do you know about me?’
‘We attend to strangers, Inspector Wagstaffe. And take my advice.’ Sanchez looks down from the bridge, towards where the bloody rag flutters in a strawberry bush in the dry river bed. ‘Forget what you think you might have seen. It’s better that you leave‚’ and Sanchez ushers Staffe away, watches him all the way up the road, back to the village.
When Staffe gets to the last bend, where the bridge is about to disappear from sight in the tight curves that must have done for Raúl, he sees a red motorbike weave up the hillside. He waves, thinking it is Manolo, but it isn’t him. Manolo is above the bridge, still, with Suki. The other red motorbike belongs to Jackson Roberts who rides it fast and sure, away from the ravine that took Raúl Gutiérrez.
*
For the first time in her life, Suki has a strap around her neck. Manolo ties it tight and puts a lead to it. He will make a gift of her to Gracia. That girl will surely know how to care properly. It’s in her blood.
He is on the high side of the ravine and the rest of the village are all on the other side, with the police cars, ambulance and the fire engine. They begin to disperse. Consuela looks up at him and he thinks she smiles, but she looks quickly away and he feels lost. He wants to touch her and he is sure he never will. The sadness feels
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