The Killer (13 page)

The Thief

Ernesto rolled over in bed.
He loved the feel of silk sheets - sheer heaven.
Smirking to himself, the wealthy man sighed contentedly as he cast a lazy gaze at his new girlfriend of the last couple of weeks, the beautiful young senorita dressing in front of him.
As she pulled on her panties she stopped for a moment and, with a quizzical expression, she looked over at him and pouted.

‘Oh, I’m sorry my darling, here you are,’ he told her in his low, Andalucían accented voice whilst pulling a thick wad of cash from his bedside table.
‘Same time tomorrow my little angel?’ he smiled.

Though the girl smiled seductively back at him, inwardly she cringed and cursed,
‘Puto gordo viejo.’
‘Yes, of course my sweetheart,’ she answered in a soft, lilting tone.
‘Same time.
Can’t wait.’
She leaned over and gently took the money from his hand, then turned and slowly left the bedroom, wiggling her hips as she made her way out of the house.

Safely through the gates, and out of sight of the eyes that had watched her from the bedroom window, she hawked deeply and spat.
‘
Coño,’
she cursed again, still feeling sick at the thought of the stinking man who’d been pawing at her all night.
‘Fat, smelly, filthy, ugly old man,’ she hissed as she shivered involuntarily.
Still, the money was good.
In truth she considered herself lucky, as she hadn’t been short of cash since meeting him.
All she had to do was look good, smell good and, every once in a while, let him do the depraved and disgusting things he loved to do to her.
It was for the money, and only for the money, and she had wondered more than once where it came from.
He didn’t seem to do anything to earn it.
‘It’s always cash and he seems to have loads of it,’ she considered.
‘The next time the filthy pig is snoring, I’ll search and I’ll find it.
I’ll take the lot.
I’ll leave the old bastard broke.’
The smile on her pretty face was now genuine.

Alone again Ernesto basked and posed in the midday sunlight, sucking in his belly as he admired himself in his full-length mirror.
‘You really are a handsome devil, I can see why the girls go mad for you,’ he tittered as he quickly pushed several long strands of hair back over his head to cover his bald patch.
‘There, that’s better.’
He picked up his silk dressing gown and then paused for a second to sniff each armpit.
He dropped the garment.
Maybe today he’d better take a shower.

The task, quickly completed, he briskly towelled himself dry, slid on his dressing gown and strolled out onto the ornate patio.
From his terrace he was able to look down on most areas, the good parts, of his favourite city in the whole of Spain- Barcelona.
Slowly he walked up and down the terrace, happily gazing out at the tremendous views.
‘Fucking Irish,’ he muttered, wondering why on earth he should suddenly think about them on a day like this.
‘Coffee time - and a smoke,’ he announced to no one but himself.

He made his coffee very carefully.
The beans were ground meticulously and exact amounts had to be used.
When it came to coffee, he was the best.
He was a perfectionist.
Sitting with a look of pure
ecstasy
on his face he grinned to himself as he savoured the rich taste.
He knew beyond doubt that no one made coffee like he did.
‘And now for that smoke,’ he decided, as he made his way to his newly purchased, antique humidor.
Selecting a big, fat Cohiba he gently rolled the cigar between his fingers, holding it first to his ear, ‘sounds good,’ then to his nose, as he inhaled the rich tobacco scent, nodded his approval and smiled.
‘Yes, a Cohiba would be nice today.’
He strolled out once more onto his terrace and gave another long, loving gaze across the city and sighed.
‘Ah, life really is good,’ he laughed, puffing happily away.

He sat in the shade of an umbrella, contentedly smoking the huge cigar and feeling more relaxed by the minute.
His thoughts dwelled on the perfect body of the girl who had just left, though her name escaped him for the moment.
She was one of many who had graced his bed over the last few months and he was enjoying the variety.
It was so much better than the monotony of having a wife, he decided, and was a little confused by the sense of melancholy, tinged with dread, that suddenly descended to ruin his mood.
Drowsiness overtook him and, yet again, those fucking Irish popped into his mind, as did that awful day several months ago.

***

The Awful D
ay

Having woken very late, he found he was alone in bed.
‘Darling, where are you?’ he shouted softly.
There was no reply.
She wasn’t in the bedroom.
Frantically he searched the entire house and he began to panic - until he found the note.
‘Goodbye Ernesto, I’ve gone.
Anna.’
That was it.
No explanation, no apology, no words of comfort, no suggestion of sorrow.
She was simply gone.

At first he just didn’t believe it, but after days of trying everything to locate her, ringing anyone he could think of, acceptance finally sank in.
What he couldn’t figure out, though, was why.
There was no rational reason for her to go, to leave him alone like this.
He knew he’d been a good husband.
He’d never involved her in his business dealings – good Lord, she didn’t even know what he did for a living anyway.
He’d let her be happy in her kitchen, just as she wanted.
That clearly ruled out another man, so why had she gone?

Over the next few weeks he went to pieces, drinking continually and never leaving the house.
Constantly he contemplated the “why” and only one reason made any sense.
Money.
Things had been a little tight for the last few months.
That new car Anna had needed had cost him a fair bit.
Then there had been the new clothes so that she was nicely turned out when she went to those ladies’ charity dinners that had been taking up more and more of her time.
He’d been thinking of asking those Irish bastards for a bigger commission for a while.
At first the money had seemed good for a couple of days of his time, but now he had extra expenses and they needed to know that.
He’d never let them down and it was about time they appreciated his loyalty a bit more.
If they’d only paid him what was fair, his Anna would never have left.
This thought played over and over in his mind as he sat in the silent, empty house.
He hadn’t seen a soul for weeks and no one had even bothered to call him back after his frantic efforts to locate his wife.
The phone hadn’t even rung once – and then it did.

He sprinted like an Olympian to catch the call, knowing it had to be her.
She was coming home.

‘Anna, Anna, where are you?
Please come back to me - I love you,’ he cried into the receiver.

‘Ernesto? Ernesto? - Hello?
What the fuck are you on about?
Stop your ranting man, I can’t understand a fucking word you’re saying,’ came the Irish voice on the other end of the phone.

Taking a deep breath Ernesto paused, swallowed, and then composed himself.
‘Hello, who is this speaking?’ he enquired in English now.

‘Ah, that’s better.
It’s me - Chucky from Belfast.
What the fuck were you gabbling on about?’

‘Oh, nothing, I wasn’t shouting at you - the gardener knocked over my new ornament, that’s all,’ he lied.

‘Oh, so everything’s still all right over at your end then?’

‘Yes, of course it is, what do you need?’ he asked Chucky in as happy a voice as he could manage.

‘Same thing as always, mate, but this time we’ve got two instead of one.
Can you handle that?’

For the last four years, Ernesto’s job had been to exchange the Irish organisation’s cash into local currency, and with that they bought cigarettes by the container.
They had never had a single problem with him - he was trusted completely.
Chucky and the other bosses considered him to be “as good as gold”.
Two containers translated to ninety six thousand cartons, Ernesto quickly calculated, and that meant an awful lot of cash, the very subject that had occupied his thoughts for these last, lonely weeks.
He paused only a second.
‘Yes, of course I can handle it,’ he told his contact, but that will be a large package.
The transfer will take longer than normal.’

‘That’s okay,’ Chucky assured him.
‘We’d expected that.
How long do you think?’

‘Well it’s usually two days, so I think this would be four or five,’ he suggested, assessing how he could use that time to carry out the plan that was forming in his mind.

‘No problem,’ Chucky agreed.
‘Can you be ready Thursday, same time, same place, same contact?’

‘Yes.’

‘That’s great.
I’ll talk to my boss about a bigger percentage this time to cover the extra days,’ Chucky offered cheerfully.

‘Too little and far too bloody late,’ would have been the honest reply.
Instead Ernesto said, ‘That’s good of you,’ hoping he had the right amount of gratitude in his voice.

‘Okay, call me when it’s done and I’ll sort the order,’ Chucky concluded, and the call was over.

As he replaced the receiver, Ernesto smiled for the first time in weeks.
It was fate.
It had to be.
A double load, just when he’d decided that money was the answer to his problems.
And that condescending little shit, offering him a bigger commission now, after all this time.
He should have been on a proper cut from the beginning.
He took all the risks, didn’t he, showing his face around to change their filthy money.
He’d never let them down and he knew they trusted him one hundred percent.
Ha, stupid Irish cunts.
He’d show them.

The simple plan came together quickly in his head.
He would arrive at Reus airport and collect the money from one of the Irish - as he always did.
His old Land Rover would be crammed full of cash and he’d drive off alone to visit La Jonquera, the little town between France and Spain that was littered with various small banks and bureaus in which he changed the currency from Northern Ireland sterling into pesetas.
He would still do that.
Irish sterling wouldn’t be any good to him, so he still needed to make the exchange, but now came the clever part.
For years those dumb, Irish bastards had thought it took two days to change the money, but it only took one.
The second day had been spent at a whorehouse along the coast where he treated himself from the little extra he took on the exchange rate.
Just one peseta per note; he’d never been greedy.
This time, with double the cash, he probably would need two days, but he wouldn’t need five and that gave him all the time he needed to get away.

They knew that he lived in Madrid, and he would be going anywhere but.
His house was rented and he didn’t care about it.
Since Anna had left it was no longer a home anyway.
None of those bog stupid Irish could speak any Spanish.
That’s why they needed him.
What was it with English speakers who just assumed everyone would communicate in their language?
All he needed to do was disappear forever into the depths of central Spain, or maybe even Portugal, and they’d never find him.
He’d have more money than he’d ever dreamed of, and with money he could keep a woman happy.
He’d never be lonely again.

***

The cigar was finished and Ernesto glanced at his Cartier watch, wondering where the time went.
Reliving his plan to con the Irish, which had played out to perfection, had lightened his mood and the feelings of melancholia had passed.
Now he was hungry and thirsty.
‘First food - then a beer or two - or maybe even three,’ he said, laughing at his own joke.
He changed from his robe into his day clothes and began a leisurely stroll through his manicured garden then down the stone steps and into his garage, where he paused to admire his shiny Mercedes.
He couldn’t help it.
All these long years he’d wanted one, he’d drooled over them - and now, there it sat, gleaming and waiting for no one but him.
‘Mm, I love this car,’ he whispered as he opened the door and idly slid behind the wheel.
The cool feel of the leather seats through his clothes made him smile.
All was perfect.
He donned his Ray Bans, admired his reflection in the rear view mirror and reversed out of the garage.