Fatal Sunset by Jason Webster

Author:Jason Webster
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Random House
Published: 2017-08-02T16:00:00+00:00

THIRTY-ONE

Carlos opened the iron gate of his block of flats and stepped into the marble-cool of the entrance hall. It was late and the concierge had already left. Ignoring the lift, Carlos walked the three flights of stairs to his front door, his coat over his arm and briefcase dangling from his hand. He was tired, but this routine of taking the stairs – avoiding lifts where he could – was all part of a regime to fight against the ill-health brought on by a desk job. Opportunities for exercise were far fewer since he had been assigned to the Centre, but small measures such as this might go some way to maintaining a certain level of fitness. Or at least stop him from descending too quickly into stiff, overweight immobility.

Puffing slightly and with the blood pumping in his cheeks, he reached his floor and pulled out the key to open the door. As he did so his phone vibrated against his hip where he kept it in a holder on his belt. He waited until he was inside and with the door closed behind him before answering. It could only be work at this late hour and so far his day had not gone well. He just hoped this brought better news.

He placed the briefcase on the floor, draped his coat on the hook, flipped open the stud of his belt-holder and lifted out his phone.

‘We’ve found her,’ said a flat voice.

‘Where is she?’ said Carlos. He walked into the kitchen, where the previous night’s bottle of whisky stood on the table. He quickly rinsed out the tumbler in the sink and poured himself a healthy shot.

‘In Madrid,’ said the voice.

‘She left Valencia?’ Carlos asked.

‘Caught the AVE. Must have been just before we put the tail on her. But we found her name on the passenger list.’

‘Where is she now?’

Carlos checked the time on his watch. It was almost one o’clock in the morning.

‘At an address on Calle Santo Domingo, near Opera. We’ve checked – it belongs to a journalist by the name of Lucía Valderrama. Not her main residence, however. She lives out of town.’

‘Some kind of meeting place,’ said Carlos. ‘A safe house. Do we have anything nearby?’

‘Nothing.’

‘How long has she been in Madrid?’

‘The last AVE got in at 2310.’

‘And how long have you known about her whereabouts?’

‘For the past forty minutes. She tried to make another phone call to her partner. That’s how we—’

‘Did she speak to him?’

‘No. There was no answer.’

Carlos took a swig of whisky, feeling it burn his throat and send a rush up his spine.

‘So you’re telling me there’s a gap of well over an hour between her arriving and you locating her.’

The voice at the other end didn’t answer.

‘Well?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Joder! I shit on …’ Carlos checked himself.

‘It’s the Valencia team’s fault, sir. They didn’t …’

‘Too late for that,’ said Carlos. ‘Concentrate. We need to know what she was doing during that time. This is crucial, do you understand? Where did she go? Did she meet anyone?’

He closed his eyes, trying to keep calm.

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