The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies by Damian Vargas

Author:Damian Vargas [Vargas, Damian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Sierra Bermeja Fiction
Published: 2021-08-30T16:00:00+00:00

‘My husband found that note on his car windscreen a few days before his death. He was very angry. He loved our son. Some words were said in public at a restaurant in the town the night before he died.’

‘I saw it,’ said Blackman. ‘I was there. It looked very…heated.’

She nodded, one finger tracing the rim of her glass.

Blackman looked at the note again. ‘I have to ask you again, Señora. Why are you telling me this?’

‘To warn you.’

He looked at her, eyebrow raised. ‘I fail to see why I should be in any danger.’

She snorted in derision at him, then stood up, picked up her empty glass and started towards the drinks cabinet again. ‘Why then do you carry a gun?’

He dropped his gaze, thinking that his revolver must have become visible, but it remained buttoned. He looked back to where she was standing, lifting the lid from a crystal decanter.

‘When you’ve been around these people for as long as I have,’ she said, ‘…you tend to notice when people are carrying concealed weapons.’ She refilled her glass and another, which she brought back and placed down in front of him. ‘They know who you are and what you did at the end of the war. They know you hunted people like them.’

Blackman felt his heart rate accelerate but, doing his best to mask his rising concern, asked, ‘Then why would they not just kill me too?’

She looked at him, as might a mother to her confused child. ‘You are too prominent. You have connections, here and in England. You, they decided to be patient with. To just watch. To see what you did. To see what moves you made.’

‘They’ve been surveilling me the whole time?’

‘That South African man I mentioned. Peter Stangle, his name is. He’s followed you several times when you’ve been out walking your dog. And the one who calls himself Navarro, he had his son take many photographs at your house before you even arrived.’

None of this was a surprise to Blackman. He had expected as much, and had been quite sure that he had spotted two different men tailing him around the village on a number of occasions. Yet still, he could not stifle a cold shiver down his neck. Suspicions are one thing. Having them confirmed is another. He realised that he was still grasping the paper with the warning on it. He placed it down onto the coffee table and shot her a sceptical look. ‘Do you recall another British man? A big Scotsman. Taller than me, red hair. He had a busted nose, like a boxer. He was in this part of Spain on several occasions last year.’

She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but there was another man who came here, asking questions. He wasn’t British though. He was Scandinavian, I think. He disappeared.’

‘The journalist?’

She lifted her drink, nodded. ‘He came to this house one night.’ Blackman watched her rush another sip of the scotch. ‘I remember it clearly. I was in the garden pruning the roses, when the doorbell rang.

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