Page 66 of We Chase Shadows

‘I might be,’ says Ernesto.

‘Okay, you might be,’ says Steve.

‘I’ll ring you in twenty minutes,’ says Ernesto. ‘If I don’t ring, then assume I’m dead.’

‘Copy that,’ says Amy. ‘Cistern, trellis, Velux ajar.’

Ernesto ends the call and slips out of his hire car. He takes a final sip from a carafe of red wine resting on the passenger seat. The upstairs light in the villa switches off. Ernesto crouch-walks to the accommodation cottage. Looking back at the villa, he sees the figure once again silhouetted, now in the ground-floor window.

Ernesto slides into the cottage and finds the bathroom. He lifts the cistern lid, briefly wondering how ‘cistern’ might be spelt. Could be anything, knowing the English language. If they had any sense it would be S-I-S-T-E-N, but since when have they had any sense?

Amy’s gun is resting above the waterline, as you would expect from a professional. He is looking forward to meeting Amy if he doesn’t die. Ernesto gives it a once-over and leaves the cottage.

The whole property is so beautiful. Again, the money these people have, it boggles Ernesto’s simple Spanish mind. The hours he works, and the risks he takes, for so little money and so little respect. If he catches Eriksson, then that may change.

Inching around the villa walls, Ernesto finds something that looks an awful lot like a ‘trellis’ and, tucking the gun into the back of his trousers, begins to climb.

He can now hear noises from inside the villa. Loud crashes. Somebody is looking for something and is not worried about anyone hearing.

Ernesto hauls himself on to the roof and lies flat. He inches up towards the small, sloping window, prises it open further and drops down into the attic.

Ernesto thinks about that attic in Ecuador. Shooting poor Mr Herrera. Good things very rarely happen in attics.

Vern Blackwood clearly uses this small, dusty space for storage. Around the steeply angled walls are the usual cardboard boxes you would find anywhere. Attics all over the world full of old photos or baby clothes or wooden tennis rackets.

Ernesto opens one of the boxes – a police officer’s prerogative – and finds it is full of bank notes. He opens more boxes. More bank notes. Perhaps not like everybody’s attic, then?

He will certainly be coming back.

Ernesto locates the hatch, gently opens it, and slowly, silently, swings himself down on to a carpeted floor. He can now see the light downstairs very clearly, and also hear the noises of whoever is down there, pulling out drawers and upending furniture.

Ernesto draws his gun. He sees two staircases. He makes for the smaller one and puts his foot on the first step. The staircase is old and wooden, and the step immediately makes a cracking noise in protest.

The noise downstairs stops. Ernesto stops. Including himself, there are two people in the villa, and, for the moment, neither is breathing.

The noise downstairs recommences, and Ernesto heads for the larger staircase. This one is marble. Ernesto nods and starts to work his way down. No squeaking.

Halfway down the stairs he catches sight of a figure, dressed in black, kneeling in front of a bureau, riffling through papers.

Ernesto draws Amy’s gun. If the figure were to turn now, surely they wouldn’t have the chance to pull out and fire their own gun before Ernesto could take a couple of shots? One in each elbow would be the way to go. Whoever this crouching figure is must be working for Jakob Eriksson, and Ernesto is already looking forward to questioning them. Questioning someone who has been shot in both elbows is easy. They are always keen to be taken to a hospital as soon as possible.

Ernesto raises his gun and is just thinking about which language he should call out a warning in, when, without turning, the figure speaks.

‘Who are you?’ English. And a woman.

‘Who am I? Jesus,’ says Ernesto. ‘Who are you?’

Ernesto takes a few more steps towards the figure, gun still raised.

‘I’m going to turn round slowly,’ says the English woman. ‘I’m unarmed.’

‘If I see a gun, I shoot you in the head,’ says Ernesto.

‘I’m turning round now,’ says the woman.

‘No guns,’ says Ernesto.

‘I know,’ says the woman. ‘Or you’ll shoot me in the head.’