Summer e-book sale!

The Crooked Cat's summer e-book sale is still on, available on all Amazon platforms. 

 

 

If you haven't already downloaded the following, now is your chance at a good price:

 

SPANISH EYE

 

SUDDEN VENGEANCE

 

CATALYST

 

CATACOMB

 

CATACLYSM

 

 

160 books on sale for 3 days!

What have you nabbed in this year's world-famous Great Big Crooked Cat Not Christmas Sale?

All 160 of my publisher's Kindle Books are 99p/99¢ across the Amazon network, for three days only (beginning 28 December).

Start your journey with Crooked Cat and support indie publishing, here:

https://www.amazon.co.uk/s/ref=nb_sb_noss_1?url=search-alias%3Daps&field-keywords=crooked+cat+publishing

Among these bargains are my books:

SPANISH EYE
BLOOD OF THE DRAGON TREES

CATALYST
CATACOMB
CATACLYSM

THE PRAGUE PAPERS
THE TEHRAN TEXT

SUDDEN VENGEANCE

Crime – Across borders

Illegal immigrants are being moved into UK by criminal groups taking advantage of the open borders of the EU.

Last month, the leader of one group was arrested in Barcelona. He was in possession of over 100 fake Polish ID cards and passports. He’d helped immigrants enter the Schengen Zone then housed them here in Spain, also France or Belgium and thence to Dublin.

More than a hundred immigrants were arrested at Spanish airports, including Barcelona, Madrid, Palma de Mallorca, Ibiza, Santander, Tenerife, and Alicante. Over the last couple of years it is believed the group has helped at least 6,000 Ukrainian immigrants enter the UK illegally.

The group was nabbed due to collaboration with Europol and Belgian, French, Polish, Spanish and British authorities. This collaboration will continue post-Brexit.

Human trafficking is being used by a Spanish group in my thriller Blood of the Dragon Trees.

“Laura Reid likes her new job on Tenerife, teaching the Spanish twins Maria and Ricardo Chávez. She certainly doesn’t want to get involved with Andrew Kirby and his pal, Jalbala Emcheta, who work for CITES, tracking down illegal traders in endangered species. Yet she’s undeniably drawn to Andrew, which is complicated, as she’s also attracted to Felipe, the brother of her widower host, Don Alonso.

“Felipe’s girlfriend Lola is jealous and Laura is forced to take sides – risking her own life – as she and Andrew uncover the criminal network that not only deals in the products from endangered species, but also thrives on people trafficking. The pair are aided by two Spanish lawmen, Lieutenant Vargas of the Guardia Civil and Ruben Salazar, Inspector Jefe del Grupo de Homicidios de las Canarias.

“Betrayal and mortal danger lurk in the shadows, along with the dark deeds of kidnapping and clandestine scuba diving…”

See also SPANISH EYE

Write to be read

My thanks to the many readers who took advantage of the special Kindle Unlimited offer over the weekend for SPANISH EYE and BLOOD OF THE DRAGON TREES.

I often say that I write to be read, not to earn loads of money (though payment for work done is a fine bonus!), so I hope you all enjoy the books and come back for more. And please feel free to write a review, no matter how brief!

The e-book versions - and the paperbacks - are now priced again on Amazon.

Kindle Unlimited limited offer

Like things Spain and Spanish? 

Have you tried my two books set in Spain? 

BLOOD OF THE DRAGON TREES and SPANISH EYE are free as e-books today and tomorrow only on Kindle Unlimited.

https://www.amazon.com/Blood-Dragon-Trees-Morton-Nik-ebook/dp/B00E8NE1SW/ref=sr_1_2?ie=UTF8&qid=1480776100&sr=8-2&keywords=Nik+morton


here's the link for Spanish Eye:
https://www.amazon.com/Spanish-Eye-Nik-Morton-ebook/dp/B00GXK5C6S/ref=sr_1_5?s=digital-text&ie=UTF8&qid=1480776197&sr=1-5&keywords=nik+morton 

Sleuths, Spies and Sorcerers

This alliterative title covers three episodes concerning Andrew Marr’s Paperback Heroes on BBC4. Last week we had Sleuths, this week we had Sorcerers (which is repeated tonight on the same channel), and next week it will be Spies.

Within the limited time of an hour, Andrew Marr attempts to deconstruct these popular genres; you know those books that never seem to win prizes, that the literary snobs decry and dismiss, those books that sell in their millions.

Sleuths was patchy, giving over many minutes to the genius of Agatha Christie, leaving less time for other practitioners. We had the John Dickson Carr’s locked room mysteries, Ian Rankins’ Rebus, Chandler’s Marlowe, Dashiell Hammett’s The Continental Op and Sam Spade to name a few. Interviewees comprised Val McDermid, Ian Rankin, and Anthony Horowitz, among others.

The psychology of the sleuths was examined, and the times they lived in obviously affected them. A long time ago, a reviewer of John D. McDonald said the author didn’t need to write The Great American Novel (a holy grail for American authors at one time), since he was doing that in his installments of Travis McGee and his other crime novels. That’s more or less the conclusion Marr makes concerning the crime writers, whether of the past or the present: they reflect the society from which they sprang, a rich trove to delve into for future archaeologists and historians.

Logically, Spies should have been next but for some reason Sorcerers followed. Here we entered the realms of fantasy.  While fantasy has been around throughout the ages, in many cultures, Marr suggests that its modern popularity probably stemmed from the publication of The Lord of the Rings books. One of the prime attractions of fantasy is the world-building that is required; that means multifarious aspects of life in the fictional world, all logically fitting.

Besides Tolkien, Marr touched upon George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire sequence of  novels, now filmed as Game of Thrones. Apparently, Martin was inspired to write the series when visiting Hadrian’s Wall and studying medieval English history and also the Wars of the Roses. The books contain ambivalent characters, people who are not wholly good or completely bad, as in life, perhaps, with conflict caused by ideology, greed, lust and a thirst for power. Other fantasists mentioned include Ursula K. Le Guin (Earthsea series), C.S. Lewis (Chronicles of Narnia), J.K. Rowling (the Harry Potter phenomenon) Alan Garner (The Weirdstone of Brisingamen), Philip Pullman (His Dark Materials trilogy), Neil Gaiman (American Gods), and of course Terry Pratchett (Discworld novels et al).

This episode seemed more coherent and covered a wide range within the genre.

As with Sleuths, however, there are bound to be many favourite authors omitted from this genre. It is now impossible to read all books within any single genre (nor would that be a good literary diet anyway), because there is so much choice.

Next, Spies. I can guess that certain names will crop up, among them Deighton, Le Carré, and Fleming, but who else? I’ll be tuning in to find out.

Besides being about books and authors, this series touches upon several genres I enjoy to read and write: Spanish Eye (Sleuths), Wings of the Overlord (Sorcerers), and ThePrague Papers (Spies).

Hot summer sale!

Crooked Cat Publishing's annual summer sale of about 150 e-book titles - from today until 10 July.  Get your bargains from Amazon here

These include my books:

The Prague Papers

The Tehran Text

Catalyst

Catacomb

Cataclysm

Sudden Vengeance

Blood of the Dragon Trees

Spanish Eye

Letters from elsewhere

Author Miriam Drori has an interesting blog and regularly features a series of guest blogs from other authors. They take the form of letters from characters created by the various authors contributing. The backlog is already large and worth browsing.

Today, I'm pleased (and honoured) to see that my friend Leon Cazador appears!

https://miriamdrori.com/2016/05/13/letters-from-elsewhere-leon-cazador/

Thank you, Miriam for opening this letter...

Spanish Eye can be purchased from here

Processionary Penitents - part 2 of 2

PROCESSIONARY PENITENTS

Part 2 of 2 

- continued from yesterday

Nik Morton

“I hope I don’t need to draw you a picture, Señor Saura?” I adjusted the tinted spectacles on my nose, shifted in the leather armchair, leaned forward and stroked my false moustache. “You want me to arrange the substitution of a more favourable copy of your building plans, correct…?”

            His small close-set eyes glared. “Of course I do!” He was thin, impeccably dressed in a charcoal grey suit, sitting on the edge of the sofa. “That’s why I’m here!” We were alone in the lounge of a safe house I’d used before. Spartan furnishing – a lounge diner with two armchairs, the sofa, a small dining table and four chairs, a sideboard and wall sconces for most necessary additional lighting. There were two small bedrooms and a bathroom. “That’s why I’ve brought the money – all five thousand euros!”

            “Well…” I waved an arm, shrugged dismissively, as if I didn’t really care about money, but felt that it was expected in this kind of transaction. “A consideration, no?”

            Saura closed his eyes; his eyeballs moved under the lids, as if he was calculating the money, a euro at a time. He ran a hand over his face, opened his eyes. “Very well.” He ground his teeth together. I wondered if he would rather grind down those who opposed him and his schemes; grind them into the earth.

            “You should have been more thorough with your plans, señor. Then this unsavoury transaction would not prove necessary.”

            “More thorough? Why? We’re talking about townsfolk, little people. Their silly schemes are a piffling trifle to me!”

            “But you took on the work, no?”

            “I regard it as pin money. I can draw up the appropriate plans in an hour or so – and charge them for two days’ work!” He slapped the chair arm. “Now, important work for the council, that takes precedence every time!” He chuckled. “For that, I might make the effort to check my figures, confirm the stress points and so on! But for the little people, they don’t pay me enough to do that. Not nearly enough! They should not have raised that denuncía against me. I am a professional!”

            “Of course. I quite understand.” I felt like grinding my fist in his face then. He exhibited a certain arrogance that I’d witnessed in a number of so-called professional men.

            He pulled out a silk handkerchief, wiped his brow. “So, Señor Santos, when can you arrange for the switch?”

            “Tomorrow.”

            “That fast?”

            “I thought it best for our man to act promptly for you...” I held out my hand.

            He removed a brown paper envelope from his breast pocket, passed it over. Such envelopes had become a cliché, yet were still used.

            I opened it and scrutinized the contents, counted the notes.

            He growled, “It’s all there!”

            “I don’t doubt it.” I continued to count it, marking aloud each thousand, ensuring that my actions were in plain view of the concealed camera.

            With his own words, he was the architect of his fall from grace.

           

Next day, Saura was found entirely cocooned in architect’s plans, all fastened tightly with adhesive tape. In his chrysalis, his feet in a wicker basket, he dangled above the pavement, the rope secured round his waist and attached to a pulley on the balcony above.

            He resembled a giant nest of processionary caterpillars. Their white lacy cocoons cling to fir trees any time from January through to April, depending on the weather. To begin with they’re moths’ eggs; when they hatch, the larvae feast on the pine needles then, as caterpillars, crawl down the tree to the ground, marching in single file, nose to tail, in search of somewhere to dig underground and pupate, until the end of the summer, when they emerge as moths. Their very fine hairs are particularly nasty, causing rashes, itches or serious inflammation and allergic reactions. Unwary dogs have choked with swollen throats. As hairy caterpillars, they seem immune to prey; as pupae, they’re lunch for the Hoopoe; and as moths they’re feasted on by bats. I wasn’t sure which stage Saura was in, dangling there, but I anticipated that he’d be devoured by the press and the courts.

            Señora Barrantes, the elderly lady in black, leaned over her balcony and laughed, clapping her hands at the sight. The two Guardia Civil officers in attendance were not so amused. Pinned to the architect’s chest was a note, which stated that Saura had paid a bribe for someone to steal the building plans from the courthouse; it also advised that a copy of the secretly filmed meeting was with the press.

            Later that day, the word spread, the video going viral. The newspaper Información broke the story, complete with a link to the video of the bribe. This wasn’t the first time the newspaper had promulgated a sting operation and, judging by the corruption still prevalent, I didn’t think it would be the last.

            Kidnapping is against the law; there are no mitigating circumstances. However, I feel that where law-breakers are concerned, since they don’t respect the law, they don’t always deserve its protection. Once I’d seen Saura to the door, out of view from the camera, I applied a strangle-hold, his windpipe in the crook of my elbow; it only took eight seconds to render him unconscious; I was careful not to exceed that time as death could result. I prefer this for the less dangerous ungodly; the dangerous ones, I have no qualms about hitting or squeezing the carotid artery – again, with care, as this too can be fatal.

            When he was suitably wrapped for delivery, I bundled him in his car.

            Despite his small stature, it hadn’t been easy to suspend him there in the early hours, after the festival lovers had finally retired. First, I had to clamber on to the roof of his vehicle to reach the dangling rope, and then I heaved him up and made sure he was safely secured. Only then could I drive off. I’d worn gloves throughout this phase. I abandoned the car outside his villa.

           

I knocked on the Quinto door and it opened almost immediately. “Come in, come in, Señor Cazador!” The old man hastened me into the lounge, pointed to the television screen. I was in time to see Saura shouting that he was “a professional”.

            “He is finished! My wife will have satisfaction!”

            I fished out the five thousand euros. “You can probably make use of this, too. Small compensation for the distress that man has put you through.”

            His eyes watered. Pride vied with common sense as his hands wavered, and then he took the money. “Gracías, Señor Cazador.”

            I nodded at the TV screen. “I don’t think Saura is ever going to make it in Hollywood.” I pointed to the rack of a dozen or so DVDs on the sideboard. “Stick to legal movies, with happy endings like this one.”

“Mr Santos, it’s good of you to make it,” said Franco Roldan, opening his villa’s front door. He was dressed like a movie star, multi-coloured short-sleeved shirt, white slacks, tan pumps. His hair was thick, curly and dyed auburn. He held out a hand.

            We shook and he ushered me inside, and said to the goon at the door, “Back to your post, Rico!” Rico was one of two armed men; three bikini-clad women lounged by the swimming pool, sipping cocktails, but didn’t seem fazed by the sight of the sentries with their Star Z-84 sub-machine guns slung over their shoulders.

            Roldan led me along a tiled passage, the walls adorned with modern art, though I use the “art” word loosely. Art is a matter of taste – and Roldan’s was all bad.

            “I’m not the last to arrive, am I?” I queried, allowing a little anxiety in my tone.

            “No, no, we have Nico still to come. Then we can haggle about distribution, no?”

            “I’m not particularly good at haggling,” I said.

            “No matter. I will ensure that all of my associates do well out of this business.” We entered and he gestured at a table where five men and a woman sat. A couple looked Eastern European, the rest Latin. I knew three from Ministry of Interior mug-shots. I detected a little tension as introductions were made.

            I sat at the table, laid my Samsung Galaxy mobile phone in front of me.

            “Are you expecting a call?” Roldan asked.

            “No. But it serves as my burglar alarm.”

            Roldan turned to the others. “His burglar alarm!” He laughed. “He is worried about being burgled!”

            A couple of the men laughed too; the others either didn’t seem amused.

            Nico arrived and I noticed that the tension in the room eased.

            “Right, let’s get down to business,” Roldan said. “My factory is producing two thousand DVD copies a day. A-list movies, acquired from good sources.” He opened his laptop, clicked a couple of keys, and swung it round to show us the screen.

            He was right; this was the latest film, just released in the US; good quality. I suspected that those gathered here wouldn’t like the ending, though…

            “Where is your factory?” Nico asked.

            “Crevillente.”

            “A carpet warehouse?”

            “Seems like a good cover,” I observed.

            At least Roldan got the joke, smiling thinly. “Quite.” He then reeled off his outlets, his couriers and the days when stocks would be replenished. He was a good organizer, and very thorough.

            After we’d agreed our roles, I asked, “Can you guarantee your source of films?”

            Roldan nodded. “Emil is very reliable. He has a number of insiders he can call upon.”

            “Good.” That was all I required. According to Seb, suspicions had rested upon a guy named Emil Chapman in California. This was the proof they needed. Idly, I switched off my phone’s voice recorder app, and then fingered the auto-dial.

Two shots were fired outside. Roldan stood and exclaimed, “What the hell…?”

            I retrieved from my ankle holster the lightweight Colt Officer’s ACP LW automatic and levelled it at all eight of them. “You can try to rush me – the magazine only holds six cartridges.”

            Nobody moved.

            “Very sensible.”

            Seconds later, Seb entered alongside a Civil Guard Lieutenant.

            “You seem to have everything under control,” Seb said.

            I nodded. “The details you want are on my phone.”

            The Guardia Civil, the National Police and the local police had raided the villa en masse, Seb accompanying them. The women in bikinis scampered out of the way as armed lawmen scaled the walls, wounded the two sentries, skirted the swimming pool and burst into the lounge. They found me with the guilty parties. The entire operation was filmed by the Guardia Civil.

            Roldan and his cronies were read their rights and handcuffed. “Your days are numbered, Santos!” Roldan grated.

            “At least they won’t be under lock and key,” I said. This wasn’t the first death threat I’d received in my disguise; I felt sure it wouldn’t be the last.

            The haul from the subsequent search was considerable: eight hand-guns, two machine pistols, four kilos of cocaine, a hundred illegal DVDs, four laptops, €40,000 and two stolen cars. As well as the incriminating information about the illegal outlets and sources both here in Spain and in California.

            Under heavy armed guard, Roldan and his cronies were led out of the villa, in single file procession, and loaded into the back of two Civil Guard Mercedes Sprinter wagons.

            I eyed Seb. “That’ll be the last procession he’ll be in for some time.”

* * *

Copyright Nik Morton, 2014

If you'd like to read more Leon Cazador tales, 

Spanish Eye can be purchased here

Through the eyes of Leon Cazador, half-English, half-Spanish private investigator, we experience the human condition in many guises.

This collection covers twenty two cases, some insightful, some humorous, and some tragic. The tales evoke tears and laughter, pleasure at the downfall of criminals, and anger at arrogant evil-doers.

Sometimes, Cazador operates in disguise under several aliases, among them Carlos Ortiz Santos, a modern day Simon Templar; he is wholly against the ungodly and tries to hold back the encroaching night of unreason. Cazador translated into English means hunter. In his adventurous life he has witnessed many travesties of justice; he is a man driven to hunt down felons of all kinds, to redress the balance of good against evil.

Leon Cazador fights injustice in all its forms and often metes out his own rough justice. It's what he does. Through the eyes of Leon Cazador, half-English, half-Spanish private investigator, we experience the human condition in many guises.

Saturday story - Processionary Penitents - part 1 of 2

PROCESSIONARY PENITENTS

Part 1 of 2

Nik Morton

Leon Cazador is a half-English, half-Spanish private investigator working in Spain. He has served in the forces and clandestine agencies and travelled the world. He is intent on meting out his own form of justice, to hold back the encroaching night of unreason. Twenty-two of his cases, in his own words, can be read in Spanish Eye (Crooked Cat Publishing).

This story was featured in the anthology Crooked Cats’ Tales :20 short stories by Crooked Cat authors,(2014) and can be purchased here

***

‘Oh, my God!” Sebastian Okoro exclaimed. “They’re Ku Klux Klan!” Even in the lamp-lit street, I felt sure his ebony complexion had paled. His eyes started, whites showing in the flickering flames from the torches. He was serious. This was unlike him, a dedicated agent of the National Crime Agency. I decided to disabuse my friend of the KKK idea fast.

            “Seb, don’t worry, this is quite normal.” I gestured at the colourful slowly passing procession. “It’s a religious ceremony that goes back to the Middle-Ages and has nothing to do with racial prejudice!”

            “You’re sure?”

            “Yes, of course. It’s Spain’s Holy Week – Semana Santa. Similar processions are happening all over the country.”

            He visibly relaxed. “All right… What are we doing here, watching a procession? I thought you were going to finger Franco Roldan for me.” Seb was a workaholic, so I wasn’t surprised at his tone.

            I pointed to the phalanx of men carrying candles, striding in front of the enormous religious float that depicted the Passion of Christ; they wore silk robes or nazarenos and pointed hoods, capirotes, with eye-holes. “The men in the conical hoods represent penitents from the old days.”

            “So?”

            “So, it just happens that two of them are due to exhibit penitence, though they don’t know it yet. And one of them is Roldan…”

            He sighed. “Must you always talk in riddles, Leon?”

            I grinned. “No, not always. Enjoy the procession.”

            This particular float was over a hundred years old. The Brotherhood who owned it belonged to “The Beautiful Virgin”, a fraternity that had been in existence since the late 1500s.         A brass band performed its own processional march.

            Despite their similar garb, each individual penitent under the disguise was unique, in subtle ways. Their shoes differed, and their robes didn’t always drape their full length; a good number of the bottoms of the men’s trousers showed – brown, blue, grey and black. Breadth of shoulders varied too. I pointed to a short man wearing brown deck shoes and fawn trousers. “Pablo Saura, an architect…” I pointed again. “And there’s Roldan.” Roldan was a head taller than the architect.

            “He looks pretty pious,” Seb seethed, “carrying that wooden cross! Hypocrite!”

            I nodded. “He reminds me of Mafia men I’ve met, who have no qualms about going to confession in the morning and slaughtering some poor soul in the evening.”

            “They don’t have a conscience, Leon.”

            “Perhaps not. But the law will catch up with them, eventually.”

            Seb grinned. “Are we calling in the police now, then?”

            I shook my head. “If you wish. It’s your case. They’re happy to let you direct the action against Roldan.” True enough. As soon as he arrived, Sebastian had been in touch with both the National Police and the Guardia Civil in the area. It wasn’t only a matter of courtesy. It was now standard international policing procedure, the only way to successfully combat international crime. Resources and data were pooled to better effect an arrest.

            Roldan fled England when his counterfeiting ring was busted by another friend of mine, Detective Inspector Alan Pointer. I’d worked with Alan and his sergeant Carol Bassett some years back, when the NCA was called SOCA. They were a good team: “let slip the dogs of law!” was a phrase attached to them. Since then, however, Alan had become a reclusive agent, tending to work only at night.

            There’d been ructions when it was learned Roldan skipped the country dressed in a niqab and using a false passport; this was almost a repetition of the escape of police killer Mustafa Jama in 2006. The Border Agency was red-faced - again. No heads rolled, though. If somebody uses an “inappropriate word” with regard to race or gender, he’ll be hounded out of his career; but if a civil servant is proved incompetent and criminally negligent, he might get a slapped wrist. The brave new world of law enforcement in Britain – political correctness is more important than catching and punishing criminals; and that particular contagion was spreading to all European law agencies. And Seb wondered why I’d decided to get out and go it alone as a private eye!

            I preferred it this way: no red tape, no accountability. The system worked and helped snare the ungodly.

            Seb bit his lip. “Why delay?”

            “You said his organization in Brighton needed input from elsewhere, didn’t you?”

            “Yes. Every indication showed he was a major operator, but not the source.”

            “Exactly. I think he will contact his source here and try to set up another counterfeiting shop.” It wasn’t money they copied; that was getting harder, particularly with the newly released euro notes; no, they duplicated movies on DVD. The market was already flooded with bad copies, many from Chinese outlets; the local police in most coastal towns regularly raided warehouses, confiscated the counterfeit products, mostly watches, handbags, CDs and DVDs, and then employed steam rollers to crush the contraband. But Roldan’s copies were so good they could pass off as originals. Apologists for the illegal copiers said that if the new movies were sold at sensible prices, the trade in copies would virtually dry up. That’s not how commerce works, though; anything new gets a high starting price, anticipating a surge in demand from the instant gratification generation.

            “So,” Seb asked, “what has the architect got to do with anything?”  

Pablo Saura came from an extensive family, many of whom found themselves in positions of authority and, naturally, Pablo won the architect tenders for work in small towns up and down eastern Spain. Nepotism is endemic in Spain, and always has been. Thanks to his familial connections, his star was in the ascendant. Unfortunately, as his success grew, the quality of his work declined. Hubris.

            “Tomorrow morning,” I said, “I’ll pay him a visit.”

            “Should I come along?”

            “No, Seb. You don’t want to get involved.”

            He looked askance at me. He knew a little about my methods; they were not always quite within the law. Then he shrugged. “What about Roldan?”

            “Plans are taking shape. I’ll let you know.”

            “There you go again – going all mysterious on me!”

            I laughed. “Must be my secret service training,” I whispered.

It was quiet as I walked along the village street; most of the two-storey buildings were old, in need of fresh plaster or paint. A cock crowed from an inner courtyard. It wasn’t early, gone nine. At the end of the road a white van was parked with rear doors open, its interior displaying wooden trays crammed with bread, empanadas, and ensaimadas. Attired in his white apron, the baker stood on the pavement, filling a wicker basket with loaves. Above, an elderly woman in black leaned over her balcony rail – Señora Barrantes – and called down to him; then she hauled on the rope, tugging the basket up. I passed the baker, exchanged buenos días and turned right, round the corner.

            Across the road, on the left and between two older dwellings, a ruined house stood, windows gaping like empty eyes, its upper storey caved-in. Directly opposite the now derelict building, I stopped and turned, knocked on the facing door. It opened and a bead curtain was swept aside by thin arthritic fingers. “Sí?” an ancient man croaked.

            “Señor Quinto, I’m Leon Cazador. I’ve spoken to your wife.”

            “Yes, yes, come in.” He stood aside to allow me to pass into the hallway, then slammed the door shut. The beads rattled as they settled behind us. He led me along the passage, past two doors, then turned left into a quite large kitchen, its floor covered in russet-coloured tiles. In the middle of the room stood a rough-hewn wooden table, and four matching chairs. An Iberian ham hung from a hook in the ceiling, over the sink, where an old woman stood, hunched back to me. She turned, the side of her face partially sunken, the bone structure crushed.

            Madalena Quinto had been visiting her neighbour, Bonita Ruiz, in the house opposite when the earthquake struck on the afternoon of 11 May 2011. Her friend, Bonita, was buried under the rubble; Madalena survived with a shattered shoulder and face.

            In all, nine died and dozens were injured. It was the worst quake the region had experienced since the 1950s, measuring 5.1 magnitude. The experts labelled it “moderate”, though those affected saw it differently. Ancient structures were seriously damaged, including the historical Espolón Tower of Lorca Castle, the Hermitage of San Clemente and the Convent of Virgen de Las Huertas. As this occurred two months to the very day after the devastating Japanese earthquake and tsunami, it was understandable that fears over further cataclysmic events increased the potential for panic.

            The wheels of the law, the courts and the village administration grind slowly. Madalena Quinto accused architect Pablo Saura of negligence when designing the second storey extension of her friend Bonita’s house. It’s a common sight, single storey homes being extended upwards. Naturally, planning permission and inspections should be the norm; that’s in the ideal world. Kickbacks to town planners and officials sometimes skirt these safety essentials. Perhaps if an earthquake had not occurred, then the new second storey might not have collapsed? Two other extensions in the village, designed by Saura, had suffered from serious structural defects and cracks.

            The upshot of it was that Saura was due to appear in court in two months’ time. Saura’s argument was that his design was sound; the blame lay with the builders. The plans were impounded, pending the case.

            She moved away from the sink and settled in a chair. I sat opposite, elbows on the table.

            “He will wriggle free,” she wheezed. The bones of her chest had suffered trauma too.

            “He will become a penitent, have no fear, Dona Quinto,” I assured her.

            Time for the architect to meet Carlos Ortiz Santos.

He answered on the second ring. “Saura.”

            “Señor, you don’t know me, but I have a friend in the judiciary who might help you in your present difficulty. The word is that your architect’s plans will go against you…”

            “Who is this?”

            “I am called Carlos Santos, and...”

            “You’re right, I don’t know you.” His tone and the pause that followed hinted that he was about to hang up.

            “The plans,” I said rapidly, “they can be altered to help your case, señor…”

            Silence. But he must have heard; the connection hadn’t clicked off.               

            “What are you implying, Señor Santos?”

            “Perhaps we could meet to discuss the subject further. I can recommend a quiet place, where we wouldn’t be disturbed.”

            “I would rather…”

            “Señor, this is a delicate matter. I wish to preserve my anonymity. I have a safe house… it is not far from your office, as it happens…”

            I heard paper being shifted. “I won’t be free until 4p.m.”

            “That is fine.” I told him the address.

            “I know it. As you say, not far.”

            “Bring five thousand euros – the first half, to show good faith.”

            “Five thou… And that’s just half… Ten altogether?”

            “Your career, it is worth more than that, surely?”

            “Why, yes, of course it is, but…”

            “Remember, Señor Saura, the case against you is liable to ruin your career, should it prevail…”

            “Yes… I will be there…”

            I hung up. First phase complete: architect drawn in.

           

To be concluded tomorrow…