Sergeant Ernesto de Acuña had joined the Policía Nacional at the tender and impressionable age of 19. In the twenty-three years since he proudly donned the brown –now black– shirt of the force, he had not been responsible for any particularly significant crime busting in this quiet corner of Cantabria between the mountains and the sea. He had become content with the lot of a country policeman and public servant. Apart from the usual thefts and attendance of official events, the most exciting thing in a week would be the odd domestic bust-up, or a few drunken foreigners spoiling the quiet nights of the locals (or a few locals spoiling the quiet nights of the foreigners). He had a nice job, a nice patrol car, the love of his family and friends and respect of his peers.
‘The Parador’ at Fuente Dé, situated at one end of the vast car park, was not permanently occupied. Little more than a wooden hut outside of which hung an emergency phone, it was used as more of a rest stop for the police on their rounds. With a basic office with coffee-making facilities, and mug shots on the wall, it functioned as a place for removing hats and sitting around, to talk things over with a suspect, to take complaints, to comfort the wounded or the lost, and spend the time of day with those friendly locals who were free to talk. Ernesto, like five other policemen in the district, had the keys to open up the doors and filing cabinets and, because the diminutive dimensions of the office could not justify cleaning staff, to give the place a bit of an airing in the summer’s heat and ensure the floor was occasionally given a wipe over in the winter. Paperwork, should there be any, was duly filed, and copies would be taken to divisional headquarters once each month, his job, unless the matter was serious enough to warrant a senior officer’s attentions.
The heavy snowfall had meant his round had been something of an epic contest of man against the elements. There had been moments when he’d nearly lost the car, particularly on the mid-afternoon struggle up to Fuente Dé, even though he had doggedly followed the snowplough. He had only just set foot inside ‘The Parador’, turned on the lights and kicked the snow from his boots when the desk phone rang – an unusual occurrence, even during the summer season.
“Hello! Sergeant Acuña.” His telephone voice was always matter-of-fact.
The voice on the end was Gloria, at Div HQ, hoping he’d had a nice Christmas. The call had not been put through to his mobile, the standard procedure to officers on duty when the car two-way was too deep in the mountains to pick up anything other than static. As they talked of cakes and presents for the kids, he checked his mobile – no signal. That was unusual, but had to be down to the weather. Gloria continued to tell him that a call had been placed from the hostel. It was vague: suspected intruder or theft.
“OK. I’m there!” he’d said, his hand on a particularly distinguished looking face marked ‘Interpol’ recently put up by one of his colleagues – but of course he was there: he’d answered the damned phone! She said as much.
It was not unusual for him to answer calls without back up. The procedure was to always wait for another officer, but it had already taken him hours to do half of his beat. Besides, there were few police matters in these mountains that he had not already come across or that could not be sorted out with a little straight talking.
As Gloria had indicated on the phone, the receptionist was confused. It was a guest in the large chalet room at the top, a young panicky man and his girlfriend: something about an intruder, something about theft. She didn’t know any more. Still in the throes of mid-afternoon paperwork she shrugged, raised her eyebrows and pointed at the lift with her pen. Taking the name of the occupant, the policeman casually sauntered towards the lift’s doors, but when she glanced up again he had gone.
The rattly lift wheezed its way up the shaft at the same pace as a swift walker on the stairs, and declared the job done with the same pronounced ‘ping’ that the receptionist on the ground floor comprehended as an early warning for approaching guests. The only noises on the floor were the happy ones from room 404. They certainly did not sound like that of a scene of crime, potential or otherwise. Then something aroused his interest – words in English, enunciated in the theatrical form of performance poetry. Questions began to arise. He knocked, declared and things became still. Something –he wasn’t sure exactly what– was not quite right. He unclipped the button on his holster.
The door opened. A young man in a red puffer jacket filled the frame, gulping somewhat. “It’s all right. False alarm.”
Sergeant Ernesto was not a sergeant for nothing. “There’s been a call made? About a theft? And an intruder?”
“No, really – we’re all right. It was a mistake.”
“We? Who’s we? Do you mind if I come in, sir?”
There was mild panic on the young man’s face. “Erm…” The delay added to the officer’s suspicions.
“Mr del Rey, isn’t it?” The young man nodded. “Well, Mr del Rey, perhaps we can continue this discussion on the inside instead of in the doorway?” His tone was firm, the kind that got things done and, unbeknownst to him, at least as firm as that of the other occupant in the room as silent as a trapped animal could be.
Having no option, Miguel opened the door fully, stepped back and the officer noisily walked in, closing it behind him.
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