It was a Thursday morning, rush hour, though once out of the city, the newly constructed and remarkably smooth motorway was nearly empty as Ryker travelled the short distance west to the house where Kim Walker had been murdered.
To his left was the cool blue of the Mediterranean. The coastline was dotted with several enclaves crammed with high-rise concrete apartment blocks and hotels that seemed to cling to the water’s edge. They had first sprung from the ground in the seventies when British tourists began descending on the Costa in their droves, and the many half-built shells Ryker could see suggested construction was still ongoing. It was a stark contrast to the historic city of Malaga that he’d flown into, and to the white-washed villages that were visible here and there up in the mountains to his right.
As Ryker turned off the main carriageway, he realised it was to the latter that he was headed. He dropped the gearbox of the underpowered car down to third, then second, and eventually first in order to make it up the ever-increasing incline of the Sierra de Mijas mountain range that rose prominently above the glistening coast behind him.
White painted villas and small complexes were scattered along the twisting road. The further Ryker went, the more lavish the properties became.
Soon there was little view of the houses – manicured front hedges and high walls secluded the expensive properties from the road.
Ryker eventually came to a stop outside the house he was looking for; Casa de las Rosas. A set of green metal gates, ten feet high, sat at the entrance to the property. Either side of the gates lay a six-foot white wall with terracotta tiles on top. A swathe of rose bushes in full bloom burst out over the top of the wall; whites, pinks, reds.
Ryker looked at the entrance. An intercom system was fitted onto the left-hand wall. But the left gate was already wide open. Ryker only hesitated for a second before driving through.
As the car crunched slowly along the gravelled drive, a panel van came by in the opposite direction, likely explaining the open gate. Ryker managed to pick out only one of the Spanish words on the side of the van; mueble. Furniture. A removal van? Ryker wondered. Or delivery?
Ryker kept going and parked his car in a grand turning circle that came complete with a fifteen-foot high water feature in its centre. He had no idea how much property cost in this part of the Costa del Sol but it didn't take a genius to figure that an extravagant property like this was worth millions.
Winter had only relayed the basics but Ryker knew Walker had made his money from property – buying, selling, renting, renovating. The property market on the Costa del Sol had boomed for years as more and more British and other Europeans bought second homes there. Many developers had made millions before the market had crashed dramatically following the mass global recession of the late 2000s. It appeared Walker had managed to keep hold of a lot of his money one way or another.
Kim Walker – whoever she really was – had married the rich Brit and gained everything she could ever need. Money-wise at least.
But just who was she? And why were her fingerprints on a file linking her to the Red Cobra – one of the most proficient assassins Ryker had ever come across?
Ryker stepped from the car and approached the house’s large oak double-doors. He rang the bell then knocked loudly and waited.
A few seconds later, the left door inched open and Ryker looked down at an olive-skinned lady – fifties with a wrinkled face, wearing plain blue linen trousers and a blouse.
‘Si,’ the lady said, looking suspiciously first at Ryker, then past him to his car.
‘Habla Inglés?’ Ryker asked.
‘Yes, of course,’ the lady said in a heavy accent. ‘How did you get in here?’
‘The gate was open,’ Ryker said, looking over his shoulder, back down the driveway. ‘Because of the van. New furniture?’
‘What? Yes. Some of it. What do you want?’
‘I’m here to see Patrick Walker.’
‘He’s not here.’
‘Will he be long?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Can I come in to wait?’
‘Who are you?’
‘I’m James Ryker. From London. I’m here about–’
The lady put her hand up to stop Ryker and he did.
‘Please, I don’t like to talk about that. I’ve already said what I know more than enough times.’
‘Okay. But I do need to speak to Mr Walker.’
‘He’s up in the village. It’s a ten-minute drive. He had a meeting. At Casa Colon I think. It’s a restaurant there. One of his.’
‘Thank you,’ Ryker said, a split second before the front door was slammed shut in his face.
The maid wasn’t far wrong. Nine minutes later, Ryker was driving into Mijas, a quaint white-washed village high up in the Sierra with spectacular views down to the coast. After driving along cobbled streets he parked his car and made it on foot towards a small square in the town where the map on his phone – a pay-as-you-go he’d bought for cash at the airport – had shown him Casa Colon was located.
The village was awash with colourful bunting and as Ryker neared the square the throngs of people – tourists and locals alike – grew exponentially, as did the sound of lively music and rhythmic clapping. The picturesque square was lined with various small restaurants, cafes and shops. Along the buildings on each side were hanging baskets overspilling with a variety of colourful flowers. Ryker squeezed his way through bodies, and soon spotted the reason for the large gathering; a banner hanging across the street proudly announced it was the village’s annual fair.
He saw too where the noise was coming from. In the centre of the square stood a small wooden stage where two young women in traditional Flamenco dresses – black and red – were dancing to guitar music being blasted from portable speakers. The synchronised tapping of their feet on the wooden platform echoed around the enclosed space, and the crowds of people let out a series of well-timed Olés as the dance progressed.
Ryker stopped and stared through the crowd, who were enthralled by the music and the sightly dancers. The elegance of their poise, the intensity in their expressions. The way their skirts lifted each time they spun or kicked – high enough to reveal several inches of flesh above the knee, but not so high as to cause offence at a family viewing.
Both dancers were attractive, with dresses cut-low to reveal their cleavages and fitted tight to highlight their curves. They both had dark hair, held in tight buns that pulled their hairlines back and opened up their unblemished faces. Ryker could well understand why the crowd was so engrossed in the performance.