A Murder of No Consequence

by James Garcia Woods

  Paco laughed. ‘This is just the beginning,’ he said. ‘Wait until we reach the end of the month.’

  Cindy fanned herself with her hand, and Paco noticed that her fingernails were painted red. Her toenails, too. What a very strange race the Yanquis must be.

  ‘I’ve made a jug of sangría,’ Cindy said quickly, as if she was in a hurry to get the words out.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I’ve made a jug of sangría. I’ve never done it before – I followed a recipe. I wondered if you’d like to try it, so I’ll know whether it’s any good or not.’ She frowned. ‘You do drink, don’t you?’

  ‘I’m a Spaniard,’ Paco said.

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘It’s very kind of you, but . . .’

  ‘And you did promise that when you had a moment, you’d tell me something about Spain.’

  Had he made the promise? He didn’t remember doing so. But it was still too hot to go to sleep, so why not spend a little time with Cindy? ‘I’d be honoured to taste your sangría,’ he said.

  When she’d lived with Paco, Pilar was always buying things – a new coffee table, a set of traditional Castilian chairs, a floor-standing vase – and as a result the Ruizs’ salon looked like a small, over-stocked, furniture store. Cindy’s, in contrast, was spartan. All it contained was the table under the window, two upright chairs and a bookcase made of bricks and planks.

  ‘The apartment came unfurnished,’ she said, almost by way of apology. ‘They’re cheaper that way. I expect I’ll pick up more pieces as I go along.’ She pointed to one of the chairs. ‘Please sit down, Señor Ruiz.’

  Paco sat and looked out of the window across the well. Apart from his own, all the windows in the block were open. All the windows in Madrid would be open – with the summer heat, the apartments would have been unbearable otherwise.

  Cindy disappeared into the kitchen and returned with a jug and two glasses. She almost filled the glasses with the red liquid, spooned a little fruit on top, and passed one of them over to Paco. She didn’t start to drink her own, but watched, slightly anxiously, as Paco tried his.

  The inspector took a sip. He could detect both brandy and Cointreau underlying the red wine, fruit juice and gaseosa.

  ‘Is it good?’ Cindy asked.

  ‘Very good.’

  Cindy took a swallow herself. ‘Yes, I think I could get a taste for this,’ she said. She put both her elbows on the table, and looked into his eyes. ‘Just what’s going on here?’ she asked.

  ‘In Spain?’

  ‘Yeah. Everything seems so chaotic at the moment. I mean, I read about the political instability when I was back in the States, but until you walk around the streets for a while, you have no idea what it’s really like. Why does everyone seem so angry?’

  ‘Because they all want something different, so no one really gets anything,’ Paco said.

  Cindy grinned. ‘That’s a neat way of putting it,’ she said. ‘But it still doesn’t tell me much.’

  Paco drained his glass, and the girl filled it again.

  ‘If we take the left for a start,’ he said. ‘The socialists want the government to control everything, the anarchists want the government to control nothing, and the communists want whatever it is that Moscow wants.’

  ‘What about the right wing?’

  ‘The Carlists, who are led by Calvo Sotelo, want a return to the last-but-one ruling monarchy. The Catholic parties want the Church to be part of the State like it used to be. The Falange wants a mass movement which will follow it unquestioningly, and the big landowners want the government to keep the peasants in line.’

  ‘What about the army?’

  ‘The army wants to see order. And the government – which is liberal – can’t even keep itself in order.’

  Cindy drained her sangría. ‘Do you think the army’ll try to take over?’

  ‘I’m not sure myself, but most people think it will. It wouldn’t be the first time in recent history. There was an attempt only three years ago, under General Sanjurjo.’

  Cindy was looking at him strangely. ‘You said all that almost without emotion,’ she told him.

  Her comment made him feel uncomfortable. ‘You asked me for a summary of the situation, and that’s what I gave you.’

  ‘I know you did,’ Cindy replied. ‘And it was very clear. But I don’t think I could be so cold if I was talking about my country going to hell in a hand-basket.’

  Paco sighed. ‘When I was younger, I was a conscript in the army. In Morocco.’

  ‘What’s that got to do with what we were talking about?’

  ‘I learned a lot of things while I was over there, but the biggest lesson of all was that most of us – the ordinary people on the street – can’t change the way things are. So what can we do? Well, the way I see it, we can carry out our duties and responsibilities to the best of our abilities. We can hope that if we each get our own bit right, the rest will just fall into place.’

  The puzzled look in Cindy’s eyes had deepened. ‘What happened to you in Morocco?’ she said.

  ‘Why do you ask that?’

  ‘Because you can be cold and detached when you’re talking about Spain, but the moment you mentioned Morocco, a sort of wistfulness came over you.’

  Paco drank the last of his sangría. ‘There was a girl . . .’ he began.

  ‘And . . .?’

  Paco looked up at his empty glass and the wine jug. ‘And I think it’s time I went to bed,’ he said, standing up.

  Chapter Twelve

  The trees which lined the Calle Velazquez did a little to shield Paco’s car from the morning sun, but even with all the windows rolled down, the inside of the Fiat was like a furnace.

  Paco checked his watch. Ten past nine. He had only been sitting outside the Herreras’ apartment block for just over an hour, but it felt as if he’d been there for days. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The acrid smoke rasped against the walls of his lungs, but at least it gave him something other than the bloody heat to think about.

  It was fourteen minutes past nine when a white Rolls-Royce Phantom, driven by a uniformed chauffeur, slid past Paco’s Fiat and pulled up in front of the building. The chauffeur got out, and walked round to the back of the car. At exactly nine-fifteen, the doorman appeared, holding the door open and standing rigidly to attention. Two seconds later, a middle-aged man wearing a dark blue suit and – despite the heat – white silk gloves, stepped out onto the street and walked towards the car. The man was not alone. A male servant followed, an expensive leather briefcase in his hand.

  Too important even to carry his own things, Paco thought in disgust. It had to be Herrera – the man who was screwing up his life. What was it Ramón had said about him? Rich, intelligent and decisive. He certainly seemed to fit the description. He was tall, with distinguished greying hair, quick eyes, a powerful nose, and a square jaw. Paco imagined him at the hustings, addressing the crowd in what probably sounded like the voice of God.

  Herrera climbed into the car. The chauffeur took the briefcase from the other servant, placed it on the seat beside his master, closed the door, walked around to the driver’s side, and got behind the wheel.

  Herrera, as if he could sense Paco’s inquiring gaze, glanced over his shoulder at the Fiat. The two men’s eyes locked for a second. There was a questioning look in Herrera’s, as if he didn’t know what Paco was doing there, but suspected he was up to no good. Paco stared back, his own look challenging Herrera to leave the protection of his luxurious motor car and join him in the Fiat. Then the chauffeur engaged gear, and the Rolls-Royce was gone.

  A bead of sweat rolled off Paco’s forehead and landed with a plop on his cigarette. He looked down briefly at the discoloured tube, before throwing it out of the window in disgust. The car was becoming more unbearable by the minute. Paco began to wonder how much longer he would have to wait, and realized that, however uncomfortable he was, he would stay th
ere for ever if that was what was necessary.

  *

  The girl who had answered the door the second time he’d visited the Herrera apartment emerged on the pavement at just after twelve-thirty. She was dressed in her maid’s uniform, and had a wicker basket on her arm.

  Going to the bread shop, Paco decided.

  For most families, it was enough to buy bread once a day, but the Herreras, with their Rolls-Royce and their luxurious apartment, probably insisted on being served with fresh bread at every single meal.

  Paco waited until the girl was a little way down the street, then got out of his car and followed her. She wasn’t walking slowly, but neither was she hurrying – probably these excursions in the open air were the highlights of her day.

  Paco increased his own pace, and caught up with her just as she had drawn level with a pavement café. When he tapped her on the shoulder, she jumped, then quickly turned around.

  ‘Remember me?’ he asked.

  The girl’s eyes were wide with fright, ‘You’re the policeman who came yesterday!’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘W-what do you want?’

  Paco put a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, but did not try to pull away. ‘What I want is to have a little talk with you,’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘C-Concha.’

  With his free hand, Paco pointed to one of the café tables. ‘Let’s sit down and have a coffee, shall we, Concha?’

  The maid shook her head. ‘If I’m out for too long, I’ll get into trouble.’

  ‘You’re already in trouble,’ Paco told her, deliberately hardening his voice. ‘A lot more trouble than you could ever get into with your mistress. So why don’t you sit down, and we’ll see what we can do about it?’

  Reluctantly the girl lowered herself onto one of the metal chairs. ‘I . . . I don’t know anything,’ she stuttered. ‘I’m only a servant.’

  ‘Servants know more about their masters’ business than the masters do themselves.’

  ‘Not me. I’m just a simple country girl.’

  A waiter appeared. ‘Two coffees,’ Paco said. ‘I’ll take mine black. And you?’

  ‘With milk.’

  The waiter nodded and left. Paco turned back to the girl. ‘Yesterday, when I called, you told me that Paulina wasn’t at home,’ he said accusingly.

  ‘I . . . I never. . . . I didn’t tell you anything at all. I went and fetched Luis.’

  ‘All right, so it was Luis who told me she was out,’ Paco conceded. ‘But it was a lie, wasn’t it?’

  Concha nodded. The waiter returned and placed their coffees in front of them. ‘Anything else?’ he asked.

  ‘Nothing,’ Paco told him.

  The waiter moved on to another table, where two new customers had just sat down. Paco dropped his sugar cubes into his coffee. ‘Why did Luis lie?’ he asked.

  ‘I don’t know,’ Concha said, studying the bubbles in Paco’s cup as though they were the most fascinating thing she had ever seen.

  ‘Where was Paulina when I called?’

  ‘She was in her room.’

  ‘Doing what?’

  ‘Packing her things.’

  Paco lit a cigarette. He offered the packet to the girl, but, as most country girls would have done, she shook her head.

  ‘Why would Paulina want to pack her things in the middle of the day?’ he asked.

  ‘They told us . . .’

  ‘Who is they?’

  ‘Luis. Luis told us that her father had been taken ill, and she had to go home immediately.’

  ‘But you didn’t believe that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Paulina comes from a little village north of Malaga.’

  ‘I know. What’s that got to do with anything?’

  ‘I went to her room to say goodbye to her. I saw her railway ticket lying on her bed.’

  ‘And . . .?’

  ‘She was going to Badajoz.’

  Which was almost as far from Malaga as it was from Madrid – but very convenient indeed for anyone wishing to slip across the border into Portugal.

  ‘How did she seem?’ Paco asked.

  The question appeared to puzzle the maid. ‘Seem?’ she repeated. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Was she worried? Was she crying?’

  Concha’s brow pursed in concentration. ‘I would say that she was worried, yes,’ she admitted. ‘But at the same time, she was very excited.’

  ‘In what way was she excited?’

  The maid searched around for a way to express herself clearly. ‘Like I’d feel if I realized I had the winning ticket in the lottery,’ she answered finally.

  ‘Did she say anything to you?’

  ‘Only that there were better ways of making money than being a servant.’

  ‘What did she mean by that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You didn’t ask her?’

  Concha shook her head again. ‘I didn’t have time.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We heard someone coming down the corridor. It was Luis. He looked very angry. He shouted at me and told me I should get back to my work. Then he told Paulina that she’d better hurry, or she’d miss her train.’

  The train bound for Badajoz, Paco thought. The train which would take her far out of his reach. ‘Is there anything else you can tell me?’ he asked.

  ‘No.’

  ‘You’re sure that there isn’t any little detail you might have missed out?’

  ‘I swear by the blessed Virgin of my village, that I do not know any more.’

  The blessed Virgin of her village – the wooden statue which was venerated above all else. For some of these country girls, swearing on that was like swearing on her own mother’s life. Paco sighed. ‘Very well, you can go.’

  ‘Am I still in trouble?’ Concha asked.

  ‘No,’ Paco assured her. ‘Go on – get on with your errand before they start wondering where you are.’

  Concha gratefully rose to her feet. And stepped straight into the arms of Luis, the valet.

  The big man effortlessly lifted her out of his way, then turned to Paco. ‘You have no right to go questioning the servants,’ he said belligerently, and though he kept his arms by his sides, his fists were bunched.

  Paco stood up and faced him. ‘Don’t tell me what rights I do and don’t have,’ he said. ‘What would you, a servant – another man’s lackey – know about rights?’

  Luis squeezed his fists into even tighter balls. The valet had about four centimetres and fifteen kilos on him, Paco estimated, but he thought he could take the man if he had to. And even if he couldn’t, he’d at least like to give it a try.

  ‘Keep out of the family’s private affairs,’ Luis said.

  ‘Where murder’s involved there’s no such things as family privacy. I am a police officer pursuing an investigation into—’

  ‘You haven’t been involved in the case since yesterday afternoon,’ Luis interrupted.

  So Herrera had been responsible for his being re-assigned – otherwise the valet would never have known about it. Paco looked at the girl, who stood a metre away, trembling and too terrified to move – and felt his anger mounting. ‘What will happen to Concha now she’s spoken to me?’ he asked. ‘Will her father suddenly get sick, too? Will she have to take the train to Badajoz?’

  ‘Perhaps,’ Luis said.

  ‘You’re very good at frightening helpless girls,’ Paco said. ‘Have you ever thought of trying to bully someone who can fight back – or don’t you have the guts for it?’

  Luis’s body tensed. ‘I used to be a boxer,’ he said.

  ‘And now you brush your master’s jacket and pick up his shitty underclothes after him,’ Paco countered, thinking to himself, ‘Take a swing at me, Luis. Just one punch – that’s all the excuse I need.’

  For a second, it did look as if Luis would lash out, then his body relaxed. ‘I don’t need t
o fight you,’ he said, ‘because you’re already beaten. You see yourself as an important man, don’t you? Well, let me tell you something, Señor Inspector – compared to the people you’re dealing with, you’re nothing.’ He turned his back contemptuously on Paco, then took the girl roughly by the arm and half guided, half dragged her back towards the Herrera apartment.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Paco looked out of his office window, onto the bustling street below. How many of the people walking past had secrets they would rather keep hidden? Probably most of them. But few, if any, would have one as deep and black as the secret which was buried in the bosom of the man who dumped the murdered young woman in Retiro Park.

  Behind him, he heard the sound of the door opening. He turned around. Felipe, an omelette bocadillo clutched in his hand, had just entered the room. ‘Well?’ the fat constable asked.

  Paco shrugged. ‘I lost her.’

  ‘Paulina, you mean?’

  ‘Of course I mean bloody Paulina. She took the train to Badajoz yesterday afternoon.’

  Felipe bit a piece off the edge of his bocadillo, munched energetically for a few seconds, then said, ‘Have you contacted the Badajoz police, jefe?’

  Paco shook his head. ‘How could I? What possible interest can I claim to have in her now I’m off the case? Besides, it would be a pointless exercise – she’ll be in Portugal by now.’ His eye fell on a cardboard box which was standing in the corner. ‘Look at that!’ he said angrily. ‘Do you know what that is?’

  ‘It’s the dead girl’s personal effects, isn’t it?’ Felipe said, chewing vigorously.

  ‘Exactly. If I’d just been assigned to the case, it’s the first thing I’d want to see. But Inspector Matute – who’s supposedly been working on the murder for nearly twenty-four hours – still hasn’t bothered to pick it up.’

  Felipe pushed the last piece of bread into his mouth, and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘I don’t see it makes much difference,’ he said. ‘We didn’t learn much from her effects, so why should we assume Matute would?’

  ‘That’s not the point,’ Paco told him. ‘Matute couldn’t know there weren’t any clues until he’d looked for himself.’ He walked over to the box and picked it up. ‘And anyway, perhaps there really is a clue in here – a clue we missed the first time around because we were so busy chasing after Paulina.’