Isabel heard the sound of heels behind her and turned. A woman was coming towards her, her face flushed with anger.
‘What’s going on? What have you been saying to my daughter to make her so upset?’
‘You must be Inés’s mother?’ Isabel said. ‘I’m a friend of Ana María.’
‘How dare you talk to my daughter about the case. This will make things much worse when Ana goes to court.’
‘Oh, I don’t think Ana will be going to court. Do you, Inés?’
Inés shuffled. She said nothing.
Isabel raised an eyebrow. ‘Two minutes ago you told me you took that photo without Ana María knowing.’
‘No,’ Inés muttered. ‘I didn’t, Mamá. Honest.’
‘This is outrageous,’ Mercedes Fuentes said. ‘I’m going to call my husband. I wouldn’t be surprised if you get arrested for this.’
‘I doubt that will happen,’ Isabel said, taking her phone from her pocket. ‘You can use my phone to call your husband if you like. I’ve got some nice apps on it.’
‘What do I care about apps? You’re harassing my daughter.’
Isabel shrugged and pressed the button on her phone. ‘This is my favourite app of all.’
‘I took a picture while she was getting a towel. It was only a bit of fun. I didn’t know Mamá would see it. But she did and then she went nuts and so did Papa. After that, I didn’t say anything because I knew they’d be angry.’
Isabel stopped the playback and put the phone back in her pocket. ‘I’m done harassing your daughter, Señora Fuentes. But I suggest you and your husband start worrying about the lawsuit that’s going to be coming your way.’
Isabel started to walk off but after a few steps she came storming back, her face rigid with fury. ‘Incidentally, Ana María fought off several armed attackers and saved both your daughters’ lives when your house was attacked and you never even thanked her. And now she’s been kidnapped.’ Her voice cracked with emotion. ‘You couldn’t care less.’
Angrily, Isabel walked back to her car. She got behind the wheel and switched on the radio. The news was just beginning and she listened as the newscaster announced the breaking news. The search for missing civil guard Ana María Galíndez was over. Her body had been recovered from the River Manzanares earlier that morning. A statement from General Ramiro Ortiz of the guardia civil was expected within the hour.
MADRID 2010
‘You’re going to be headline news, señorita,’ Guzmán said, looming over her. ‘This will send out a very strong message.’
Galíndez frowned. ‘To who?’
‘The people it’s intended for.’ He reached for his briefcase. ‘I’ll be off, Sancho.’
‘OK. I’ll take care of the cleaning up after.’
‘After what?’ Her voice was tight.
‘Sancho will tell you.’ Guzmán turned and walked away into the shadows.
She listened as his footsteps faded. A door opened and closed. Then silence.
‘You know, you’re in real trouble,’ Sancho said.
‘Let me go now and I’ll see to it that you get a discount off your sentence.’
A mocking laugh. ‘Did they teach you to beg at the Dark Moon dojo?’
‘How do you know I trained there?’
‘Because the only person I know who’d teach you to fight like you do worked at the Dark Moon. A tall black girl called María Cristina Mendez.’ He prodded her in her side with the toe of his boot. ‘Am I right?’
She looked away, wondering how he knew so much about her. And why. ‘Who’s this Bulgarian?’ There was no hiding the anxiety in her voice now.
‘He’s a Bulgarian, how do you think he got the name? He kills people for a living.’
‘I’ll fight you,’ Galíndez said quietly. ‘Just you and me.’
‘That’s very generous but no.’ Sancho sighed, exasperated. ‘It’s your own fault. You’ve stuck your nose into things that are none of your fucking business without ever thinking about the consequences. You had a chance to back off but you never took it. And because of that, you’re about to be on the receiving end of the worst our resident East European psycho has to offer.’ He shook his head. ‘You had a chance. You should have taken it because that was the only chance you’re going to get.’
‘How was I to know that?’ Galíndez snapped.
‘Ignorance is no excuse.’ He grunted. ‘I thought you were a Legions of Death fan?’
‘Legions? They were the worst band in the world.’
‘One of the kids at the Fuentes place said you liked them.’
Somewhere in the shadows, she heard a door open.
‘I only said that to be polite because Inés had one of their albums.’
The door closed. Her breathing grew faster as she heard footsteps coming towards her.
‘You remember their last album?’ Sancho said. ‘There was a track written just for you, “Death is for Losers”. That’s what you are, a loser.’
‘Fight me then. I’m not scared of you.’
‘Too late to get feisty now, babe. You’ve got an appointment with the Bulgarian.’ He gave her a contemptuous look. ‘Look at you: your pants are showing.’ He bent and pulled the hem of her football shirt lower. ‘There, you don’t want Mr Bulgaria getting ideas, do you?’
Galíndez turned her head away, hiding her anger.
‘Speak of the devil.’ Sancho sniggered.
She saw a figure emerge from the darkness. A squat man with dark cropped hair above a sallow vicious face. He licked his lips. ‘This her?’
‘No, it’s my sister, come to visit me for Easter. What do you think, Ygor?’
‘My name not Ygor, is Stefan.’
‘Stefan is spelled Ygor in Spanish,’ Sancho said. ‘Didn’t you learn that in prison?’
‘I don’t understand you sometimes, man.’
‘That’s because you’re stupid. Just do your job and we’ll all be happy.’
The Bulgarian smirked. ‘She don’t look too happy.’
‘Nah, she can’t wait for you to get started, Ygor.’
‘Is not Ygor, boss, is Stefan, I keep telling you.’
‘And I look like I care, do I?’
Galíndez strained against the straps, her mind reeling.
‘You know where to do it?’ asked Sancho. ‘Take her through that door over there, turn right and there’s a cell at the end of the corridor. Do her in there. I’ve put down some plastic sheets and newspapers. Wrap her body in plastic and clean up when you’ve finished.’
‘No problem,’ Stefan said. ‘Just give me a hand to get her up.’
As they began to unfasten the restraints on her wrists and ankles, Galíndez tensed, determined to take advantage of this unexpected opportunity. She had a plan: once she was on her feet, she would drive her finger into Sancho’s eye, putting him out of action while she dealt with the Bulgarian. One chance? She’d show him.
There was a flaw in her plan. She realised that as soon as the straps were unfastened and the blood began circulating painfully through her cramped limbs. Her legs gave way and she fell heavily, moaning with frustration.
‘I forgot to say, it might hurt for a bit.’ Sancho laughed as he dragged her to her feet. ‘Come on, Ygor, get the cuffs on her. That’s it, hold your hands out, there’s a good girl.’
She slumped against him, letting him take her weight as he snapped the handcuffs around her wrists, cuffing her hands in front of her.
‘You really are a loser, Galíndez.’ Sancho took a step back and slapped her across the face. The blow snapped her head back, sending her falling into the Bulgarian.
The Bulgarian gripped her by the shoulders. ‘You coming to watch, Sancho?’
‘I’ve got more important things than her to worry about. What’s up, can’t you do it on your own? What kind of Transylvanian pussy are you? She’s had it, look.’ He grabbed a handful of Galíndez’s hair and yanked her head back. She closed her eyes against the glare of
the overhead lights. ‘Helpless as a kitten.’ He rolled her head from side to side. ‘See? She’s finished.’
‘She’s not finished till I’m done with her.’ Stefan grinned.
‘Take her away then, Prince Charming, she’s yours.’
Galíndez walked slowly, the stone floor icy against her bare feet, obeying the Bulgarian’s directions as he steered her across the chamber and through a door into a low passageway that stank of damp. A solitary light bulb dangled from the arched ceiling.
As they walked, Stefan took the opportunity to torment her, explaining in detail what he was going to do before she died. She tried to stay calm, remembering the things Mendez taught her at the dojo. But dealing with this situation was far harder than listening to the instructor in a gym, ten years ago. Her first instinct was to fight back against the Bulgarian’s roaming hands. But if she tried to fight him now, he would win: her limbs were still too stiff after being restrained for so long. She needed to wait, seize her chance. That meant being patient. Meekly, she kept her head lowered, a picture of defeat.
As they came to another door, she raised her head a little, looking for something that might give her an advantage. She needed to focus, but concentrating was difficult with Stefan pawing her. Despite her revulsion, she let herself fall against him once more, forcing him to hold her steady, confirming her helplessness.
‘Stay on your feet, bitch,’ Stefan muttered, pushing her against the wall. She leaned against it, her head lolling from one side to the other. ‘Stay here, OK? I got to undo the bolt.’ He stepped back, hands raised ready to catch her if she fell. Satisfied she was able to stand unaided, he turned to open the door.
As he turned away, Galíndez tossed her hair from her face and saw the door in front of her, the door to the cell where he was going to kill her. Rusty bolts, at the top and bottom. Her arms were dead weights as she raised her hands, taking care not to let the chain between the cuffs make a sound. Sweat dribbled down her forehead and she blinked it away, watching intently as Stefan knelt and began struggling with the bolt. Now was the time to take him, while he was on his knees. But then she heard the dry scraping of the bolt as it opened and the moment was gone. As Stefan got to his feet, tears stung her eyes. Sancho was right after all: One chance. She’d missed it.
Stefan reached for the bolt at the top of the door. Being short, he had to stretch, clutching at the bolt with both hands, his head tilting back as he tried to move the rusty metal. A sudden guttural laugh as the bolt loosened. The laugh of a man happy in his work.
Galíndez hurled herself forward and looped the handcuffs over the Bulgarian’s head, dragging the chain against his throat as she wrapped her legs around his, unbalancing him.
Stefan teetered, on the verge of falling, he threw himself backwards, slamming her into the wall, the pain shimmering through her ribs like fire. Winded, she hung on as he struggled, trying to get his fingers under the chain cutting into his throat. When that failed, he smashed her into the wall again. The pain was worse this time: if he kept this up, she was finished. She had to take the offensive.
As he struggled, trying to pound her against the wall again, she sank her teeth into his ear, biting deep, feeling the crunch of flesh and cartilage as she threw herself sideways, her legs still wrapped round his. He fell with his weight on top of her, though she kept his legs pinioned as she dragged the chain tighter around his throat. The metal cuffs cut deep into her wrists but she clung on, sensing a change in his movements. Sudden desperate noises, his hands scrabbling at his throat, feet flailing helplessly. And then his struggles grew weaker and she heard the rattling in his throat, felt the sudden convulsions as he died.
For a moment, she lay beneath him, gasping for breath. Somewhere along the passageway a door slammed. Frantically, she squirmed out from under the dead man and searched his pockets, holding her breath against the growing stench of his shit until she found the key to the handcuffs. As she removed them, she bit her lip to stop herself crying out as blood dripped from the raw circles where the metal cuffs had cut deep into her flesh.
She staggered back down the corridor, fighting the urge to run, for fear of attracting Sancho’s attention. Rising ahead of her, she saw a steep flight of stone steps. As she stumbled towards them, she heard Sancho’s voice, booming from the chamber, asking what the Bulgarian was doing. She was in no shape to take Sancho on right now, and she hurried up the steps.
At the top of the steps, she saw a large wooden door with a rusty key in the lock. Quickly, she tried to open the door. The key didn’t move. Down the passageway Sancho was asking what the fuck was taking Stefan so long. Desperate now, she gripped the key in both hands, grunting in pain as the rough metal chafed her hands. Sancho heard the noise and shouted again, thinking she was Stefan. When he got no reply, he started to come down the passage, his slow, cautious footsteps echoing along the damp walls.
Galíndez felt the panic rising, her breath coming in ragged gasps. Gripping the key tight, she put what was left of her strength into a last desperate attempt. Slowly, the key began to turn, the grating of metal agonisingly loud in the shadows. She grabbed the door handle and pulled but the door stayed put.
‘That you, Ygor?’ Sancho’s voice, low and threatening.
She put her foot on the wall at the side of the door, grasped the handle and then brought her entire weight to bear on it. The door gave a grudging creak, though it didn’t move.
‘Ygor?’ Sancho’s footsteps stopped.
Galíndez heaved again and the door swung open, almost sending her sprawling on the landing. As she picked herself up, she heard Sancho’s heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. She dashed through the door and staggered out, blinking as she found herself looking across a busy street. Without looking back, she ran across the road, making for a grocery on the far side.
As Galíndez entered the shop, the people queuing at the counter moved away from her. A glimpse in a mirror behind the counter told her why: wild, tousled hair, dark-ringed eyes stark in her pale face, the Barcelona shirt torn and soaked with sweat and blood.
Someone muttered about an escaped mental patient. Another said she looked like the missing woman they’d been talking about on TV. And then an authoritative voice cut through the speculation, telling them to dial 062 and get the guardia, for fuck’s sake. A familiar voice: it was hers.
As the adrenalin left her body, she slumped against the wall, shivering, vaguely aware of someone putting a jacket round her shoulders. After that, things blurred into a vague sequence that ended when she woke up in hospital: the siren of the ambulance as it arrived, a brief argument with the paramedics before Galíndez reluctantly allowed them to put her on a stretcher. One of the customers saying they’d heard on the radio she was dead. Another onlooker seemed vaguely disappointed that she seemed much taller in the photo they’d used on TV. There was no pleasing some people, she thought as the ambulance pulled away from the kerb. Safe now, she let her head fall back on the pillow. A moment later, she was asleep.
Once the ambulance had driven off, the small crowd gathered on the pavement began to disperse. One man stayed at the kerbside for a little longer, watching as the ambulance gave a quick blast of its siren to force its way into the heavy traffic. A light drizzle was falling and the piercings in the man’s face glinted as he walked over to a parked car and got behind the wheel. He lit a cigarette, listening to the siren fading. As the first green and white vehicles of the guardia civil screeched to a halt outside the grocery, he started the car and swung out into the traffic, heading for Puente de Toledo.
CHAPTER 2
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, SEVILLA–MADRID EXPRESS
The dissonant metallic rhythm of the train pounded through his head with the precision of carefully inflicted torture. That comparison was based on professional opinion. Though Guzmán knew little of trains, in the other matter he was vastly more experienced.
It was just after nine in the morning and he already bristled with an incipient
rage, provoked by six hours of sitting in a smoky first-class compartment that was anything but first-class. He looked round at worn seats with grimy headrests and scowled as he recalled just how much a first-class ticket cost. Not that he’d paid for his.
The conductor’s voice suddenly interrupted his angry reverie. ‘I told you before, señor, you can’t travel in this coach without a ticket.’
Glad of the distraction, Guzmán turned from the window and stared at the conductor. ‘And as I told you before, fuck off.’
‘I’ll have the police on you when we get to Madrid.’
‘I am the police, you cretin.’ Guzmán sighed as he pulled his identity card from his pocket and held it up. That had an immediate effect, since the movement caused his jacket to fall open, revealing the Browning nestling in its holster under his left arm.
The conductor’s face grew pale. ‘Are you travelling on official business, señor?’
At least some people still maintained a proper respect for the forces of law and order, Guzmán thought, sensing a climb-down. He gave a conspiratorial nod.
‘That’s all right then,’ the conductor muttered, hurrying away into the next carriage.
Thirty minutes later, the train pulled into Atocha station beneath the great arched iron and glass roof. By then, Guzmán was standing by the door with his suitcase, waiting impatiently. As he pushed through the milling crowd towards the taxi rank, he promised himself he would never use a train again. If it had been down to him, he would have driven here. But circumstances prevented that and the thought of those circumstances angered him still further.
He left the shadowy confines of the station and went out into the damp morning. It had rained during the night and a strange haze in the sky rendered the city vague and unfamiliar. Clucking streams of water filled the gutters and dark odours rose from the drains. Some things never changed.
A taxi pulled up. The driver had a tobacco-coloured face, pitted with acne scars. It gave him the appearance of an orange someone had tossed into the gutter.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 2