Isabel answered at once. ‘Ana, you won’t believe this. I’ve got the address of a place Guzmán stayed at years ago. It’s a pensión on Calle del Carmen, at the top end of the street, between House of Cod and Lush. It’s called the Pensión Paraíso. Want to meet me there?’
‘Do I?’ Galíndez started the engine. ‘I’ll see you in a few minutes.’
MADRID 2010, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN
It had begun to rain and Isabel was standing under the awning of a grocery store when Galíndez arrived. She hurried across the street and gave Isabel an unexpected hug.
‘Are you OK, Ana?’
‘Of course,’ Galíndez said. ‘So, how do you know Guzmán stayed at this place?’
‘You know how people used to have to show their identity card when they checked in to a hotel so the proprietor could forward their details to the police? Well, I’ve been searching a new database that holds thousands of those old hotel entries.’
Isabel took a sheet of paper from her pocket and unfolded it. Galíndez saw a scanned image of a form with details taken from an old DNI, the national identity document. ‘Look, it’s in the name of a Leopoldo Ramirez. That was Guzmán’s alias, wasn’t it?’
‘It was,’ said Galíndez. ‘But look at the date he checked in: October 1982.’
‘A few days before the elections.’ Isabel took another paper from her pocket. ‘Now take a look at this headline from the same week: “Bombing at Bar Navarra Was Attempt to Disrupt Election, Say Police.” Maybe it’s a coincidence, maybe not. What do you think?’
‘I think he checked in at the pensión under an alias so he could plant a bomb.’ Galíndez linked arms with her. ‘Good job, Izzy. Let’s take a look at this place.’
Isabel gave her a curious look. ‘You don’t have to keep holding on to me. I’m not going to run away.’
‘Sorry,’ Galíndez said, embarrassed, ‘I’m excited, that’s all.’
They went up the stairs of the pensión into a spartan reception area with a long desk by one wall. A window on the far side of the room overlooked an alley. Beside the window was a cane chair piled with old magazines.
Galíndez went over to the desk and hit the tarnished brass bell. As they waited, she noticed a doorway behind the desk, covered by a curtain of coloured glass beads. Behind the curtain, she heard the blare of a television. Probably the receptionist was watching TV instead of working. Wearily, she brought her fist down on the bell, and then again, harder. The noise of the TV continued, competing with the drone of traffic from outside. Then it stopped as the TV was turned off. Irritated, she looked round, seeing a staircase with a sign: HABITACIONES 1–4, COMEDOR. The cheaper rooms, she guessed, exposed to the noise of the street and the smell from the dining room.
The glass beads suddenly rattled as someone walked through them. Galíndez stared at the swinging rows of beads in surprise. There was no one there. Even so, she heard footsteps on the other side of the desk and then a stool seemed to drag itself to the counter. As she watched, a head appeared, followed by the rest of the body, as an elderly well-dressed dwarf clambered up onto the stool. He gave them a courteous bow. ‘I rarely have the pleasure of one beautiful woman in my humble pensión,’ he said in a deep voice, ‘much less two.’ He beamed at Isabel. ‘I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay here, Señorita Morente. You don’t mind being recognised, I trust? I was a huge fan of your show. It was a disgrace when they got rid of you, an absolute disgrace.’
‘I’m glad you liked it.’ Isabel smiled.
He bowed once more. ‘If it isn’t too much trouble, might I beg an autograph?’
Isabel took a small notepad from her pocket and signed a sheet of paper.
The dwarf took the paper from her and put it into the pocket of his waistcoat. Then he gave Isabel such a low bow he almost toppled from his stool. ‘Perhaps your servant here could bring your luggage in, while I show you to a room?’
‘We’re not staying.’ Galíndez pushed her ID across the desk. ‘Agent Galíndez, guardia civil. I’d like to ask you some questions.’
‘Ah.’ A note of resignation. ‘The long arm of the law at last.’
‘We’re interested in someone who stayed here a long time ago. I wondered if you might remember him.’
A deep sonorous laugh. ‘I’d prefer to forget most of the guests I’ve had here, to tell you the truth.’
‘This is the man I’m talking about,’ Galíndez said. ‘Comandante Leopoldo Guzmán, also known as Leopoldo Ramirez.’ She put the scanned details of Guzmán’s fake DNI on the counter. ‘According to this, he stayed in room number three.’
The dwarf’s face set with concentration as he studied the document. ‘I don’t remember him, officer. This document is dated 1982 and I didn’t take over here until 1983.’
Galíndez leaned against the counter. ‘You know, a moment ago, it sounded as if you were expecting a visit from us.’
‘Not at all. I was expecting other people. Tourists, definitely not the police.’
‘That’s odd, because the sign on the door says full.’
The dwarf took out a handkerchief and mopped his face. ‘It does, though not in the literal sense. It means we’ll be full once the tourists arrive. I expect they’ll be here this afternoon.’ He leaned forward, careful not to lose his balance. ‘Is there something wrong with your eyes, señorita?’
Galíndez looked away, quickly. ‘No there isn’t. Why?’
‘No reason. Will that be all, Agent Galíndez? I don’t want to keep you.’
‘I’m not finished yet,’ Galíndez said, curtly. ‘Can we take a look round?’
‘Certainly, but at another more convenient time perhaps? You could call and make an appointment in a week or two when I’m less busy.’
‘I could always get a search warrant,’ Galíndez said, ‘Señor...?’
‘Leonidas Espartero, at your service, señorita. There’s no need for a warrant, none whatsoever. Room three, you said? That’s upstairs.’
She pointed to the sign over the stairs. ‘I notice there are only four rooms up there. Where are the others?’
‘There are no more, apart from the bathroom and dining room and neither have been overused by our recent clientele. Come, I’ll show you round, ladies.’
Espartero slid across the counter and jumped down onto the shabby carpet. They followed him up the flight of stairs along a narrow corridor. At the end was a small room with several tables, each with a single place setting. On the wall a faded poster of some long-dead matador looked down on them.
‘This is the dining room,’ Señor Espartero said, proudly. ‘If a guest is staying for a while, I set a table just for them. They have their own napkin, little bottles of oil and vinegar and everything. Almost a home from home, assuming their home is somewhat dilapidated.’
‘Can we see the room Guzmán stayed in please?’ Galíndez said, suddenly impatient.
They watched as Espartero opened the door to room number three. ‘The room overlooks the street, so there’s a bit of noise.’
‘It hardly matters,’ Galíndez said. ‘We’re not going to be stopping.’
‘I might,’ Isabel said, noticing Espartero’s hurt expression. She took a step towards the window and gave Galíndez a dig in the ribs. ‘If I get a new radio show, I might stay here from time to time. It’s very central.’
Señor Espartero executed a deep bow. ‘Naturally, I’d offer celebrity discount.’
Galíndez looked around the dingy room with its scuffed wooden floor, a wardrobe that must have come from a funeral sale and a nightstand with a smeared glass. The window was open and the thin curtain wavered in the humid air. ‘Not very big, is it?’
‘Perhaps the señorita thought the sign outside said “The Ritz”?’ Espartero murmured.
‘Can we have a minute to look round?’ Isabel said.
‘With pleasure, señorita. Perhaps I could prepare you both a coffee or something?’
From his voice, she gu
essed there was no or something. ‘Coffee would be nice.’
Once Espartero had gone, Isabel rounded on Galíndez. ‘What’s up with you? You don’t have to be so sharp with him. He’s doing his best.’
‘He’s hiding something,’ Galíndez muttered. She sat on the edge of the bed, taking in the lacklustre surroundings. The bed trembled as she got up and went to the window. Through the streaked glass, she saw a narrow alley scattered with bulging refuse sacks. From the walls came the murmur of water pipes and soft indistinct voices. She went back to the bed and sat down.
Isabel joined her. ‘What makes you think he’s keeping something from us?’
‘For a start, when I asked him about Guzmán, his eyes almost crossed. I think he knows more than he’s letting on.’
‘He’s wary of you, Ana. People of his generation are nervous about the police.’
‘Maybe.’ Galíndez went across the room to examine a pale mark on the wooden tiles. ‘Look at this.’ She ran her hand over the wood. ‘The lacquer’s been scrubbed away.’
‘So? People make the most revolting messes in hotel rooms.’
‘You could hardly call this a hotel.’ Galíndez turned to the wall near the window and started scraping pieces of plaster from a small indentation.
‘What’s that?’ Isabel asked, noticing her sudden concentration.
Galíndez shrugged. ‘Probably nothing.’
Out of habit, she searched the room. In the wardrobe a few antiquated hangers dangled from a sagging wire. ‘Not a trace of Guzmán,’ she said, dejected.
The door opened as Señor Espartero returned. He gave them a languid bow. ‘What do you think of the room?’
‘How long did you say you’d been running this place?’ Galíndez asked.
‘It was 1983 when I took over from the previous owners,’ Espartero said. ‘If you’re interested, I have the paperwork in the office. It would be no trouble to unpack it from the boxes. Just a few hours’ work.’
Her face fell. ‘You’re sure you never had a guest called Guzmán or Ramirez?’
‘Not to the best of my knowledge. May I be put to work in a circus if I lie.’
‘Well, thanks anyway.’ Isabel smiled. ‘We’ll leave you in peace.’
*
‘He’s lying,’ Galíndez muttered as they went into the street. ‘I could sense Guzmán’s presence in there.’
‘You’re not clairvoyant, Ana.’
‘Someone had scrubbed blood off those wooden tiles,’ Galíndez said. ‘And that hole in the wall looked like it was made by a bullet, I’d swear.’
‘I think you’re trying to make two and two equal five,’ Isabel said as she unlocked the car door. She took Galíndez by the arm and peered into her eyes. ‘You know what? Señor Espartero was right about your eyes.’
Galíndez pulled away. ‘What’s wrong with them?’
‘They’re dilated. You’re still taking those painkillers, aren’t you?’ She pulled a sheet of paper from her pocket. ‘I looked up your tablets on the net. These are some of the possible side effects: aggression, paranoia, sudden mood swings and overly emotional behaviour.’ She gave Galíndez a stern look. ‘You were aggressive with Señor Espartero and you frequently blow hot and cold with me when we’re at work.’ Angrily, she opened the car door and got behind the wheel. ‘If you don’t want my help, that’s fine, but you’d better sort yourself out before it becomes a real problem.’
Galíndez leaned in through the window. ‘Christ, Izzy, I was kidnapped only a few days ago, cut me some slack, will you?’
‘You need to face up to this,’ Isabel said. ‘I know you’re not comfortable talking about yourself, but sometimes you have to do these things.’
Galíndez ran a hand through her hair. ‘I told you before, I can’t do that.’
‘If you can’t even talk to me, then I’m not much of a friend, am I?’ Isabel started the engine and the car pulled away from the kerb. Fifteen metres down the road, she braked and reversed. Galíndez hurried over and opened the passenger door.
Isabel held out her hand. ‘Give me the tablets.’
Galíndez hesitated for a moment before handing over the plastic tube. ‘What now?’
‘You tell me.’ Isabel kept her hands on the wheel, staring ahead.
‘We talk?’ Galíndez said, uncertainly. ‘I could try, anyway.’
‘Get in.’ Isabel sighed. ‘We’ll go to my place.’
MADRID 2010, CALLE DE LAGASCA
Isabel stood at the window, looking out into the night. On the dining table a large pizza lay untouched. She picked up a bottle of wine from the table and poured two glasses. ‘How do you feel now you’ve got all that off your chest?’
‘You must have been a brilliant agony aunt on the radio.’ Galíndez was lying on the sofa, surrounded by crumpled tissues. ‘I’ve never talked about myself like that before.’
Isabel shrugged. ‘I like to think I helped a few people.’
‘You’ve helped me,’ Galíndez said. ‘My life’s been a mess the last couple of years.’
‘That wasn’t all your fault, Ana. There are lots of positives as well.’
‘I know you’re right. I just don’t know where to start making changes.’
‘You could start with the tablets.’
Galíndez dabbed her eyes with a tissue. ‘Throw them away, I’m done with them.’
Isabel shook her head. ‘No, you should be the one who does that.’ She handed Galíndez a glass of wine. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘One more question can’t hurt. Go ahead.’
‘Why are you so angry? Some days, you seem to be angry at yourself, at your colleagues and even me. Why is that?’
Galíndez lowered her eyes. ‘Sometimes I need to blank it all out. Being angry helps.’
‘Blank all what out?’
A long sigh. ‘That’s the trouble, Izzy. I don’t know.’
‘Is it Guzmán? You’re angry because of what he did in the past?’
‘It’s not what he did in the past that makes me angry,’ Galíndez said, quietly. ‘It’s because of what he did to me.’
‘You mean mentally?’
‘I mean physically.’ Galíndez’s dark eyes shone with anger. ‘Want to see what he did?’ Without waiting for an answer, she got to her feet and started unbuttoning her shirt.
Isabel watched her, confused. ‘What are you doing?’
Galíndez unfastened the last button on her shirt and held it open, exposing her left side. She pointed to a pale line of scar tissue that began under her arm, disappeared beneath the side of her bra and ran down her ribs, ending just above her hip. When she spoke, her voice trembled with emotion. ‘I survived the explosion at his comisaría, but I still see his mark on me every day of my life. Jesus, Izzy, I can’t get away from him.’
Isabel put her arms around her. ‘We’ll find him, Ana. I promise.’ Softly, she stroked Galíndez’s hair. ‘We’ll find him and Sancho and they’ll spend the rest of their lives in prison.’ She pulled Galíndez closer, tracing the scar with her finger.
Galíndez took a deep breath, about to tell her that she already had a plan. A plan that didn’t involve Guzmán or Sancho seeing the inside of a prison cell: when she found them, she was going to kill them.
But then Isabel’s lips pressed against hers and for now, the time for talking was over.
CHAPTER 9
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN
Guzmán pushed his empty plate away and watched as Daniela poured his coffee. ‘That was good, did your Mamá teach you to cook?’
‘No, Papa was a cook in the army.’
‘I bet he didn’t cook very often then: the Republicans only had chickpeas.’
‘You said you weren’t going to talk about the war, Señor Ramirez.’
‘That was when I didn’t know I’d be living cheek by jowl with a Red chef.’ Guzmán slurped down his coffee and pushed the cup and saucer across the table towards her.
‘A young man called at the desk half an hour ago, asking for you,’ Daniela said as she stacked his crockery onto a tray. ‘Remember my cousin Luisa asked you to take part in her research project? I didn’t want to interrupt your breakfast, so I told him to come back later.’
‘Of course,’ Guzmán said, though he had forgotten completely. ‘I can spare a few minutes, I suppose.’
‘He’s very nice,’ Daniela said, blushing. ‘He’s Irish.’
‘It’s a good Catholic country,’ Guzmán said, exhausting his knowledge of it. ‘I’ll be down in a couple of minutes, tell him to wait in reception for me.’
Ten minutes later, Guzmán came downstairs. A stocky red-haired young man was sitting by the window, leafing through a magazine. He leaped up as Guzmán approached.
‘Señor Guzmán, thanks for seeing me, I’m Michael Riley.’ He held out his hand and Guzmán crushed it routinely, causing the lad’s ruddy features to become even more florid.
‘So you’re the kid who wants to talk about the war?’
‘I am. We could do the interview here if you like – since there’s no one around?’
Guzmán would have preferred to talk about the war in a bar, preferably at the student’s expense, but time was getting on. He shrugged and took a seat.
Riley placed several bulky files on top of the magazines scattered over the table. ‘Mind if I take notes?’
‘Go ahead,’ Guzmán said, making himself comfortable.
Daniela brought them coffee. ‘Here we are, gentlemen.’ She was still a little flushed, Guzmán noticed. ‘Would you like anything else, Señor Riley?’
‘We don’t need anything, thank you,’ Guzmán said firmly.
Riley looked down at his notebook. ‘There’s a number of questions I’d like to ask.’
‘I’ve got one for you first,’ Guzmán said quietly. ‘How do you know my name?’
Riley’s face turned pale. ‘I won’t lie to you, señor.’
‘No, you won’t,’ Guzmán leaned forward until his face was disturbingly close to Riley’s. ‘You speak Spanish well enough, so answer my fucking question.’
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 12