The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘How’s it going, young man?’ It was the large librarian with glasses like Ochoa’s. Quique stared at her as if she were talking a foreign language. ‘Perhaps you and your colleague would like a coffee?’ she asked. ‘I can show you to the kitchen if you like?’

  ‘No, thanks, señora,’ Quique stammered, edging past her into the building. ‘I’ve got to get back to work.’ He hurried off up the corridor.

  Ochoa had just put the last box of files on the trolley when Quique burst in, gasping for breath. ‘What it is it, kid?’

  ‘A bunch of men just got out of a car across the road, Corp. They’ve all got guns and they’re coming this way.’

  ‘Fuck.’ Ochoa ran to the chair by the window and stood on it. He saw the Opel and further along the road, the four men, patiently waiting for the lights to change so they could cross. He jumped down and went to the trolley. ‘Move it, kid.’ Quickly, he pushed the trolley against the wall and shoved a couple of waste-paper baskets on top of the boxes to cover the labels. That done, he grabbed Quique by the arm, and hurried down the corridor looking for somewhere to hide.

  A couple of metres along, they came to a narrow room filled with wooden file drawers. Just inside the door, someone had left a mop and bucket. Ochoa pointed to the mop. ‘Pick that up, kid, and start cleaning the floor.’

  As Quique obeyed, Ochoa flattened himself against the wall, hidden from the doorway by a filing cabinet. ‘When they come past the door, pretend you’re the cleaner,’ he told Quique, drawing his pistol. ‘If they start anything, hit the floor. I’ll take care of the rest.’

  For once, Quique had nothing to say and began running the mop over the floor with studied concentration. Somewhere up the corridor, they heard a door bang, footsteps echoing on the tiles, coming nearer. Just before the men reached the door to the filing room, they paused and held a brief, muted discussion. The footsteps started again.

  Ochoa cocked his pistol and held it at arm’s length, aimed at the door. The men outside wouldn’t see him unless they came into the room. In which case, Ochoa was the last thing they’d see.

  Quique lowered his head, swabbing the floor industriously as the men approached.

  A voice from outside. ‘Hey, kid.’

  Quique looked up. ‘Can I help you, señor?’

  ‘Seen anyone new around here this morning? Not the library staff, workmen maybe?’

  Quique thought quickly. ‘Is it the builders you’re looking for?’

  A humourless laugh. ‘Yeah, that’ll be them. How many are there?’

  ‘Two.’ Quique rested his hands on the mop handle. ‘They’re up on the fourth floor.’

  ‘So how do we get there?’

  ‘Follow this corridor and you come to a flight of stairs. Go up those to the next floor and then follow the signs.’

  ‘We’ve got them,’ someone muttered.

  ‘Thanks for your time, kid,’ the man said, turning away.

  Ochoa wiped sweat from his brow with his free hand. He started to lower the pistol.

  Outside, the footsteps stopped and then came back. ‘Hey, you know what, kid?’ The same voice as before.

  Quique stopped mopping the tiles. ‘Yes, señor?’

  ‘Why don’t you show me where they are?’

  Ochoa weighed up the odds. If Quique went with them, he was dead the moment they realised he was bluffing. If Ochoa tried to open fire, he would have to move out into the room and show himself. Sweat dribbled into his collar. Decisions weren’t his strong point.

  ‘I can’t, señor,’ Quique said. ‘I’m the only cleaner on this floor. If I leave my post, that head librarian will fire me. She already hates my guts.’

  At some point, the men were going to guess Quique was playing them, Ochoa realised. Better to start things now than wait for them to do it. He started to count. One.

  Outside the door, the men were laughing. ‘How long have you worked here, kid?’

  ‘Four days,’ said Quique. ‘I was out of work for two years before I got this job. My mamá will kill me if I get fired.’

  Two. Ochoa tensed. Hopefully, the kid would throw himself out of the way when the men went for their guns. Hopefully.

  ‘That staircase at the end, you said?’

  ‘That’s it, señor,’ Quique said. ‘Straight ahead.’

  ‘OK, kid, we’ll find it. Here, take this and forget you ever saw me, right?’

  Ochoa flattened himself against the wall as he saw the man standing in the doorway.

  ‘Thanks very much, señor,’ Quique said, putting something in his pocket.

  The footsteps faded as the men went down the corridor.

  Quique went to the door. ‘They’ve gone, Corp.’ As Ochoa came out from hiding, Quique gave him a broad grin as he held up the thousand-peseta note the man had given him. ‘Split this with you?’

  ‘You keep it, kid.’ Ochoa led the way back to the trolley. Heavily laden now, the trolley creaked and rattled as they pushed it along the corridor. As they passed the assistant librarian’s room, the door was still closed. ‘Let’s see if she’s back,’ Ochoa said. He knocked on the door softly. When there was no reply, he went in.

  Nothing had changed. The woman’s handbag was still on the desk, the scattered papers still on the floor. As he turned to leave, Ochoa stopped abruptly, staring at the metal cabinet he’d tried to open earlier.

  Quique saw his expression change. ‘What is it, Corporal?’

  Ochoa pointed to the floor where a small pool of blood was steadily growing along the base of the filing cabinet. He reached for the handle and tried it. The cabinet was no longer locked. As he opened the door, the body inside rolled onto the carpet, looking up at them with blank staring eyes. A bloody, ragged cut across the woman’s throat.

  Quique crossed himself, suddenly pale.

  ‘I think we’ve found our librarian,’ Ochoa said.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, LA CEPA, CALLE DE VALVERDE

  The old man rigorously avoided eye contact. ‘You know how it is, Señor Guzmán. It’s not wise to know policemen in here.’ Slowly, he hauled himself out of his chair and came over to sit at Guzmán’s table. ‘You haven’t changed,’ he said, taking a mouthful of beer. As he put down his glass, he saw a thousand-peseta note on the table. Expressionless, he placed a hand over the note. Guzmán looked away. When he looked again, the note was gone. Ignacio looked at him uncertainly. ‘Buy you a drink?’

  ‘Why don’t I get you one?’ Guzmán said. ‘Like old times.’

  ‘Old times are gone, Comandante. It’s all foreigners in slick suits now, pushing drugs and selling women. Killing them too, if they don’t behave. What are you drinking?’

  Guzmán asked for brandy. He watched the old man totter to the bar, picking his way through the throng of gaudy-faced hookers who were smoking so much it seemed they were standing round a camp fire.

  A blast of cold air as the door opened. A man came in, a sallow face beneath a helmet of brilliantined hair. He ordered a drink and then removed his coat with a practised flourish. The whores broke out in a brittle chorus of false laughter as the newcomer began telling anecdotes. ‘Pimps never change,’ Guzmán said when Ignacio came back from the bar.

  ‘They do, Comandante, they get worse.’ Ignacio put the drinks on the table and sat down. On the table in front of him was a piece of notepaper, folded in half. The way it had always been done.

  ‘You were the best informer I ever had,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘Mother of God, keep it down, will you? You never know who’s listening.’ Ignacio picked up the paper though he kept it folded. ‘What is it you want to know?’

  Guzmán pointed to the paper in the old man’s hand. ‘The addresses of those two.’

  Ignacio took a pair of reading glasses from his pocket and then unfolded the paper. He peered at Guzmán’s broad, angry script. ‘Is this a joke?’

  ‘Do I look like I’m laughing?’

  ‘You do know who these people are, I suppose?’
<
br />   ‘I wouldn’t want their addresses, otherwise, would I?’

  Ignacio’s red-rimmed eyes grew wider as he carried out the calculation every informer made before committing themselves: How much and what’s the risk?

  His reticence was annoying: in the old days, Guzmán wouldn’t have given him time to calculate. A beating usually provided sufficient incentive.

  ‘I’ll want a lot for this,’ Ignacio said.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll make it worth your while. You can take the wife somewhere nice.’

  ‘She’s already somewhere nice, Comandante,’ Ignacio laughed. ‘Two metres down in the Almudena cemetery.’ He blinked as Guzmán’s smoke curled around his face. ‘I hoped it’d be a while before I joined her, but maybe not. What you’re asking for is dangerous.’

  ‘When did you ever care about danger? Or are you getting past it?’

  Ignacio sighed as he reached for his drink. ‘All right, I’ll do it.’

  Guzmán put a card on the table. ‘Call me on this number.’

  When Guzmán offered him another drink, Ignacio shook his head. ‘I’ll be pissing all night as it is. I’ll give you a call as soon as I’ve got something.’

  Guzmán got up and made his way past the whores propping up the bar. Outside, the air felt thin and cold, though as he strolled up Calle de Valverde, he was in good spirits. For a few moments back in La Cepa, it felt like he was back in the old days. The days when things were done properly. His way.

  Cheered by his memories, he took his time making his way back to guardia HQ. When he arrived, he discovered that things had not been done his way at all.

  ALICANTE, 25 OCTOBER 1965, LLANTO DEL MORO

  ‘Thank you, señora.’ As Alberto put down the phone, he saw Villanueva, asleep in his chair, his mouth open. On the desk in front of him was the tray with his lunch plate and an empty wine bottle. Alberto didn’t blame the inspector for drinking. Anyone who lost his wife like that deserved some cheer, even if it did come from a bottle.

  ‘Who was that on the phone?’ Villanueva asked, without opening his eyes.

  ‘Señora Manzanares. The bus still hasn’t arrived. By the time it turns up it’ll be time to bring the kids back again. It was much better when the village had its own school.’

  Villanueva yawned. ‘That bus is always breaking down.’ He got up, groggy from the heat and the thick bull’s tail stew. ‘I’ll take the car and go and look for it,’ he said, fumbling for his keys. ‘They could be stuck in a ditch or something.’

  Villanueva went out into the bleached afternoon glare. Across the road, his car was parked in a patch of brilliant sunshine. He opened the doors and, as he waited for the seats to cool, he looked up towards the spot where the coast road came over the brow of the hill. As traffic breasted the hill, their windows caught the sun, creating brilliant flashes of light before they were lost from sight again. Usually, traffic was sparse. It had never been a busy road.

  It was now.

  Villanueva stared at the long procession of vehicles coming over the brow of the hill. Big dark cars, driving slowly. As the convoy snaked down onto the road to the village, he called Alberto to come and take a look.

  ‘What’s happening, Inspector?’

  Villanueva noticed Alberto wasn’t carrying his service pistol and ordered him to fetch it. While Alberto rummaged through his desk drawers for the pistol, Villanueva drew his .38 and checked it was loaded. As he slid it back into its holster, he realised that, for the first time in his career, something was happening in Llanto del Moro.

  CHAPTER 12

  MADRID 2010, CALLE LAGASCA

  The curtains trembled in the cool morning air. Outside, the early-morning sounds of a city coming to life: the drone of traffic, mothers and children, on their way to school.

  ‘Third time you’ve stayed here this week: it’s getting to be a habit,’ Isabel said, watching as Galíndez laid their breakfast on the table by the window. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

  ‘Make the most of it,’ Galíndez laughed, ‘this is as domestic as I get.’ She sipped her coffee, deep in thought. ‘Are you going in to the research centre today?’

  Isabel frowned. ‘From the tone of your voice, I’m not going to like this, am I?’

  ‘I know you don’t think it’s a good idea, but I’m going to get the DNA samples from Ramiro’s family tomb.’

  ‘You mean you’re going to break in, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but I won’t do any damage. I’ll just take the samples and then, once they’re analysed, I’ll know if Ramiro’s daughter was his natural child or not.’ She poured herself another coffee. ‘And whatever the result, I won’t mention it again, I promise.’

  ‘I still don’t think you should do it.’

  ‘Then don’t come.’ Galíndez shrugged. ‘I’ll hide until the cemetery closes and take the samples once it’s dark.’

  ‘I don’t like the idea of you being in there on your own,’ Isabel said. ‘Do you want me to come with you or not?’

  ‘It would make things easier.’

  ‘OK. When do you want me to get there?’

  ‘About six? It closes at seven thirty. We’ll wait for it to go dark and then...’

  ‘Go grave robbing?’

  ‘Do a little scientific investigation.’ Galíndez suddenly noticed the pile of papers on the sofa. ‘What are those?’

  Isabel slid the papers across the table. ‘Mendez brought them to the office yesterday. They’re wanted notices from Interpol.’

  Galíndez pointed to a photo near the top of the first page beneath a large heading in bold capitalised letters: WANTED. ‘God, look at this ugly bastard.’

  The photo showed a man with a dark, sun-leathered face. Greasy black hair tied back in a ponytail, a long, vivid scar snaking down his cheek. Cruel, pitiless eyes.

  Isabel leaned over to take a look. ‘You’re right, he looks evil. Who is he?’

  Galíndez read from the text beneath the photo. ‘Joaquín Rodríguez, aka “The Hammer of Reynosa”. Wanted by the FBI, DEA and the Mexican government for murder and narcotics offences. Highly dangerous and should be approached with caution.’

  ‘Do they call him the Hammer because he’s tough?’

  Galíndez read the text under the photo. ‘No, it’s to do with the way he kills people.’

  ‘Christ, I’d run a mile if I saw him.’

  ‘That would be a good idea,’ Galíndez said. ‘Because he’s thought to be in Madrid.’ She saw Isabel’s worried look. ‘Don’t worry, he’ll be hiding out with some drug gang or other. Birds of a feather and all that.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better go. See you at the cemetery?’

  ‘Unfortunately yes.’

  As she got into her car, Galíndez glanced across the street to see if Isabel was watching from the window of her apartment. There was no one at the window. Quickly, she opened the glove compartment and rummaged around until she found a balled-up tissue, wedged at the back. She unwrapped the tissue and looked at the five painkillers for a moment, wondering whether to break into her emergency reserve. She resisted the temptation briefly and then swallowed two of them dry. Slumped in her seat, waiting for the tablets to kick in, she began to think about what she needed to do to track down Sancho. It was not going to be easy, though as long as she worked to a plan, as she usually did, she was sure she could do it. Still, one thing at a time. Right now, she needed to focus on planning how she was going to break into Ramiro’s family tomb.

  MADRID 2010, CEMENTERIO DE NUESTRA SEÑORA DE LA ALMUDENA

  It was late afternoon as Galíndez drove up the narrow road leading to the cemetery. The sun was low and slanting shafts of light danced through the trees as she parked the car. Ahead was the main entrance, a beige and cream mix of fin-de-siècle modernism blended with neo-Moorish columns and arches. By day, the building’s appearance was slightly eccentric. What it would look like in the dark, she could only guess. Not that she feared the cemetery. Dead people couldn’t
hurt her. The living were far more problematic.

  She went through the gate into the cemetery. In front of her, seemingly endless ranks of tombstones, plaques and statues stretched away into the distance. She followed the path, standing aside at one point to let a group of elderly nuns go by. Clearly a tour group: she heard their guide explaining that the cemetery contained the remains of five million people, two million more than the living population of Madrid. The nuns responded with appropriate gasps of surprise. Galíndez had heard it all before and pressed on.

  After a few minutes’ walk, she reached a wide, curved section of the cemetery. The graves here were modest, a stark contrast to the areas where the wealthy of Madrid lay beneath ostentatious memorials that served as a testament to their loved ones’ lack of taste.

  She stepped off the path and picked her way through the lines of gravestones. Some of these memorials were weathered, others were in better order, clearly still maintained by their families. Many were adorned with flowers, often accompanied by a rosary or a small laminated photograph of the deceased. Here and there were simple crosses, the names bleached away by the sun, the graves and their occupants long forgotten.

  As she walked, Galíndez remembered her first view of this cemetery, clinging to Aunt Carmen’s hand as they followed the line of mourners, the men in their green uniforms and shiny black tricornes, the women’s faces pale behind dark veils. Carmen had lifted her in her arms to see the firing party as they stood by the open grave. It was the first time Galíndez had seen grown men cry.

  She remembered the stern faces of the men at her father’s funeral. Her mother’s loud, inconsolable grief as the honour guard bore the casket to the grave. And she remembered Aunt Carmen’s harsh words later to her mother, though what was said that day, or why, Galíndez had no idea.