The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  CLOSED DUE TO A GENERAL STRIKE OF STAFF AND STUDENTS AGAINST GOVERNMENT CUTS. JOIN THE DEMONSTRATION AT 3.30 THIS AFTERNOON IN THE PLAZA de ESPAñA!

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ Isabel groaned. ‘That means practically the whole campus is empty. You must have run over a black cat on the way here.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Galíndez said. ‘If there’s no one on campus, why would they think of looking for us here? I’ll park the car out of sight and then we can hide in our office until it’s dark. Then we’ll go to the comisaría.’

  They spent a few minutes searching for somewhere to hide the car. Finally, Isabel saw the ideal spot behind a row of large garbage bins at the rear of the departmental car park.

  As they made their way towards the faculty building, the silence reverberated with the sound of their footsteps. At this time, the grass was usually littered with students, sprawling amid the scattered detritus of campus life: books, newspapers, and discarded pizza boxes. Usually a radio would be playing, the bass notes reverberating around the campus buildings. Today, there was only the background hum of the city and the soft progression of their footsteps. A sense of isolation.

  As they went down the stairs to their basement office, Galíndez stopped and put a finger to her lips. Below, they heard a soft deep voice. Isabel put a restraining hand on Galíndez’s arm as she started to reach for her pistol. ‘It’s OK, Ana, that’s Madame D’Nour.’

  Sure enough, when they reached the bottom of the stairs Madame D’Nour was sweeping the floor outside the Research Unit. She looked up as she heard their footsteps and beamed. ‘Bonsoir, mesdemoiselles. Look at you: two pretty girls and not a man in sight, no wonder you look so unhappy.’ Her deep laugh echoed down the corridor. ‘You spend too much time down here like little moles when you should be up in the sunshine. At this rate you’ll never meet the right man.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Madame D’Nour,’ Galíndez said as she unlocked the door.

  ‘I’ll say a prayer for you, Mademoiselle Ana.’ Madame D’Nour gave her a dazzling smile. ‘You need to find a man before that frown line gets any deeper. Men don’t like a sulky woman.’ She turned to Isabel. ‘And you, Mademoiselle Izzy, with those hips, you should have a family of five by now.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ Isabel said, hurrying into the office.

  Galíndez slipped off her shoulder holster and put it on a work surface near the sink. She touched her brow with the tip of a finger. ‘Have I really got—’

  ‘No, forget it. And no comments about my hips either. She doesn’t mean any harm. She just wants us to be happy.’

  Galíndez raised a hand to her temple. ‘God, that hurts.’

  Alarmed, Isabel hurried to help her into a chair. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ Galíndez said, though her face said otherwise.

  ‘You’re not having a seizure, are you?’ Isabel asked, alarmed.

  ‘Don’t worry, it’s passing.’ Galíndez suddenly flinched. She saw Isabel’s concerned look. ‘It’s OK, that bundle of papers is digging into my side.’ She reached inside her jacket. ‘Might as well have a look at the rest of these while we’re here.’

  ‘Lay them out on the table. I’ll make us a coffee.’ As Isabel filled the kettle, she saw Galíndez’s pistol lying in its shoulder holster on the work surface. ‘Sorry, I can’t work with a bloody big pistol lying about, it’s intimidating. I’ll put it in your bag, OK?’

  ‘Whatever,’ Galíndez murmured, distracted as she began separating the dusty sheets of paper. None was on old parchment like the map of the vaults. These seemed to have been torn from an exercise book. Bold, angry writing, the ink faded but still legible. She shivered as she realised where she’d seen the writing before.

  October 26th 1982

  Dear General Ortiz,

  If anything happens to me, I trust you’ll know what to do with the files I’m putting in the Western Vault. You’ll see the location on the map I’ve enclosed. These files heap everlasting shit on both Franco and the Centinelas. If something happens to me, I leave it to you to do what you think is best with them.

  Cordially yours,

  Leo Guzmán

  Galíndez stared at the note, deep in thought. She looked up, startled, as Isabel put a cup of coffee on her desk.

  ‘Did I make you jump, Ana?’

  ‘Take a look at this, Izzy: this note is from Guzmán to General Ortiz, telling him to use the files he’s left to damage Franco and the Centinelas if anything happens to him.’

  Isabel frowned. ‘That doesn’t make sense. According to Sancho, Guzmán kidnapped you because he was helping the Centinelas.’

  ‘Maybe he had other ideas,’ Galíndez said. ‘Look at the date on this letter. He hid these files in the vault back in 1982.’

  ‘So why ask you about the Western Vault if he knew all along?’

  ‘No idea.’ Galíndez started to examine some of the other papers. ‘These are the names of generals and politicians who worked in Franco’s regime. Each name has a number alongside it.’ She bent forward, examining the numbers more closely. ‘They look like file references. And here’s Guzmán’s name, with a reference to Alicante. Christ, Izzy, there might be a whole catalogue of his crimes in that vault.’ Her dark eyes glistened with excitement as she looked at her watch. ‘Only another two hours till sunset. Once it’s dark, we’ll sneak in there and grab the files.’

  CHAPTER 25

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CEMENTERIO DE NUESTRA SEÑORA DE LA ALMUDENA

  A heavy sky, thick grey autumnal clouds. A long, snaking line of black limousines edging into the heart of the sprawling cemetery, its vast rows of memorials shadowed in early-morning gloom. A silent grey rain fell as men in mourning suits hurried from the cars to the graveside; hard-faced men, accustomed to the rituals of death, here to honour one who knew those rituals better than most.

  By the side of the grave, beyond the muddy pile of excavated soil, the firing party waited in their dress uniforms, expressionless as the priest accompanied the pallbearers to the graveside. More than a few mourners smiled discreetly at the notion of a religious send-off for their departed colleague. Certainly it was hard to think of anyone less disposed towards religion than the man in the oak coffin now being borne to his final rest on the shoulders of several burly troopers of the guardia civil.

  ‘No flowers,’ Corporal Ochoa observed, looking at the coffin. ‘Just a flag.’

  Brigadier General Gutiérrez nodded. ‘Highly appropriate, I’d say, Corporal. When did you ever see him with flowers?’

  Ochoa shrugged. ‘Come to think of it, I never saw him with a flag either.’

  The mourners fell silent as the committal began. The priest seemed in a hurry, rattling out the familiar words as though he had more pressing business elsewhere.

  Ochoa had attended so many funerals they no longer had the power to move him. This was how it all ended: in a wooden box, surrounded by a crowd of people whose opinions of the deceased were mixed at best.

  ‘As Jesus Christ was raised from the dead, we too are called to follow him through death to the glory where God will be all in all.’

  Gutiérrez sighed as the priest finished the blessing. He was already late for one meeting. At this rate, he’d miss the next one as well.

  The firing party stepped forward, aiming into the leaden sky. A sudden, barked order. Three volleys, crisp and precise, the stammering echoes unfolding over the cemetery. And then the mournful notes of the ‘Last Post’ rising into the soft grey rain. Finally, the familiar military song of farewell: ‘Death is Not the End’.

  Whoever wrote that song didn’t know much about death, Ochoa thought.

  Gutiérrez recoiled as someone came up behind him and poked him in the back with a big, meaty finger.

  ‘Did I miss much?’ Guzmán asked.

  ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack coming up behind me like that, Comandante. Where’ve you been?’

  ‘I had to
find a new hotel.’ Guzmán lowered his voice as he glanced round at the mourners lining up to throw a handful of earth onto the coffin as they said their last goodbye. ‘How come they’re burying him so quickly? A man like General Ortiz deserves a full military funeral.’

  ‘It was in his will, apparently,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘No fuss and an immediate burial.’

  ‘So what the fuck happened?’

  Languidly, Gutiérrez raised an eyebrow. ‘Your sources must be slipping, Comandante.’

  ‘Most of my sources are senile these days,’ Guzmán snorted. ‘I overheard someone talking about a heart attack, is that right?’

  Gutiérrez lowered his voice. ‘Suicide,’ he muttered. ‘Shot himself last night.’

  ‘A man like Ortiz? He would never kill himself, he’s a good Catholic – apart from his affair and a few massacres in the Civil War.’ Guzmán looked round, furiously. ‘If you ask me, this was the work of the Centinelas.’

  ‘Maybe the passage of time was getting to him,’ Gutiérrez said, sadly. ‘None of us are getting any younger.’

  ‘Thanks for the reminder,’ Guzmán said. ‘Look, there’s Ramiro Junior.’

  ‘He’s junior no longer, is he? I’ll go and give him my condolences.’ Gutiérrez staggered off across the soaking grass.

  ‘That’ll be a great fucking comfort, no doubt,’ Guzmán growled.

  ‘He was a good man, the general,’ Ochoa said, wiping rain from his spectacles.

  ‘He was,’ Guzmán agreed, recalling that General Ortiz had been so good, he’d promised to put Guzmán’s secret papers in his safe.

  He waited until Gutiérrez finished talking to Ramiro and then went over and slapped the young man on the back, almost pitching him into the grave on top of his father’s coffin. ‘I can’t tell you how sorry I am. What happened?’

  ‘It’s all a blur,’ Ramiro said. ‘I cleaned his pistol for him as I always did and then I went out to meet Miguel Galíndez.’ He brushed his hand over his face. ‘When I came back, an ambulance had just arrived and the maid was hysterical. If I’d been there, maybe I could have stopped him.’

  Guzmán was no longer listening. His thoughts were focused on the papers he’d entrusted to General Ortiz. ‘Which uniform was he wearing?’

  Ramiro gave him a confused look. ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘It’s a simple enough question,’ Guzmán said, suddenly aggressive.

  ‘His usual weekday uniform, as I recall, Comandante.’

  ‘Have you kept it?’

  ‘Of course not, we buried him in it.’

  That was the same uniform the general was wearing when Guzmán gave him the papers. He looked down into the grave. The coffin was covered with a thin layer of soil.

  ‘He won’t be down there long,’ Ramiro said, noticing the attention Guzmán was paying to the coffin. ‘Once the mourners have gone, we’re going to inter him in the family crypt. The workmen are waiting over there.’

  That was it, then, Guzmán realised. There was no chance of the general’s coffin being left unattended long enough for him to retrieve those papers. Restraining a violent urge to punch Ramiro, he gave him another manly slap of consolation on the arm and left him to his grief.

  As he trudged back to Gutiérrez and Ochoa, someone called his name. Guzmán turned and saw Carmen Galíndez coming towards him, dressed in black, her high heels sinking into the wet soil as she walked. She was no longer the radiant woman he’d met in the bar León. Now, she was pale-faced, her hair wet and bedraggled, her eyes red from crying.

  ‘Señorita Galíndez,’ Guzmán said. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Of course I’m not.’ Carmen rubbed tears from her eyes. She glowered at Ramiro who was still at the graveside, accepting the condolences of his father’s colleagues. ‘Do you know that little shit planned to bury him without even telling me? He always thought his father was betraying the memory of his sainted mother by being with me.’

  ‘The general thought the world of you,’ Guzmán said. ‘He told me so.’ He’d also told Guzmán exactly what Carmen was like in bed, though Guzmán kept that to himself.

  She took a deep breath, trying to calm herself. ‘Has Ramiro told you what happened?’

  ‘Just a few details. It’s a tragedy.’ Guzmán thought again about the documents he’d entrusted to General Ortiz that were now about to be interred with him.

  ‘There’s more to it than Ramiro says,’ Carmen said. ‘Doesn’t it strike you as odd how quickly the general’s been buried?’

  ‘He says his father didn’t want a full military funeral.’

  ‘Ramiro’s a liar.’ She pressed a hand to her mouth, too proud to weep.

  ‘He has an alibi for the evening,’ Guzmán said, ‘before you jump to any conclusions.’

  ‘What good are conclusions now?’ Carmen said, bitterly. ‘He’s gone.’

  ‘If it’s any consolation, he’d never have married you.’ Her expression suggested she took little comfort from that, Guzmán noticed.

  ‘Adios, Comandante.’

  He watched her walk away, admiring the sway of her hips beneath the black dress.

  As he rejoined Ochoa and Gutiérrez, he saw their expressions. ‘What?’

  ‘Just a little bet with the brigadier general,’ said Ochoa.

  ‘The corporal was wondering if you’d asked General Ortiz’s mistress out for dinner.’ Gutiérrez said. ‘Naturally I bet against it.’

  Guzmán ran a hand over his hair, exasperated. ‘This is terrible.’

  ‘Sorry, sir, I meant no disrespect.’

  ‘I don’t mean your fucking bet, Corporal. I’m thinking about Ortiz. We’ve lost our main ally against the Centinelas.’

  ‘Very true,’ Gutiérrez agreed. ‘Now he’s gone, they’ve got more chance of infiltrating the guardia civil, especially when you consider who’s taken charge.’

  Guzmán glared belligerently at him. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘General Amadeo. He’s taking over until they make a permanent appointment.’

  ‘Amadeo’s a traitor,’ Guzmán spluttered. ‘I saw him chair the Centinelas’ meeting at the Torre de España. He’s part of their central council.’

  ‘Nothing we can do.’ Gutiérrez shrugged. ‘The guardia is outside our jurisdiction.’

  ‘So what do we do now?’

  ‘I suggest you get on with completing this mission, Comandante. That way, you get your money and I destroy the Centinelas.’ His face suddenly tightened as he remembered something. ‘By the way, I’m still waiting for your code.’

  ‘That’s right,’ Guzmán said. ‘You are.’

  ‘It’s not a normal business transaction,’ Gutiérrez said, scowling. ‘I can’t wait for ever. And frankly, Comandante, you know the rules. You have to sell something like that in-house. It’s technically the property of the state. We can’t allow anyone else to have it.’

  ‘And I don’t allow anyone to threaten me,’ Guzmán said quietly. ‘Least of all in a fucking graveyard.’

  ‘You know perfectly well what I meant,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘No offence.’ He waved a bony hand towards one of the limousines lined up along the drive. ‘That’s my car over there.’

  Guzmán frowned. ‘How come you’ve got four drivers?’

  ‘One driver. The rest are bodyguards. If General Ortiz didn’t commit suicide, then I’m inclined to agree with you that he was killed by the Centinelas. And if they can kill a man of his reputation, they could just as easily get me.’

  ‘Or me,’ Guzmán grunted.

  ‘Well, yes, I suppose so.’

  They picked their way across the muddy grass to the car. As Gutiérrez approached, one of the men in dark suits stepped forward and handed him a slip of paper. He read it and turned to Guzmán. ‘Apparently, there’s been a shooting. A massacre, in fact. Shall we take a look?’

  Guzmán took a last look in the direction of the general’s grave. The workmen were already hauling out the coffin, ready to take it – and Guzmán’s pape
rs – to the family crypt. There was no use dwelling on it further, and Guzmán got into the limousine, wondering how many funerals he’d attended here. More than most, he was sure.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BAR SAN NICOLÁS, CALLE DRACENA

  An anonymous bar on the ground floor of a newly built apartment block, flanked by a ladies’ hairdresser and an optician. Towels and various items of clothing hung limply from the balconies above. Further along the pavement, a few spectators were watching the brown-uniformed policía nacionales clustered outside the bar. Across the road, a policeman was taking a statement from a shopkeeper, yawning as he wrote in his notebook. Something had happened here, there was no doubt of that. The bar’s window was shattered, only a few jagged pieces of glass remained and even those had bullet holes in them.

  Holding up his ID, Guzmán pushed past the uniformed police into the bar. Their commander came bustling over, demanding to know who was interfering with his case.

  ‘State Security,’ Guzmán said, pointing to Gutiérrez. ‘Ask the brigadier general if you’ve any more questions.’

  There was no further discussion and he went inside. Gutiérrez and Ochoa followed, standing behind him as he looked over the scene of carnage.

  The room was narrow with a few small tables and chairs along one wall and a small zinc-topped bar on the other. At the end of the bar was a flight of stairs leading to a small dining room. Behind the bar were shelves full of bottles, or, more accurately, the remains of bottles, since most were now shattered, their contents dripping onto the linoleum floor.

  It would have been a tight squeeze for customers to manoeuvre between the bar and the tables at the best of times, Guzmán could tell. As with many of these small bars, getting to the toilet or the dining room at the back would have been a slow process when the place was crowded. Probably, that was why the dead were heaped together among the overturned tables and chairs. Not one had got as far as the stairs.

  Ochoa began examining the bodies. Guzmán saw him reach into one of the dead men’s pockets and bring out a card. ‘What’s that, Corporal?’