The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘A membership card.’ Ochoa peered at the details through his thick glasses. ‘“Catholic Action Force”.’ He shrugged. ‘New one to me. I’ve never heard of them.’

  Guzmán went to the stairs and knelt, turning one of the dead men onto his back. ‘This one’s a priest.’

  ‘Any identity on him, sir?’

  ‘Well, he’s wearing a dog collar and there’s a crucifix hanging round his neck.’ Guzmán reached down and ran a hand over the priest’s thigh. ‘He’s also wearing one of those spiked things round his thigh, the ones the Opus Dei use.’

  ‘A cilice.’ Ochoa nodded.

  ‘I might have known you’d be familiar with something designed to inflict misery, Corporal,’ Guzmán muttered. He rummaged in the priest’s pockets and took out his wallet. From his expression as he opened it, Ochoa deduced there was no money in there.

  ‘What do you make of it, Comandante?’ Gutiérrez asked.

  ‘They’ve all been shot in the back.’ Guzmán picked up a shell casing from the floor, and put it in his pocket. ‘You may as well let Forensics loose on them.’ He walked back to the door and went outside.

  While Gutiérrez spoke to the police commander, Ochoa joined Guzmán on the pavement. They stood by the car, smoking.

  ‘What do you think, Corporal?’ Guzmán’s tone didn’t suggest he cared all that much.

  Ochoa shrugged. ‘The gunman came in, the customers tried to run to the stairs at the back and he shot them down before they could escape.’

  Gutiérrez had finished his conversation with the commander and was now coming towards them, accompanied by Capitán Utrera.

  ‘That’s what I thought at first,’ Guzmán said to Ochoa.

  ‘So what do you think now, sir?’

  ‘I think you should get the door for the brigadier general, Corporal,’ Guzmán said, as Gutiérrez joined them. ‘Where are your manners?’

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BIBLIOTECA MILITAR, CALLE MÁRTIRES DE ALCALÁ

  As they went down the stairs of the military library, Gutiérrez paused, resting a hand on the wall until he regained his breath. Guzmán waited a couple of steps further down, growing ever more impatient. Higher up the stairs, Capitán Utrera and Corporal Ochoa waited in silence.

  ‘It’s the dust,’ Gutiérrez panted.

  ‘What did you expect in a military archive?’ Guzmán snorted. ‘You should have stayed in the car.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘I want to show you this myself.’

  At the bottom of the stairs, he pointed to a nondescript door in the far wall. He took out a large key and gave it to Guzmán. ‘If you’d do the honours, Comandante? I hurt my wrist last time I turned the key in the lock.’

  Guzmán snatched the key from him and shoved it into the ornate lock. Metal grated on metal and then the door creaked open. As he peered into the darkness, he heard Ochoa and Utrera shuffling closer to get a better look.

  Guzmán fumbled around on the wall inside the door, cursing until his hand closed on an old wooden switch, dangling from a length of wire. A soft, waxy light slowly infused the shadows, illuminating rows of shelving that ran the length of the room. The shelves and the aisles between them were crowded with boxes and crates. Stacks of papers bound with string piled up in corners. Guzmán recognised some of the boxes the squad had retrieved from the railway tunnel.

  ‘You’d never make a librarian.’ Guzmán chuckled. ‘What a mess.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, it’s all here.’ Gutiérrez’s voice was hoarse from coughing. ‘These are the most incriminating files.’ In the pallid light, his face was cadaverous. He was not long for this world, Guzmán thought, not for the first time.

  ‘We’ll need to get this material loaded as quickly as possible, tomorrow,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘Then all that remains is for you to drive it to Toledo.’

  ‘So which material do we take?’

  Gutiérrez led him a few paces into the archive, out of earshot of the others. Even then, he lowered his voice. ‘The most important files are stacked in the front rows. It’s the material that affects us and our competitors.’

  ‘You mean the Centinelas?’

  Gutiérrez winced. ‘Don’t say that name. We don’t know who we can trust.’

  ‘If you’d give me the money I’m owed, I’d trust you a whole lot better.’

  ‘We’ve had our differences, Guzmán, but we really need to trust each other now.’

  ‘Why break the habit of a lifetime? Give me the fucking money.’

  Gutiérrez gave a long, whistling sigh. ‘I’ve got a bankers’ draft here.’ He put a hand inside his jacket and took out a narrow envelope. ‘You can use this at any bank in Spain.’

  Guzmán took the envelope and put it into his pocket. ‘That wasn’t too painful, was it?’

  ‘It’s a very large sum. Your pay-off and the money for sole ownership of the code.’ Gutiérrez’s tone suggested the money had been removed from his personal bank account. Naturally it had not.

  ‘So it should be,’ said Guzmán. ‘Now, you were telling me about Toledo?’

  ‘I was, before you interrupted. Once you deliver those files in Toledo, I’ve got a specialist team waiting to read them and make copies of all the documents that implicate the Centinelas’ leadership in war crimes and atrocities. They’ll also make sure nothing remains of any files that mention our past activities. By tomorrow night, no one will ever know what we did for Franco. Apart from us, of course.’

  ‘And the dead.’ Guzmán smiled.

  ‘Who cares about the dead, Comandante?’ Gutiérrez shrugged. ‘Certainly not you.’

  ‘And what happens once your team have done their work?’

  Gutiérrez leaned closer. ‘By next week, all the incriminating evidence on the Centinelas will have been copied and sent to journalists throughout Spain.’

  ‘And you’re sure that will be enough to damage them?’

  Gutiérrez nodded. ‘There’s enough in those files to make your hair curl.’

  Guzmán looked at him, amused. ‘Shame it’s too late for it to work for you.’

  ‘Very droll. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a meeting in twenty minutes.’

  They went back up the stairs of the old seminary and out into the afternoon sun. Capitán Utrera went to the car to open the door for Gutiérrez. Once he was inside, Utrera gestured for Guzmán and Ochoa to follow.

  Guzmán grabbed Ochoa’s arm as he tried to get into the car. ‘We’ll walk.’

  ‘Suit yourself,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘Good luck for tomorrow. I’ll talk to you once you’ve reached Toledo.’ He gave a nod and the driver accelerated up the street.

  ‘Why are we walking?’ Ochoa asked.

  ‘There are things we need to discuss,’ Guzmán said, glowering at him. ‘And don’t start moaning. I’m already in a bad mood. And frankly, Corporal, I blame you.’

  ‘It’s not my fault if you’re in a bad mood, sir.’

  ‘I didn’t say it was your fault. I just said that I blame you,’ Guzmán sighed. ‘Listen: there’s a chance I may not be joining you tomorrow.’

  Ochoa’s expression changed. ‘That’s not like you.’

  ‘Something’s come up.’ Guzmán took out his cigarettes and offered one to Ochoa. He used his Zippo to give him a light before lighting his own. ‘I’m thinking of packing it all in and going somewhere quiet.’

  Ochoa’s pale blue eyes flickered. ‘A woman, is it?’

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘I didn’t. You just told me.’

  ‘I might end up going on my own, I don’t know. But I do know I want out.’ He waited for Ochoa to say something. Annoyingly, he said nothing.

  ‘I suppose you think it’s a dereliction of duty, Corporal?’

  Ochoa shook his head. ‘Who am I to criticise you?’

  ‘Exactly what I was thinking. Anyway, if I’m not there tomorrow, you’re in charge.’

  ‘Will there be a bonus?’

  ‘I e
xpect they’ll have a special one arranged just for you, Corporal. I’ve never known a man who attracts money like you. You’ll be so rich in your retirement, you won’t live long enough to spend it all.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter, sir. I put most of my money away for my kids.’

  ‘You do realise your children could almost be grandparents by now?’

  Ochoa looked away, uncomfortable. ‘They’re still my children, Comandante.’

  ‘And you’re still going to keep searching for them once you’ve retired?’

  ‘Of course. I’ll have more time then.’

  ‘What if you don’t find them?’

  Ochoa shrugged. ‘I’ll keep looking until I do.’

  Guzmán sighed. ‘Have you ever read Don Quixote?’

  ‘Not me, sir. I don’t like big books.’

  After that, they walked in silence until they came to a crossroad. Guzmán held out his hand. ‘Good luck, Corporal.’

  ‘We’ve had some good times, haven’t we, sir?’ Ochoa said as they shook hands.

  Guzmán thought about it. ‘Not really.’ He turned and walked away.

  ‘Is there any chance we might see you tomorrow, sir?’ Ochoa called.

  Guzmán was walking fast and if he replied, Ochoa didn’t hear it.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, HOTEL SUIZA, CALLE SAN ONOFRE

  When he got back to the hotel, Guzmán checked with the desk clerk. There was no mail and no one had telephoned. He went up to his room and changed. Then he took a bottle of Carlos Primero from the wardrobe and poured himself a large glass. Outside, the narrow street bustled with people. He leaned on the railing of the balcony to watch the passers-by, sipping his brandy as he guessed their occupations and destinations.

  Not so long ago, he would have been watching for any demeanour that suggested guilt of some kind. Now, he watched with a critical eye, despising the wide, padded shoulders of the jackets, the long hair – some men seemed to be sporting perms – and, even more annoying, men wearing running shoes with their suits.

  He took out his Ducados and lit one. At five to five, he took off his jacket. At five o’clock, there was a knock at the door.

  ‘I’m late,’ Lourdes said, pushing past him into the room. She put down her shopping by the nightstand and turned, her arms outstretched as he came towards her. ‘Did you have a good day, Leo?’

  ‘I’ll tell you later,’ Guzmán said.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, GUARDIA CIVIL HEADQUARTERS

  Miguel Galíndez slicked back his hair as he left the building. He was in need of a drink after another day spent collecting yet more dusty files. Still, a few beers in the Café León would wash the taste of dust from his mouth. He walked quickly across the parade ground, his boots crunching on the hard surface. Spotlights around the walls threw white light over him as he walked. The air was chill, another sign of autumn turning to winter. Not that Miguel cared. He knew how to keep warm in even the worst of winters. It was just a question of finding somewhere where you couldn’t be seen skiving. His favourite trick was to pretend to be following up a lead on some crime or other and then spend most of the day in a bar.

  Whores were good too: interviewing them about crimes they couldn’t possibly have committed required the interviews to take place somewhere warm. It wasn’t like they could complain, even when he availed himself of their services and then refused to pay. There was ever only one loser in such a confrontation and it was always the whores. Once they’d had a beating from Miguel, they knew better than to argue the next time he came calling.

  Miguel said goodnight to the sentries at the gate and went out into the street. Traffic was light and there were few passers-by. As he walked along the pavement, a man stepped out from behind a parked car.

  ‘Teniente Galíndez?’ An unrecognisable accent. ‘Could I have a word?’

  Miguel scowled, suspecting he was about to ask for money. ‘I don’t have the time.’

  ‘Don’t be like that, signor.’

  Something in the man’s voice made Miguel look at him more closely. He was shorter than him and older too, with close-cropped grey hair and beard.

  ‘Or what?’ Miguel laughed.

  The man smiled. ‘Or I’ll spread you all over the pavement.’ By way of emphasis, he took a small pistol from his belt. ‘You really ought to listen to what I’ve got to say.’

  If Miguel had been braver, he might have run the moment the man approached him. It was too late for that now. ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Very sensible.’ The man pulled a plastic bag from his pocket.

  ‘What are those, your holiday snaps?’

  The man took several black-and-white photographs from the bag. ‘Miraculous things, Polaroid cameras, don’t you think?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ Galíndez muttered as he stared at the first photograph.

  He was not laughing now.

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, HOTEL SUIZA, CALLE SAN ONOFRE

  Lourdes stood at the window, looking out at the shadowed street. The lights of the hairdresser’s shop glowed on the wet cobbles. ‘I love watching it get dark.’

  Guzmán went to the window and stood behind her, resting his hands on her shoulders. The light was almost gone and he saw their faces, pale reflections in the glass.

  ‘It’s a shame we can’t choose the life we live,’ Lourdes said softly. She turned away and started to pick up her clothes from the floor.

  Guzmán sat on the bed, watching as she dressed with small, careful movements. ‘What sort of life would you choose?’

  ‘Things would be nicer for a start,’ she said, reaching for her skirt. ‘People would be nicer, that is.’

  She picked up her silver necklace and fastened it in front of the mirror.

  ‘That necklace suits you,’ Guzmán said, without looking. It was cheap, like the rest of her jewellery. He would buy her better things when they reached Alicante.

  ‘It belonged to my aunt.’ She frowned. ‘It would be nice to have one with my initials on it but that was...’

  ‘Too expensive?’ he cut in. She nodded, embarassed, so he changed the subject. ‘So where would you live if you could choose a different life?’

  ‘Somewhere down south where it’s warm.’ Dressed now, she bent to look in the mirror on the dressing table, teasing her hair with a brush. ‘You could choose where,’ she said, satisfied with her coiffure. ‘You know the south better than me.’

  She was prompting him for the story again. He obliged.

  ‘There’s a place near Alicante.’ Guzmán took out his cigarettes and offered her a Ducado. She shook her head. ‘Llanto del Moro,’ he continued. ‘It’s a little village. There’s a hotel on the cliff top overlooking the sea.’ His voice trailed away as he saw it, the dark swell of the ocean, the rustling of trees in the ocean breeze. Other memories too, of course, though of a time long past. He shared those with no one.

  ‘Don’t stop.’ She sat on the bed to put on her shoes. ‘It sounds lovely.’

  ‘It can be.’ Guzmán nodded.

  Lourdes got up, admiring herself in the mirror. ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Very pretty and very respectable.’

  A shy smile. ‘Respectable? After what we just did?’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He put on his watch, glancing at the time. ‘We could be there in under nine hours by train.’

  Outside, he heard people shouting. Somewhere on an upper floor, the mechanical rumble of the lift as it started to descend.

  ‘You really mean it, Leo?’ Her face was pale. ‘Even though it’s a sin?’

  ‘It’s not a sin to be happy.’

  Ever the good Catholic, she struggled with that idea for a moment or two.

  It had been a long shot anyway, he thought.

  ‘All right,’ Lourdes said, nervously. ‘If you’re sure?’

  ‘I’m very sure,’ Guzmán said. ‘Have you got time for a drink before you go?’

  A quick shake of her head. ‘He expects dinner on the table the moment he get
s home.’

  He picked up his jacket and put it on the chair. Once she was gone, he would put on the shoulder holster. ‘So we’ll go then?’

  ‘Do you really want me?’ Her brown eyes glinted as she pressed against him, surprising him with the sudden fury of her kisses.

  ‘We’ll meet early tomorrow morning and get the train,’ he said, imagining it. Choosing a new life. A different life.

  Her face fell. ‘Tomorrow’s our busiest day of the week. The laundry has to be labelled and bagged up for delivery. Señora Bartolomè can’t manage all that on her own and I can’t let her down.’

  ‘Who’s she?’ Guzmán growled.

  ‘The owner of the laundry. She’s been so nice, I can’t just walk out on her. I’ll take my suitcase in with me and meet you after work. Tell her it’s a holiday or something.’

  ‘Say you’re going somewhere up north,’ Guzmán said, through force of professional habit. It was always best to deceive people even when there was no real need. ‘Meet me at Atocha Station beneath the clock. Would six thirty suit you?’

  ‘I’ll be there.’ A last brief kiss before she slipped out into the corridor.

  Guzmán closed the door. By the nightstand, he saw her shopping bag and ran out with it into the corridor. ‘You forgot these,’ he shouted as the lift door opened.

  She took the bags from him, muttering about her stupidity. Things were always her fault, he’d noticed. Maybe that would change once they were far away from this city of guilt and secrets. Once she was happy.

  Back in his room, he heard the slow abrasive sound of the winch mechanism as the lift descended. He went to the window and watched as she left the hotel, heading towards Calle de Valverde. A cold rain was falling and the street glistened with the light from the shops as she headed for the Metro.

  Behind her, two men detached themselves from the shadowed doorway of a bodega across the road, walking slowly and casually behind her. So slowly and casually that there was no mistaking the fact that they were following her. Guzmán snatched up the Browning and ran to the door.

  The end of the street where it met Calle de Valverde was crowded with weary shoppers and dull-faced workers, all heading in different directions. Guzmán walked fast, dodging through the crowd, shoving people out of the way when necessary. Ahead, he saw the heads of the two men as they tailed Lourdes towards the Gran Via. He quickened his pace, dodging less and shoving more. In the sea of heads bobbing towards the main road, he could just make out her dark hair and the upturned collar of her poplin raincoat. He cursed himself for his lack of caution. If the Centinelas could find him without difficulty, the same was true for anyone else he associated with.