A Darker Night

by P J Brooke

  ‘I’ll do that later. See you when you get back. Hasta la vista. Ciao.’

  Now, he was alone at last in his own house. He could relax. He was home. Angelita’s mother, Lucía, would never stay here. But for Paco it had always been a bit of Paradise. And here, with just the sound of the doves in the rock face, sometimes his demons would leave him.

  Dusk was falling. He took a chair outside, fetched his guitar, and started to sing quietly. His own song. The one that had won the prize in prison. For the first time in years he felt at ease. Now there was something to hope for. Something to do, something to work towards.

  From his chair he could see the track which led towards Granada. He heard the sound of a car in the distance. The engine noise grew louder, and then stopped. Paco carefully placed his guitar against the chair, stood up, and walked to the edge of the dirt track. Two men were walking up the steep slope. His first instinct was to go inside for a knife. But no. It was a knife that caused the trouble last time. He stood still, silently waiting. The men approached slowly.

  Chapter 2

  Sub-Inspector Max Romero of the Policía Nacional de Granada opened the shutters to let in the morning sun, walked out on to his terrace and gazed over the old clay-tiled roofs of the Albayzín, across to the Nazrid Palaces of the Alhambra. Behind the palaces, only a little snow lingered on the Sierra Nevada, and the lower hills were already parched. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the sweet smell of jasmine. In the evening, the neighbourhood would throb with the rhythms of flamenco, but the only sounds now were the birds, and the guitar student next door anxiously practising for her next assessment.

  Max went to the end of his terrace, and looked down the narrow street. The post lady was pulling her trolley of mail up the cobbled street as usual. She stopped at the door of his block of flats and pushed a bundle through the letterbox. Max walked down the three flights of stairs, and eagerly glanced through the mail. There was a letter for him, a thick envelope, with a printed address.

  He returned to his flat with the letter. ‘We hereby notify you that you have three months in which to vacate the premises at Calle María de la Miel N° 27, 3B, Albayzín, Granada …’

  No new lease. Mierda! Max looked around his small flat. It had its problems, but the view of the Alhambra was wonderful. He really didn’t want to leave it.

  As he was filling his water bottle from the cold tap, the doorbell rang. It was his new neighbour, Belinda.

  ‘It’s a good day for a walk, Max.’

  ‘It is. Looks like we’re going to be lucky with the weather.’

  ‘Thanks so much for inviting me. I’ve hardly been out of the city since I arrived.’

  ‘A pleasure, Belinda. You’ll like the gang, and they’ll all want to practise their English on you.’

  ‘Max, you’re looking a bit down. Anything wrong?’

  ‘Bloody landlord’s given me notice He’s kicking me out in three months.’

  ‘Oh dear. Your little flat’s so nice. Can’t you do anything about it?’

  ‘No. It’s standard stuff. I bet the old bastard wants to do the block up as tourist flats.’

  As they walked down the little cobbled road of Calle María de la Miel, Max pointed to the decaying building. ‘See that house? It’s fifteenth-century, Moorish. And it’s falling down because the council won’t force the owner to repair it.’

  ‘But the Albayzín’s a World Heritage Site, isn’t it?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to make much difference. The landlord’s waiting for the house to get so bad that he can legally throw the tenants out, knock it down and build flats on the site.’

  ‘Is anyone doing anything about it?’

  ‘Our Neighbourhood Association is doing its best, but it’s an uphill struggle.’

  ‘I’d like to join the Association.’

  ‘Good idea. They’d be pleased to see you.’

  Max and Belinda walked down Cuesta de San Gregorio and into the square by the church of San Gregorio Bético. A hippy baker was sitting on the broad steps, above the old washing-trough, selling her organic bread from a large esparto basket. They turned sharply left down the hill towards Plaza Nueva. On the wall beside the old town hall, someone had painted in huge letters: ‘Semana Santa + Alcalde = Robo’.

  Holy Week plus the Mayor means Theft.

  Underneath was a row of posters: ‘Stop the Concrete. International Meeting. Old Trades Union Centre. Thursday.’

  ‘You’ll really like Carlos. He’s an architect. Spends most of his free time campaigning to save the Albayzín.’

  The walking group were waiting by the large fountain. A tall good-looking guy with cropped grey hair smiled at them.

  ‘Hi, Max. And you must be Belinda.’

  His English was very good indeed. He kissed Belinda on both cheeks. ‘Max tells me you’re writing a novel.’

  ‘Trying to. I never realized how much work it was going to be.’

  ‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Max says I’m a mine of useless information about Granada.’

  Max grinned. Belinda gave Carlos her best and sunniest smile. ‘I’ll take you up on that.’

  ‘Okay, Belinda. Meet the gang. Giovanna and Maite are language teachers, and Miguel’s doing postgrad work in Geography.’

  Together they walked to the end of Paseo de los Tristes, crossed the old bridge over the tiny river Darro, and began to walk up Cuesta de los Chinos, the old route from the Albayzín to the Moorish fortress of the Alhambra. The stream flowing down from the Alhambra to the Darro had carved a deep valley, still cool and shady. The trees were in early leaf, and wild hyacinths were just emerging where a spring created a patch of damper ground. The group paused at the waterfall, where water gushed out of the ancient acequia from the Alhambra wall to join the stream, and then stopped at the plaque with a poem by Federico García Lorca.

  With a bit of help from Maite, Belinda read the poem aloud. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it? The idea of water as a magical mirror which allows you to gaze into history.’

  ‘Yes. Just imagine what Lorca might have written if he hadn’t been shot.’

  ‘That was in 1936, just at the start of the Civil War, wasn’t it, Maite?’

  ‘Yes. I’ve got a few books in English on the Spanish Civil War you can borrow if you like.’

  ‘Thanks, I will.’

  The group continued upwards, then passed under a double arch into the lush woodland which surrounded the old fortress. They walked past the Alhambra ticket offices and car park, then picked their way through a grove of mulberry and orange trees and emerged on to a minor road, which climbed upwards to the country park. They paused at the ruin of a Moorish palace, Dar-al-Arusa, the Palace of the Bride, and shimmied through a hole in the security fence, scrambled to the top, and looked out at the panorama of Granada ringed by mountains. They were already high above the Albayzín. Directly in front of them, piercing the city walls, was the church of San Miguel Alto. And to the right of the church, a network of old paths ran through the hills to Sacromonte and its abbey, la Abadía de Sacromonte.

  The route now went upwards through a pine forest. As a jay flashed blue and chestnut, the path curved to their right. Suddenly, they could see the highest peaks of the Sierra Nevada, sprinkled with snow. And before them stretched rows and rows of olive trees, shining silver and gold in the sunshine.

  ‘And here,’ said Carlos, playing tourist guide for Belinda, ‘we have a monument. “To the greater glory of God, Francisco Franco Bahamonde.”’

  ‘Amazing. After thirty years of democracy, there are still monuments commemorating that evil dictator.’

  ‘Yes. There are probably more left in Granada than anywhere else in Spain.’

  For the next hour, they walked through pinewoods, along the lip of the ridge which ran parallel to the Sacromonte valley. Way below them, a man was exercising a horse in a field, and a tiny black dog barked excitedly. Their path finally met a rutted farm track, and they turned left through a
broken gate.

  Carlos, who was enjoying showing Belinda the sights, pointed to a ruin in the valley. ‘That’s the old Jesuit monastery of Jesús del Valle.’

  ‘This countryside is amazing, isn’t it? And it’s so close to Granada.’

  ‘That’s the problem. The only thing saving this valley from turning into a concrete jungle is the lack of good road access to Granada. When I was a kid, the Vega, that’s the plain on the other side of Granada, was full of orchards and market gardens, and now it’s shopping centres, houses and industrial estates.’

  The track coiled downwards, carving itself into the stony clay of the hills, where wild lavender, thyme and rockroses flourished. On the valley floor they walked through olive groves, crossed a stream by a small bridge, and halted where two huge plane trees guarded the entrance to the monastery. Carlos checked his watch.

  ‘Okay, gente. It’s one o’ clock. Lunch is booked for 3 p.m. I think we’ve time for a little look round.’

  They squeezed past a broken barrier blocking the entrance to the monastery. A young man was already in the courtyard with his back towards them, poking at a pile of smashed marble and plaster. He turned round.

  ‘Francisco!’ exclaimed Carlos. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve been hearing stuff. Right now, I’m coming here every week to check up on things. Look at that. Some bugger’s stripped all the marble from the chapel. It’ll be the new owner, and he’ll pretend it was vandals.’

  ‘Any idea who’s bought it?’

  ‘I’ve been trying to find out all week, but they’re being very secretive. It doesn’t look good. Have you heard any more about the roads projects?’

  ‘My friends in Planning think there’s something big coming up.’

  ‘Any chance of a leak before the conference?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do. Oh, sorry. Max, Belinda. This is my friend Francisco Gómez. He’s Chair of Granada Verde.’

  Belinda looked the young man up and down. He was tall and wiry, brown as a berry with dark curly hair down to his shoulders. He kissed her on both cheeks. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Belinda. And I hope you’ll join Granada Verde.’

  ‘I’d be happy to help out … if my Spanish is up to it.’

  Maite laughed. ‘We always need help. How’s the conference going, Francisco?’

  ‘It’s fine. Numbers are looking good. And how are things going with the procession?’

  ‘Lidia can’t make it now, so Margarita’s going to do the final leg. She’ll be okay so long as her father doesn’t find out.’

  ‘That’s great. We won’t be telling him.’

  ‘Francisco, any chance you could show Max and Belinda around the monastery?’ asked Carlos.

  ‘Another day, hombre. I have to go now, meeting someone. Vale. See you guys on Thursday.’

  Francisco picked up his staff, and walked away briskly.

  ‘Okay, Belinda,’ said Carlos. ‘I’ll show you round. But be careful, it’s not safe. The kitchens were over there. This monastery belonged to the Jesuits until they were expelled from Spain in 1767. Its most colourful tenant was a Capitán Calderón who made a fortune in Constantinople and was buried in a black marble tomb in what’s left of the chapel over there.’

  Inside the ruined chapel, a mural of Bob Marley smoking a very large joint had replaced the usual holy fresco, and goats were stabled in what remained of the monks’ kitchen.

  ‘What a shame,’ Belinda said. ‘Can’t someone find a good use for these buildings?’

  ‘There are always plans, but they usually involve hotels, golf courses and luxury villas, and that means concrete all over these valleys.’

  ‘Oh dear. But it’s so close to the Alhambra. I’d have thought the whole area would be protected.’

  ‘On paper, yes. But money rules here. Right, it’s twenty past one. We’d better get a move on.’

  The Club de Salud y Cultura set off along the valley bottom. The path recrossed the stream, now larger, and well over boot-level. Max tested a log which had been placed across the stream, and then he and Carlos helped Belinda and Maite across.

  ‘There’s a waterfall up there if you want a quick look,’ said Carlos.

  The waterfall was tiny, and half hidden by undergrowth, but white and orange butterflies danced in a shaft of light, and wild violets clustered round the margin of the pool. Belinda gazed at the little waterfall, and glanced at Carlos. Moving to Granada had been a good idea.

  The group emerged from the woods at a big farmhouse with a large sign, ‘Private Property. Beware of the Dogs’.

  ‘Change of ownership here as well,’ said Carlos.

  They walked along the acequia, the little irrigation canal, past a ruined watermill and then turned right on to a broader path. Somewhere in the hills above them, a dog cried in pain. As they approached a small dirt track, the dog’s cries became louder.

  ‘Hey … that dog’s in trouble. I’m going up to have a look.’ And Belinda set off up the track.

  ‘Belinda, you’ll miss lunch. I’m sure the dog is all right.’

  Belinda looked back at Carlos. ‘I won’t be long.’ And then she continued upwards.

  ‘You guys go on, and we’ll catch up with you later,’ said Max.

  Belinda hurried up the track, not looking back. Max paused for breath and checked he had his inhaler. As he reached the top, Belinda dashed back towards him.

  ‘Max! Come here. There’s a dead body in that cave.’

  Max looked at his watch. It was exactly 2 p.m.

  Chapter 3

  A man lay on the floor of the cave house. Francisco Gómez looked blankly at Max. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  ‘Here, move aside.’

  Max knelt down, opened the man’s mouth to check the airway for obstruction, then felt for his pulse.

  ‘Belinda, have you got a mirror?’

  ‘Oh my God. I think so.’

  She fished in her little bag. Max put the mirror close to the man’s mouth. There was no mist. No pulse. The dog limped into the cave, and sat beside the dead man, crying. Belinda fondled the dog’s ears, and the cry became a whimper.

  ‘Okay. He’s dead. I’ll have to treat this as a crime scene. Will you both please leave the cave, and don’t touch anything. Either inside or out.’

  Francisco looked startled.

  ‘I’m a cop,’ Max said, closing the cave door as they all went outside. ‘Have you called for an ambulance or the police?’

  ‘I tried, but I can’t get a signal in these hills.’

  Max took his mobile out of his pocket. ‘I’ll call them.’

  Francisco looked at him, puzzled.

  ‘My mobile has a booster. I should get a signal. Yes. I can.’

  Sargento Pedro Vidal, the duty officer at the Policía Nacional, answered.

  ‘Pedro, it’s Max. I have a dead man here in a cave. It’s the first path uphill on the left at the very end of the Sacromonte road, about a kilometre after the end of the tarmac. Can you get a team out as soon as possible? No, I can’t give you the coordinates. I’m fine, gracias. Just out for a walk. No, it’s not a drunken hippy. He looks like a gitano … I’m sure they drink as much as the hippies. Sí, I should still catch the Real Madrid game.’

  Max turned to Belinda. ‘Can I borrow your notebook and biro?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘So, Francisco, what’s the story?’

  Belinda butted in. ‘Max, let me get Francisco some water. He doesn’t look too good.’ She took some water from her rucksack, and Francisco drank thirstily.

  ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘You okay now?’

  Francisco nodded. ‘I heard this dog crying, so I came up to look. He was sitting outside the cave door, howling, and I just … I pushed the door open … and there was this man, lying on the floor.’

  ‘So you’re here just by chance?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘Do you know this man?’
/>   Francisco licked his lips and paused. ‘No.’

  Max raised an eyebrow.

  ‘No, I don’t know him. I’ve never met him before in my life.’

  ‘Okay. I hope you didn’t touch anything.’

  ‘No,’ said Francisco. ‘I thought he had just blacked out or something.’

  ‘Then why is his shirt torn?’

  ‘Well, I … that was me,’ said Francisco. ‘I tried CPR. But I think he was dead when I got here. I did my best, but …’

  Francisco’s voice trailed off. Belinda handed over the water again. He sipped slowly this time.

  ‘Okay, I’m going back in, but you two must stay out here until the police team arrive. Belinda, have you got a couple of clean hankies?’

  ‘No, sorry. But I do have some silk walking gloves.’

  Max squeezed the gloves on, pushed open the door and went back inside. The man was lying on his back, eyes closed. Max looked closely at his face. He must have been very handsome once, but his features were pinched, and his ponytail was streaked with grey. There were no obvious signs of rigor mortis. Beside the man was a chair, lying on its side. And some distance away was a guitar, face down on the concrete floor. Max went carefully through the dead man’s pockets. He found just a dirty handkerchief, two used bus tickets and some small change.

  The cave house was clean, but pretty basic. There was a single bed and a chest of drawers in one corner, a cheap rosary and a couple of framed photographs on top of the chest. The other corner served as a kitchen. There was a bottled gas stove, a few cheap glasses by the sink, and someone had carved an alcove into the rock to hold food and kitchen things. There was nothing else but the dead man, a guitar, and a framed picture of la Virgen de Sacromonte hanging from a nail in the wall.

  Max went over to the battered chest of drawers. The top drawer was empty. In the second was a solitary shirt on top of a wooden box. There was nothing inside the box. In the last drawer there was underwear, and, underneath the pants, an imitation leather wallet. Max lifted the wallet from the chest of drawers and then opened it carefully. It contained about forty euros, an old letter, carefully folded and addressed to Paco Maya, and an identity card, the DNI.