by P J Brooke
‘A Francisco Gómez and one of our secretaries witnessed the will. The Deed of Gift is still in draft form.’
‘Thank you. That’s very interesting. We’ll need a signed statement.’
‘Where should I give a statement?’
‘If you could come to the Policía Nacional building as soon as possible, that would be very helpful. And please bring these documents with you.’
‘I can be with you in half an hour.’
‘Thank you. Please ask for me when you arrive.’
Max immediately went round to Davila’s office. Davila was flicking through a pile of forms, as usual.
‘Ah, Romero. What is it now?’
‘A lawyer just phoned. Gómez witnessed Paco Maya’s will. The lawyer’s on his way to give a statement.’
A broad smile spread across Davila’s face. ‘Got him. We’ve got the bastard. Excellent news, Max. Meeting this afternoon?’
‘Sí, señor‚’ replied Max.
‘Right. Bring everything with you.’
The lawyer was waiting for him in reception. Max took his statement, and made copies of the will and draft Deed of Gift.
The afternoon meeting with Davila, Navarro and Belén was quick and easy. Max kept his reservations to himself, and made no mention of his conversation with Catalina.
Navarro kept repeating, ‘I told you, Max, to concentrate on Gómez. And I was right.’
‘Okay‚’ concluded Davila. ‘We have the motive. No problem getting the judge to extend Gómez’s detention period now. We’ll get a confession. Well done, men.’
As they filed out, Max asked Roberto for a word in his office.
‘So what do you think, Max?’
‘I don’t feel comfortable with this. You’ve interviewed him twice. What do you reckon?’
‘I don’t think he did it. He doesn’t seem the type. He’s bright, well educated, used to thinking things through. From the interviews, it’s clear he’s passionate about saving the valleys, but I don’t think he would suddenly turn murderously violent just because Maya was having second thoughts about the will. It doesn’t feel right to me.’
‘Me neither.’
‘But then you never know. We’re assuming Gómez is innocent just because of our assessment of his character, and that wouldn’t carry much weight in law.’
‘Absolutely. So what do we do?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe there’s more to this case than meets the eye. I think we should dig around a bit more.’
‘Okay. We know there was pressure on Maya to sell his plot of land. And the Abbot of Sacromonte told me that a lot of people around Jesús del Valle and Sacromonte have been selling up.’
‘More than you’d expect with this hotel plan?’
‘Sí.’
‘Interesting. Maybe I’ll take a trip to the Land Registry.’
Max looked through his notes. ‘I think timing could be crucial. Fifteen minutes either way …? The security guard’s statement could make or break this case. I’ll go and check out Gómez’s movements with a stopwatch.’
‘Okay‚’ said Roberto. ‘Fancy a drink later?’
‘Why not? La Trastienda, just off Plaza Nueva, is usually quiet early on. They’ve kept the old shop in front so it can look really crowded, but there’s a bigger room at the back.’
Roberto was already in La Trastienda when Max arrived.
‘So you found it?’
‘Not a problem. Fancy a bottle of the Rioja?’
Max squinted at the carta de vinos. ‘Good idea. Works out cheaper anyway. How did it go then?’
‘Really interesting. There’s a guy I knew in Málaga in charge of the Granada office now. So I got to see a lot of really new stuff.’
‘And?’
‘Something’s up. A hell of a lot of the land around Jesús del Valle has changed hands recently. And in Sacromonte, the Cortijo de los Angeles and all the property close to it has been sold, with the exception of Paco Maya’s holding.’
‘And the new owners?’
‘Different companies, but every single one of them is Gibraltar registered.’
‘Well, well.’
‘Did you know, Max, Gibraltar has over thirty banks, twenty-eight registered companies, one hundred and fifteen lawyers … all effectively outside any financial regulations? It’s a giant money-laundering centre. And if you want any info, your request just gets shuffled between Gibraltar and Her Majesty’s Government in London.’
‘So, it could take months to get any info on these outfits.’
‘If we ever got anything hard and fast … but all these land sales are more than a coincidence. I’ll keep digging when I’ve got a bit of time. How about you?’
‘It all hinges on Gómez’s side trip round the Cortijo de los Angeles. Assuming the security guard’s timings are reasonably accurate, that detour accounts for at least fifteen minutes. So Gómez should have arrived at Paco Maya’s not much more than five minutes before Belinda and I got there, and Maya was definitely dead at 2 p.m.’
‘So providing the friend who says he walked with Gómez all the way from Sacromonte to the monastery isn’t lying, Gómez didn’t have time to argue with Maya, kill him, and destroy any evidence.’
‘So if Gómez didn’t do it, who did?’ Max refilled their glasses. ‘Roberto, what do you make of Navarro?’
‘Navarro? Honest opinion?’
‘Honest.’
‘I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. But why are you asking?’
‘Well, Navarro and I have had our differences in the past. Major differences. I got him suspended.’
‘I heard rumours about that.’
‘I wouldn’t like that to cloud my judgement.’
‘Go on.’
‘There’s something not right about the way he’s handling this case.’
‘I’m glad you said that. I thought it was just me. Somebody let that posh lawyer in to see the brothers before we got to interview them. Must have been bloody Che Navarro.’
‘Looks like it. Then there’s the missing tyre photo, and I’m sure someone switched the cigar ash I found outside Paco Maya’s cave to cigarette ash.’
‘And then Che pitched up with that photo just when we were interviewing the brothers.’
‘Curiouser and curiouser.’
‘He could have been bought, you know‚’
‘That’s what I’m thinking. I’ll have to talk to Davila on this.’
‘Be careful, Max. There could be a simple explanation. Accusing a fellow cop is pretty heavy.’
‘I know. But I have to tell Davila about my doubts on the times, so I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. But he won’t like it.’
Chapter 23
Margarita phoned Max at eight o’clock on Wednesday morning. She was happy. ‘I’m being discharged today.’
‘That’s great. Do you need a lift home?’
‘Thanks, but not now. Dad will be surprised, but Blanca finally persuaded me to stay with them for a couple of days.’
‘Is that a good thing?’
‘Sort of. It’ll be great to have a proper bath, and it’ll be nice to see Blanca.’
‘But?’
‘Dad and I will have a dust-up in a couple of days. So then I can go home.’
‘When can I see you?’
‘Dad’s sending a car round this morning. Give me a ring later on today. With a bit of luck the old bastard will be out of the house early evening, so you could come then.’
‘That would be great.’
‘Any news of Carlos?
‘Maite’s been to the hospital. He’s making progress.’
‘That’s really good. Okay. Have to go now. The consultant’s just arrived to sign me out. See you this evening.’
Max practised what he was going to say to Davila. He’d almost finished when Maite phoned.
‘That’s great, Maite. Sí, I can see you in the Gran Taberna in half an hour.’
Max walked to the Gran Tab
erna through the little streets behind the cathedral. Plaza Pasiegas had been cleaned up thoroughly and, apart from a scorch mark on one of the doors, no one would have known what had happened there two days ago. Now he walked along the side of the cathedral, between the Royal Chapel and the Casa del Cabildo, the original University of Moorish Granada, on to Gran Vía, and round the corner into Plaza Nueva. Maite was already perched on a stool at the bar, finishing a coffee. Max ordered two glasses of San Miguel. The beer arrived with a plate of tiny ham omelettes, hot from the pan, the Gran Taberna’s speciality.
‘Have you seen Carlos?’ Max asked her.
‘I’ve just been to the hospital, and he’s making progress.’
‘That’s good.’
‘Max, I’ve got a picture on my mobile. It’s a cop batoning Carlos. I’m going to give it to the press, but I wanted you to know about it first.’
‘Give it to me, Maite, and I’ll pass it up to someone I trust.’
‘I’ll send you a copy. I’ve also been through Carlos’s own pictures. Look here.’
It was a picture of Francisco Gómez. Right behind him was one of the men who Max was sure had thrown the first rocks. But the stone thrower’s ski mask had slipped. Max couldn’t be sure, but he looked like Salvador Lozano, one of the men under Margarita’s polio.
‘I recognize that guy. It could be Salvador from the Procession of the Virgin‚’ he said.
‘Sí,’ said Maite. ‘And if you look at the next picture, it could be his mate Diego jostling Francisco.’
Max looked. ‘It’s definitely Diego. What do you make of that?’
‘I don’t know. When we were two guys short for the last stage of the procession I asked Alejandro, my cousin, if he knew anyone who could help us out at short notice. He got in touch with David Costa who recommended two guys he said were experienced costaleros. They were Salvador and Diego.’
‘Did he now? Do you know anything about David Costa?’
‘Not much. Alejandro says he joined the Black Angels about a month ago. Apparently he’s very bright, and a good speaker.’
‘Don’t these Black Angels have some sort of vetting system?’
‘Not really. There aren’t many of them, so anyone with half a brain who turns up gets pushed forward. From what Alejandro tells me, they spend most of their time debating theory and attacking the Communist Party.’
‘Nothing much changes. I don’t suppose you know what these guys are studying?’
‘Alejandro said they’re all at the Business School.’
Max raised an eyebrow.
‘I know. It’s a phase some people go through. Ten years from now they’ll all be running banks.’
‘Gracias, Maite. This is really useful.’
‘You’ll find out more from the University Registry in the Hospital Real.’
Max paid for lunch, then took a bus along Gran Vía to the University Records Centre, based in the old Royal Hospital. He paused for a moment in the garden, admiring the building’s fine Renaissance façade. The statues of King Ferdinand of Aragón and his wife, Queen Isabel of Castile, gazed benignly down on the Moorish city they had conquered in the name of Spain, God and the Holy Catholic Church.
A porter escorted him through sunny courtyards and great carved stone doorways to the Records Office at the back of the building The clerk was reluctant at first, but called up the students’ files after she’d seen Max’s police ID.
‘You can only look at them here‚’ she said.
‘Here’s fine‚’ said Max. ‘I won’t be long.’
He wasn’t long. All three had been to La Escuela de Sierra Nevada, Granada’s elite Opus Dei secondary school. Max noted down their present addresses and telephone numbers. The two guys under Margarita’s palio were staying at the Opus Dei student residence behind the church of Santo Domingo in Realejo.
At five o’clock, Max phoned Margarita again. A woman with a Bolivian accent answered the phone.
‘I’ll put you through to Señorita Margarita’s room.’
‘Margarita‚’ said Max. ‘How are you?’
‘Sort of settled in. But I’m still really stiff and sore. And I’m going to be bored out of my mind.’
‘I could bring you that book.’
‘Would you? My dad’s definitely out early evening. Any chance of a good thriller?’
Max put the phone down, a smile on his face.
Back home, he hunted through his bookcases to find something to lend to Margarita. Perfect. The Spanish translation of Winter in Madrid by C.J. Sansom. He found a pretty card, one of Lorca’s pencil drawings of Harlequin with the Alhambra in the background. Max paused, and finally wrote: ‘Hope you enjoy this. It’s full of insights into the early years of the Franco regime.’
He paused, wondering how to sign it. Shy boys get nowhere. ‘Un abrazo muy fuerte. Love, Max.’
He slipped the book into a used jiffy bag, splashed some cologne on his face, and walked in the twilight to Margarita’s father’s house in Realejo. It was an old house up on Cuesta del Caidero, the approach to the Alhambra from the Realejo side. The garden was one of those he had often imagined from the street, with cypresses, a palm tree and sprays of tiny yellow roses which tumbled over the high walls. Somewhere, there was a fountain. Max rang the bell of a small door set into a modest white wall. A uniformed maid answered.
‘Señorita Margarita is expecting you‚’ she said.
Max followed her up the polished wooden staircase to the top floor. The maid knocked on the door.
‘The gentleman is here to see you‚’ she said.
‘Come in, Max‚’ Margarita called out.
She was sitting in a white armchair, wrapped in a large cardigan. Her face lit up when she saw him.
‘Max, thanks for coming so soon.’
‘How are you?’
The maid curtsied and left.
‘You see how my father is‚’ Margarita said. ‘We have to have a maid in uniform.’
‘That’s the way it is here if you have money.’
‘It’s so bloody bourgeois. She spends all day dusting and changing the curtains. She should be doing something meaningful.’
‘But it’s clean, safe work, and if you don’t have qualifications –’
‘She’s Bolivian, and the old git pays her peanuts.’
‘Bet she thinks it’s better than slogging her guts out in a sweatshop back in Bolivia.’
‘Sorry, Max, on the campaign trail again.’ She stretched and winced slightly. ‘But hombre, it’s good to see you.’
‘I’ve brought you a really good book. Winter in Madrid.’
‘What’s it about?
‘Brits in Spain during the Second World War, and what happened to Republican orphan children.’
‘That sounds like it could be interesting.’
Max settled into a heavy armchair.
‘Coffee?’
‘Please.’
Margarita rang the small silver bell which had been sitting on the side table. The maid appeared noiselessly. ‘María, could we have a pot of coffee, please?’
‘Sí, senorita.’ The maid disappeared as quietly as she had arrived.
‘Now don’t get too comfortable, Max. Dad and Blanca won’t be out for long. It’s probably easier if he doesn’t run into you.’
‘That’s okay.’
‘But there’s a good chance they’ll be going away to the villa in Marbella for the weekend. So I’ll have the place to myself.’
Max smiled.
‘Anything on Francisco?’ asked Margarita.
‘I haven’t heard anything definite yet. But I’m hoping he may be released soon.’
‘That would be some good news for a change.’
‘You’re looking tired.’
‘Sí, I’m still on painkillers and stuff to help me sleep. Look Max – it’s lovely to see you but you’ll have to go quite soon in case they come back early. Hope to see you Saturday. We can have a long talk then.’
They finished their coffee, then Max stood up and gave her a full kiss. ‘Chao, guapa.’
‘Chao, guapo. Hasta la próxima.’
The maid let Max out. He noticed discreet cameras all over the place as well as the guard outside. Don Faustino was certainly security-conscious.
On Friday morning, Max had a slot in Davila’s diary. 11.15 a.m. Clara smiled encouragingly when she buzzed him through.
‘Ah, Max. I trust this is important. I’m busy.’
‘It is, sir. I thought I should check out a few things on the Gómez case.’
‘Oh. I thought that was all pretty straightforward now. Apart from his confession. And that’s just a matter of time now.’
‘Maybe, sir. But I was worried about the timings.’
‘The timings?’
‘Sí. I’ve always been unsure –’
‘Romero, get to the point.’
‘Well, I … I thought it best to test the timing. I mean check the earliest time Gómez could have arrived at Maya’s cave.’
‘I don’t see the relevance of all this.’
‘I … I disagree, sir. I went back with a stopwatch on Tuesday. I tracked and timed all Gómez’s movements from when he left me at the monastery, to the time of the second sighting by the security guard after Gómez went round to the back of the cortijo.’
‘Don’t be so bloody long-winded. What’s your point?’
‘Well, sir, I have the timings written down here. I just don’t see how Francisco Gómez could have had the time to kill Paco Maya. The Forensics report clearly states that the time of death was between 1 and 2 p.m. The security guard at Cortijo de los Angeles saw him just before 1.45 p.m., and it takes barely five minutes to get from the cortijo to Maya’s cave, so the earliest Gómez could have arrived at the cave is ten to two. I was there at exactly two, and the man was already dead. So, I don’t see how Gómez could have had an argument with Maya, killed him and disposed of the evidence in the time available.’
Davila stared at Max in disbelief. ‘Are you a bloody idiot or something? Maya died of a heart attack, right? Gómez could have assaulted him any time earlier that morning. Maya hangs about unconscious or whatever, and then dies sometime between one and two.’
‘But sir, he had an alibi from the time he left his house in Sacromonte until he arrived at the monastery, and two sightings with precise times by the security guard at the Cortijo de los Angeles. It’s just impossible for Gómez to have done it either on his way out to the monastery, or coming back to Sacromonte. And if he’d harmed the man earlier in the day, why on earth would he have continued on to the monastery instead of going into town where he could be sure he’d be seen by enough people to establish an alibi of some type?’