by P J Brooke
‘Romero, how long have you been in the force now? Witnesses are never reliable. Fifteen minutes, half an hour one way or the other. Es igual. They never have a fucking clue when it comes to it. You are wasting your time and mine. Anything else?’
Max paused. ‘Sí, sir. There’s a matter about Inspector Navarro.’
‘Inspector Navarro? What matter?’
‘Well, there’s … there’s something not quite right.’
‘Not quite right? Get on with it. What do you mean?’
Max spoke rapidly. ‘From the very beginning Inspector Navarro assumed Maya’s death was an accident, and then as the case progressed he seemed to be constantly putting up obstacles to its progress.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well, I … I just think, sir, there’s something suspicious about Navarro’s handling of this case.’
‘What are you talking about, Romero?’
Max summarized his doubts about Navarro. Davila listened in silence.
‘Is that all, Romero?’
‘Sí.’
‘You have just suggested that a senior officer might have tampered with evidence in a murder case.’
‘I … I …’
‘That is what you are implying, Romero. Inspector Navarro’s out of his office until Monday morning. I shall phone him. And you can make your points at a meeting with both Inspector Navarro and myself. That will give you time to reconsider some of the suggestions that you’ve just made.’
‘With respect, sir, all I’m stating are facts. It’s the truth I am after.’
‘La verdad? We have the truth. You can go now, Romero.’
Chapter 24
Just before two o’clock on Saturday, Max put on his favourite white shirt, the Adolfo Dominguez jeans and his black linen jacket. He picked up the CDs he’d bought for Margarita, slipped a book into the bag, and caught the bus to the top of Realejo. This time Margarita answered the door herself.
‘I’ve given the maid the rest of the weekend off.’ She nodded at José, the security guard. ‘He’s all right,’ she said to Max.
‘How are you feeling? You look a lot better.’
‘I’m feeling better, but I’m still a bit sore.’
‘I love the top. The colour really suits you.’
Margarita was wearing a rose-coloured silk top, which almost hid the bruises.
They walked across the jasmine-scented courtyard and paused at the fountain. Max kissed her gently. ‘Have you any news on Carlos?’
‘I phoned Maite this morning. The hospital says he’s stable.’
‘So that’s good.’
‘Better, but not good really. I’ve said a prayer for him, and I’m not exactly a practising Catholic these days.’
‘So have I.’
‘Strange, isn’t it? It all comes back to you in a crisis. I always pray for my friends when they have serious problems, you know. But I would never ask anyone to pray for me.’
‘I understand.’
The salon of the Azul family home was impressive, but heavy. Serried ranks of oil paintings rose above carved, gold-upholstered furniture, and the view over the city was obscured by layers of ruffled lace curtains. There was a laden drinks trolley in one corner.
‘Can I get you anything to drink? The orange juice is good, and there’s sherry if you fancy something stronger.’
‘Orange juice is fine.’
Margarita poured the juice into fine Baccarat crystal glasses.
‘I’ve brought you another book. I think you’ll like this one.’
Margarita glanced at the title. The Soldiers of Salamis by Javier Cercas. That’s the one about the Falangist poet at the end of the Civil War, isn’t it?’
‘The very one.’
‘Thanks. I’ve wanted to read this for ages. I like your taste in books. Sit in the armchair there, Max, and tell me how you’re getting on.’
‘Not well. Things are difficult at work.’
‘Tell me what you can. Maybe I can help.’
Max hesitated. ‘I didn’t want to upset you earlier. But Francisco’s being held for questioning in relation to the death of Paco Maya.’
‘Paco Maya? Catalina’s brother? He can’t be. No. If you knew Francisco, he just couldn’t have killed anybody. Oh, why are you cops so bloody stupid?’
‘Stupid some of the time. But not always. I can’t go into detail …’
‘Of course.’
‘Look, Margarita, there is a case against him, but it isn’t that strong. I’m keeping an open mind. My boss isn’t.’
‘Mierda. Maybe I should have told you this earlier. When I had the mega bust-up with my dad –’
‘The one when you were eighteen?’
‘Sí. I left home and shacked up with Francisco.’
‘With Francisco?’
‘He’s quite something, you know.’
‘No, I don’t know.’
‘Oh, Max. Don’t be jealous. It was a long time ago. He’s impossible to live with. I was up half the night typing bloody pamphlets and making coffee while he and his mates had long discussions about Deep Ecology.’
‘And your father?’
‘He hates Francisco. Hates him like poison. Between the campaigning, and corrupting his innocent little girl, he’s had the knife into him for years.’
‘I see.’
‘Anyway. I know Francisco well, and he’d never harm anyone. How could you guys even imagine it? Christ. I need a drink.’
‘I’ll get it.’
Max carefully pushed the drinks trolley across the polished wooden floor and parked it next to Margarita. She topped up her orange juice with a slug of vodka.
Max explained the gist of the case. But he didn’t mention Paco’s cocaine stash.
Margarita listened intently. ‘So what’s Francisco’s motive?’
‘That’s the problem. There isn’t one except this bloody will and Deed of Gift. The police are banging on about that stupid lie and how Francisco would do anything to save Jesús del Valle.’
‘Idiotas.’ Margarita sipped her drink. ‘Shall I play one of the CDs you brought? How about Orpheus?’
‘Sí.’
The CD slipped into the splendid sound system hidden inside an ornate cabinet. She finished her orange and vodka.
‘That’s good. I feel a bit better now. Let’s organize lunch before we get wrecked.’
Max followed her into the kitchen. Gluck’s wonderful opening chorus echoed through the house.
‘Do you need any help?’
‘I’m fine, thanks. I just have to shove all this in the pan, turn up the heat, and it’ll be ready in twenty minutes. Fancy an olive?’
‘Thanks.’
While Orpheus descended into Hades to rescue Euridice, pork loin, chicken, squid and Sanlucar prawns followed each other smartly into the pan. Then came Valencia rice, and a precise half-litre of hot, saffron-scented stock. When the rice was almost cooked, she stirred in steamed mussels, carabinero prawns, finely chopped parsley, and the juice of a lemon.
‘Vale, mi amor. Could you set the table in the torreón? It’s cooler there. Everything’s ready in the baskets.’
‘You okay with steps then?’
‘The physio wants me to walk as much as I can. I’ll be fine. I just have to be careful with this shoulder.’
Max set the table in the small tower which rose from the terrace, then carried up the food. The top floor of the torreón was open on two sides, one overlooking the city, the other, the Alhambra woods and the Sierra Nevada. Maximum view, maximum privacy.
‘Some view you have here. Nearly as good as mine.’
‘I must see your flat soon.’
‘Compared with this, it’s very modest. And I have to move out soon.’
‘Well, I could help you look for somewhere.’
Max admired the roof of the torreón, carved wood in the mudéjar style.
‘Is that original?’
‘If only. No, probably nineteenth-century
.’
‘This paella is excellent.’
‘Just to prove I can cook. Mi abuela always said the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.’
The wine was Blanc Pescador. There were two bottles in the icebox.
‘So what did you make of Winter in Madrid?’
‘Haven’t finished it yet. But I’m enjoying it. And I’m learning a lot about my own country. The description of what happened to the Republican orphan children is horrific.’
‘It is. It’s taken us seventy-odd years to start to get to grips with the Civil War and the Franco regime.’
‘And it’s often foreigners who are unearthing the stories. Not Spaniards.’
‘You know, my great uncle Antonio, that’s mi abuela Paula’s brother in Diva, he disappeared in August 1937.’
‘That’s terrible.’
‘He’d walked to Diva from Granada, and was trying to get to the coast, but he got picked up in Banjaron and was shot a couple of days later.’
‘Oh, how awful.’
‘We only found out the full story a couple of years ago. We think he was dumped in a fosa común outside Diva. The family is still divided over whether we should dig to try to find his bones. As for the Church …’
‘I know. Incredible, isn’t it? I have a great aunt who’s a nun in the Carmelite convent down in Plaza San Juan de la Cruz.’
‘The Barefoot Order?’
‘The very one. We visit her twice a year. And Sansom’s book got me thinking. She was adopted. Maybe she was one of those poor babies who got taken from Republican parents and handed over to Nationalist families.’
‘Could be. We’ve all got skeletons in our cupboards.’
‘Mine more than most, Max.’
A phone rang downstairs.
‘I’ll get that, and make some coffee.’
Margarita walked carefully down the stairs. The phone stopped ringing. Then it rang again. She returned, looking shaken and angry, without the coffee.
‘Max, oh, Max.’
Max put his arms round her. She wiped her eyes.
‘What happened, girl, what happened?’
‘I picked up the phone in the kitchen, and this guy asked for Señor Azul. I replied that Señor Azul was away for the weekend. The line was breaking up a bit, and he must have thought I was the maid. He asked me to tell Señor Azul that Salvador had phoned. Bloody Salvador!’
‘The Salvador under your palio? One of the guys who slipped?’
‘Sí. I’m sure. I recognized the voice.’
Max thought of his list of connections. There was now an arrow linking Faustino Azul to Salvador, and thus to Diego.
‘Oh, Max. Don’t you get it? My own father sabotaged my palio. The mad bastard could have killed me.’
‘No way.’
‘He bloody did. He didn’t know I’d be under the palio. I only became a costalera when Lidia pulled out.’
‘I see. Just sit down, Margarita.’
‘I can’t believe it. The bastard.’
‘Look, there could be another explanation.’
‘What?’
‘The third guy on that photo I showed you is an Opus Dei cleric, Monsignor Mateo Bien.’
‘So?’
‘Salvador knows your father. David Costa, Salvador and Diego all went to the Opus Dei school in Granada. And Salvador and Diego stay in the Opus hall of Residence in Realejo. There’s an Opus Dei connection.’
‘Max, I just don’t buy that. I thought you only read good books. The Opus boys are just a bunch of sex-starved idiots. The real connection is my father.’
‘Maybe.’
‘You told me you have a photo showing Salvador standing just behind, flinging the first rocks at the police. If my father wanted to make a laughing-stock of Francisco over the procession and then fix him up on the demo, he’s done really well.’
‘Just hang on. Mateo Bien’s name keeps cropping up.’
‘All right. You should go and talk to that bloody priest then.’
‘I will. Another drink?’
Margarita knocked back her glass of wine and stuck out her hand for another one.
‘I’ll get the coffee‚’ said Max.
He returned with a pot of filtered coffee.
‘I’m sorry, Max. I didn’t mean to have a go at you.’
‘I still don’t see why your father would sabotage your palio. Christ knows what might have happened.’
‘You have to understand my father. He’s impulsive. A bully. And used to always getting his own way. I bet he thought he had a good idea and didn’t think it through. If he made Francisco look an idiot, that could have killed two birds with one stone.’
‘So your dad’s involved in Jesús del Valle?’
‘Could well be. My dad – it’s not a nice thought to have going round your head.’
‘Maybe there’s another explanation.’
‘No. See, my father, mostly he’s a complete shit, but you know … he’s still my dad. What a bloody family. My mother committed suicide, you know.’
‘You told me.’
‘He wanted her to be a lady of leisure. But after I started school, she wanted to finish her art degree. My father refused.’
She cried again. Max hugged her tight.
‘So mother started taking private art lessons. My father hit the roof when he found out and accused her of having an affair with the teacher. My bloody father. He’s always had his mistresses.’
‘Why didn’t she leave him?’
‘Women like her just didn’t. Then she got hooked on antidepressants, and finally took too many.’
‘I’m so sorry.’
‘And my father is treating Blanca the same way.’
‘She’ll be all right. She’s got you.’
‘Max, your parents divorced, didn’t they?’
‘Yes. My mother’s Catholic, like my dad. But she didn’t grow up under Franco. So she had more opportunities, you know.’
‘That’s good. Hell. If I’m not careful, I’ll spend the afternoon moaning. Just change the topic and talk about something nice. Books and music. Let’s enjoy the view. Just look at that sky.’
They talked until the sun began to set behind the Alhambra.
‘Vale, guapo. I think I could manage a little walk. How about we get the bus to Sacromonte for tapas and vino?’
‘Sí. But in moderation, this time.’
Margarita laughed. ‘You’re really quite sweet when drunk. Shame you can’t dance.’
They got off the bus at the School of Arabic Studies, and walked up the Camino de Sacromonte as views of the Alhambra appeared and disappeared beyond garden walls. The cave bar, Pibe, had an empty table and chairs on its outside terrace. Zaíd, the friendly Moroccan waiter, smiled at them both.
‘I didn’t know you two knew each other. It’s been too long since I’ve seen either of you.’
‘Sí. Two white Riojas, please.’
Zaíd disappeared into the little whitewashed bar, which had been tunnelled into the hillside, and returned with two glasses of chilled white wine and a plate of cold prawns.
‘Do you know, I had a Californian wine producer here the other day. He took photos of this cave, the views of the Alhambra and the views down the Sacromonte valley. He’s just sent me an email. He’s going to call one of his wines after the bar, Pibe.’
‘That’s great‚’ said Max. ‘Maybe one day the bar will appear in a book.’
Max and Margarita finished their wine and crossed the road to gaze at the green damask hills caught in the evening light. The lamps of the Renaissance Cordova Palace and its gardens gleamed below them, and the Alhambra, floodlit in green and gold, shone brightly, directly across the valley.
‘You know, Max, I once stood here to watch the Paso de los Gitanos. I can’t stand the Church. But Los Gitanos is always worth watching.’
‘It certainly is. This year, I was with a bunch of VIPs at the bottom of Cuesta del Chapiz.’
‘How
come you got to sit with the poshies?’
‘The Abbot of Sacromonte’s a good friend.’
‘Really?
‘It’s a long story. Anyway he invited us over.’
‘So who were you sitting with? Anyone famous?’
‘Well, there was this woman who looked just like Penélope Cruz. Same first name, too. And a rich lawyer, Andrés Mendoza, with his wife.’
‘And Javier Bardem? Gael García Bernal?’
‘Dream on, girl. Anyway, the lawyer was there because he’d donated a new cloak to the Virgin.’
‘Why would he do that?’
‘Dunno. Maybe he thought it would give him a VIP pass to heaven.’
‘Weird. How medieval can you get? Better to give money to the poor.’
‘But that’s Granada for you.’
‘Right, one more at Kiki’s. And that’s your lot, young man. Can’t have you getting drunk. You never know what might happen.’
They walked slowly along the Camino del Sacromonte, past the famous flamenco zambras of La Faraona, La Fragua and El Rocío. They climbed up the steps at Barranco de los Negros until they came to Kiki’s cave with its terrace overlooking the valley to the Comares Tower and the towers of the Alhambra Fortress.
‘Good to see you, Max,’ said Kiki. ‘And you too, Margarita. Didn’t know you knew each other.’
‘Granada’s a small place.’
They had two glasses of Kiki’s best white, and a bowl of almonds and another of olives.
‘Is there anything new on the Paco Maya case?’ asked Kiki.
Max glanced at Margarita. ‘There have been a few developments. But still no breakthrough yet, I’m afraid.’
‘Francisco Gómez has been arrested, hasn’t he? I can’t say I agree with everything he does, but I tell you, I was shocked. He lives round the corner, you know. Just can’t imagine him doing anything like that.’