A Darker Night

by P J Brooke

  ‘I did Rob Roy in my course. That would be great. I’ve always wanted to go there.’

  ‘And we can take the little steamer on Loch Katrine, and walk round Loch Achray where Scott set The Lady of the Lake.’

  ‘You make it sound so romantic.’

  ‘It is. Ready to go?’ said Max.

  ‘Sí. I feel so much better now.’

  Margarita tucked herself back into the passenger seat.

  ‘Max, do you have Gluck’s Orpheus in your car?’

  ‘I think I do. It should be in the glove compartment.’

  ‘I’d like to hear it again. Remind me of the lovely weekend we had together. Honestly, Max, I feared it might have been our last.’

  Margarita put on the CD, and rested her head on Max’s shoulder.

  ‘Not long now,’ he said.

  The road turned towards Granada, through the gentle Lecrin valley. Soon Max changed lanes for the turn-off. As he slowed right down, a black motorbike with a driver and pillion rider drew level with them. Margarita sat up, leaning forward to replay the lament for Euridice. There were two shots. Margarita slumped forward.

  A red stain spread across Max’s shirt.

  Chapter 32

  Max woke up in hospital. A nurse smiled down at him. He lifted his hand and touched a dressing on his forehead. He felt numb, and cold.

  ‘What’s your name, young man?’

  ‘It’s … it’s Max.’

  ‘You’re okay,’ she said. ‘Concussion, cuts and bruising. You’ve had an accident.’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘In a minute. You’re all right. Do you feel sick?’

  Max shook his head. It hurt.

  ‘That’s good. You’ll be fine. We gave you something to help you sleep.’

  ‘Margarita … the girl?’

  The nurse paused. ‘I’ll just get the doctor.’

  She returned with a grey-haired woman who sat by the side of Max’s bed and held his hand gently.

  ‘Margarita?’

  ‘There’s no easy way to say this. But I’m afraid your friend is dead. There was nothing we could do. I’m so very sorry.’

  Max faded into the bed. His eyes wouldn’t focus when he opened them again.

  The doctor was looking anxiously at him. ‘Are you all right? Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No. No, I’m fine.’

  ‘The police are waiting to speak to you.’

  ‘Let them in, please,’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I’m sure.’

  Comisario Chávez, Inspector Jefe Davila, Sub-Inspector Roberto Belén and Inspector Jefe Mario Cruz walked quietly into the hospital room.

  ‘Max, I’m so sorry. This is terrible,’ said Davila.

  ‘We’re all truly sorry,’ said Chávez. ‘Are you able to tell us what happened?’

  ‘Sí, I’m fine …’

  Max felt empty. The words of condolence were like little breezes, passing as soon as the words ended.

  ‘So what happened?’ asked Roberto gently.

  ‘Everything was going really well. We were on our way back to Granada. We were talking of going to Scotland – she was going to meet my mother. Then we slowed down to turn off the motorway … this motorbike drove up beside me with a guy riding pillion …’

  ‘Just take your time, Max.’

  ‘I’m fine, Roberto.’

  ‘We’ve spoken to witnesses, but nobody saw anything useful. Can you describe the men? Describe the bike?’

  Max shook his head. ‘Not really. They were in black leathers. Black helmets. Big black bike. Nothing distinctive. The driver looked into my window, then Margarita leaned forward to replay a track … Christ … she saved my life. They’d have shot me too if she hadn’t done that.’

  The cops stood around, awkwardly. Davila shuffled his feet. ‘Uhm … Some good news for you, Max. The disciplinary’s been binned. A most unfortunate mistake. You’ve done an excellent job helping to unmask this web of corruption. Bad business. And I’ve also given some thought to your promotion. I will strongly recommend you to be promoted to Inspector.’

  ‘Just get that fucking Carrington. Get the bastards who did it. Get the lot of them.’

  ‘We’ll get them,’ said Chávez.

  Max rubbed the dressing on his forehead, then shook his head helplessly.

  The nurse came over and took his pulse. ‘That’s all for now. We’ve got more tests to run.’

  ‘Okay.’ said Chávez. ‘We’ve work to do. Max, we will find them. And you’re taking some leave when you get out of here.’

  ‘But sir, I want to get back to work. I need to find them.’

  ‘I know how you feel, Max. But it’s an order. I’ve seen men return too soon. They think they’re fine, and then they crack up. Believe me, it’s for the best. Get away from it all. Take a holiday. We’ll find them. Just phone me whenever you like.’

  Mario Cruz hadn’t said a word. ‘He’s right, Max. I know this won’t do much good, but I’m so sorry. I never expected it to be as bad as this.’

  Max said nothing. The cops turned to leave. ‘Roberto, could you stay for a moment?’

  Roberto looked at the nurse. She nodded.

  ‘Where’s Carrington?’ asked Max.

  ‘We’re pretty sure he made it to Gibraltar. But now we’ve lost him. Mario phoned the Gibraltar authorities. But the buggers want an official report and request before they’ll do anything, and Carrington will be in Costa Rica before we get a reply.’

  ‘So all this “we’ll find them” was just bullshit?’

  ‘Maybe, maybe not. Mario said the Minister’s been on the phone twice. We’re doing our best, Max. The Espinosa brothers are helping with our inquiries. But they don’t know much. They’re still insisting they didn’t kill Paco Maya, and knew nothing about the shooting.’

  ‘Okay. Carrington was tipped off, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Could be. We’re working on it.’

  ‘Are all of Mario’s team straight?’

  ‘I’d swear by them.’

  ‘Then it must be some bastard in Granada.’

  ‘Si. Mario’s looking into it.’

  ‘I could help.’

  ‘No, Max. You’re off duty. Go away for a while.’

  Max paused. ‘You’re probably right, Roberto. I’ll try to get away for a couple of days, and then start looking for a new flat.’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  ‘But Roberto … this bent cop in the Granada force. Must be Navarro. But he didn’t know about the trip to Frigiliana, did he?’

  ‘Max, this is a difficult one. We’re convinced Chávez is the only person in Granada who knew where we were going.’

  ‘Chávez? I don’t for one minute …’

  ‘I know. He’s gone out of his way to help. But I’ve known stranger things.’

  ‘No. Not Chávez. No way.’

  ‘Think about it, Max. If anything strikes you, phone me.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll think about it. And Roberto, you’ve got all my numbers. As soon as you learn something let me know.’

  Roberto hesitated.

  ‘Roberto, promise me.’

  ‘I will, Max.’

  The next morning Juan, Paula and Isabel arrived as soon as the doors opened for visitors. Paula urged him to come over to Diva straight away, but he didn’t want the women fussing over him and explained that he’d decided to go away for a few days. In the afternoon Maite and Belinda came. They were wearing bright colours, but they wept when they saw him. They both understood why he needed to be alone, and Maite offered him her parents’ holiday flat in San José, Cabo de Gata. Max gratefully accepted, and Maite promised to bring him the address and the keys.

  ‘The funeral’s tomorrow,’ said Maite. ‘Margarita is to be buried in the cemetery on top of the Alhambra. None of us have been invited. But none of us want to go. Though I wondered …’

  ‘Thanks, I should go,’ said Max. ‘Do you know what time the burial is
?’

  ‘It’s at five in the afternoon.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘In the Patio de los Angeles. There’ll be a Mass next week, but we’re going to organize our own celebration of her life. It’ll be something special. Just like Margarita.’

  ‘I’ll be there,’ said Max. ‘When’s your celebration?’

  ‘Don’t know yet. Probably not for a couple of weeks. We’ll let you know.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘And we’ve got some good news. Carlos is a lot better. He should be out of hospital in a week or so.’

  ‘That’s great. Give him my very best when you see him.’ Max winced as he tried to sit up straight. ‘Belinda, could you do me a favour? I have to get out of this place. Tell the doctor I’ll be staying with you. Promise her you’ll keep an eye on me. Promise them anything, but I’ve got to get out.’

  ‘Will do. Maite, come with me. I don’t think my Spanish is good enough for this.’

  Belinda and Maite walked round to the nurses’ office. Max waited anxiously. The doctor came back with the two women twenty minutes later.

  ‘All right, Max,’ she said. ‘I’ll sign you off. But no rushing back to work. Just take it easy.’

  ‘I will. Belinda will look after me. And I’m going to Cabo de Gata for a few days’ rest.’

  ‘That’s sensible. You’re physically fit to travel, but don’t drive for a couple of weeks. Look after yourself. I’ll give you some mild sleeping pills, and if you have any problems your doctor will be able to help you.’

  His neck and shoulders were sore, his face was cut and bruised, but apart from that he was okay. Belinda fetched her car and they drove up the old Murcia road, through the city walls, and into the back of the Albayzín. She stopped off to get Max some bread and milk, then parked above his flat.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own tonight? You can stay with me, Max. I’ve got a spare bedroom.’

  ‘Thanks, Belinda, but I have to be on my own for a bit.’

  ‘All right. But if things get bad, just call me any time and I’ll come round.’

  ‘That’s very kind. I’ll be going to Cabo after the funeral.’

  Max still hadn’t wept.

  Chapter 33

  Pills may help sleep, but they don’t ward off nightmares. Especially the ones during the day. Dazed and groggy, Max took a taxi up to the cemetery in the olive groves above the Alhambra. The old cemetery entrance had just been rebuilt. Neat, modern and efficient, it could have been the entrance to an exhibition centre. People came and went, while a group of tourists huddled round a plan of the graveyard, anxious to find the sites which had been used as film locations.

  The Azul family mausoleum was in the second section of the cemetery, the Patio of the Angels. Like its neighbours, it was a pompous enclosure, walled and roofed in black marble.

  Max stood in the shade behind a ponderous carved angel, out of sight of the official party. As far as he could tell from the suits and furs following the coffin from the chapel, the mourners were just family and Faustino Azul’s business associates. Stony-faced elders stood around uncomfortably, but a youngish woman wept bitterly as the casket was placed in the waiting niche. More prayers were said, then Don Faustino locked the mausoleum’s gilded gates and his guests walked back to the cemetery entrance.

  When the family had left, Max went over to the tomb, bowed his head, and quietly thought of what might have been.

  As he returned to the gate, the final limousine purred out of the car park. An elderly gentleman limped out of the olive grove surrounding the cemetery, then stumbled and fell as he tried to cross the low wall between the path and the grove of trees. Max helped him to his feet.

  ‘Are you all right, señor?’

  ‘Si, thanks, I’m fine. But the Mayor’s gone and removed the plaque again.’

  ‘The plaque?’

  ‘Sí. Every year we put up a small plaque in memory of the Republican prisoners who were shot against that wall. And every year the Alcalde gets it torn down.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘My father was shot here along with another fifteen members of our town council. There was no trial, no nothing. They shot them like dogs. And the bastards still running the town hall refuse to remove a memorial to the Fascist leader, José Antonio Primo de Rivera, but won’t allow a simple ceramic plaque. You know, in 1936 two thousand Republican prisoners were lined up against this wall and shot, and there’s no mention of it anywhere. Not in the cemetery guidebook. Nowhere.’

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ said Max. ‘Thirty years after the return to democracy …’

  ‘I know. It’s hard to believe, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sí, but this is Granada.’

  Max walked home, still thinking about the murdered Republican prisoners. He looked round his beloved little flat. He would have to find somewhere else, so best just to get on with it. It would help keep his mind off Margarita. He phoned a buscador, an unofficial estate agent who made it her business to know what was for rent or sale in the Albayzin. Many of the old folk didn’t like estate agents, but were willing to trust someone they knew. The buscador promised to show Max what was available in three days’ time.

  The next morning, after another bad night, Max took a taxi to the bus station, and caught the bus to Almería. Soon, the bus was out of the suburbs and on the motorway that slashed through the mountains of the Sierra de Huetor National Park. Max stared blankly out of the window. The groves of Mediterranean pine shone dark green in the late morning sun, but the sight gave him no pleasure. He played some music on his iPod – things he’d listened to with Margarita. Then for two hours he stared out of the bus window, not eating or drinking, hardly noticing the strange lunar landscape of eroded rocks. The bus sped through Guadix with its caves, past the old film studios where the Clint Eastwood spaghetti westerns were made, then on to the dreary, dusty suburbs of Almería. The seat was uncomfortable and his back hurt. Everything hurt. He only had a couple of photos of Margarita, just a couple of bloody photographs and his memories.

  They arrived at the Almería bus station just in time for Max to catch the last bus to the little resort of San José del Cabo de Gata. The Easter tourists had left, and the small town was very quiet. Maite’s parents’ flat overlooked the sea and it was very comfortable. There was a pile of DVDs next to the TV and a bunch of CDs in a drawer, a mixture of classical and jazz.

  Max dumped his bag and went out in search of coffee, stuff for breakfast and a bottle of good Rioja. Back in the flat, he poured himself a glass of wine and took it out on to the terrace.

  His mobile rang. It was Roberto.

  ‘How are you feeling, Max?’

  ‘Not too bad, thanks. Any progress?’

  ‘We’ve got the bad guys in the Granada Anti-Fraud Squad, and Teniente Grandes as well.’

  ‘That’s good. Any idea who leaked to Carrington?’

  ‘No. Nothing yet. Nothing on Chávez. But the name “Che” has cropped up again.’

  ‘Fucking Navarro. It’s him. I’ll kill him with my bare hands!’

  ‘I didn’t hear that, Max. I’ll keep you in the loop.’

  That evening Max walked along the beach, and then down to the small harbour. He ordered the plain swordfish a la brasa, a side dish of potatoes and a carafe of white wine. He returned to the flat and sat on the small terrace, gazing towards Africa as the sea turned bright, blazing gold. Sleep was impossible. He sat hot-eyed, creasing the pages of the book he was trying to read. Then dawn was blue upon the waters.

  The morning was unseasonably damp, and the sun struggled to penetrate the mist. Max put on his old mountain jacket for the cliff walk to Playa de los Genoveses. He passed the lighthouse and the Guardia Civil building at the end of a promontory, and then turned upwards, through a clump of fan palms around the cliff face before the steep descent to the beach of Los Genoveses.

  As he rounded the headland to begin the descent to the beach, the su
n faded into swirling mist. And then a chill wind blew in from the sea. His chest tightened. Max rummaged in the side pocket of his mountain jacket for an inhaler. Damn. It was in the inside pocket. Max turned his back to the wind, and fished for his Ventolin. Stuck to the blue cylinder was a muddy piece of paper … the scrap of comic he’d found in the stream by Paco Maya’s cave. A sudden gust of wind almost blew the paper away. Max hurriedly put it back into the pocket, took a quick gasp of the inhaler, and turned back towards the village.

  After lunch he made a cup of coffee, stood looking out at the mist, and then rifled through the CDs. There was a recording of Purcell’s Dido and Aeneas. He put it on and sat with his coffee in a comfortable armchair, looking out at the mist rolling in from the sea. Purcell’s baroque tragedy of Dido, Queen of Carthage, touched him deeply.

  For the first time since Margarita’s death, Max wept.

  The journey back to Granada the next day was easier. He met his buscador in the café El Minotauro on Paseo de los Tristes late that afternoon. The flat she had for him was just up from Paseo de los Tristes on Calle Jazmin. It had a view of the Alhambra from one room, but otherwise it was dark, damp and expensive. Not even worth thinking about. And that was all she had within his price range.

  Max set off for home on a slightly different route, along Callejón del Paz. He noticed a workman, painting over the graffiti on the outside of a large house.

  ‘What’s happening here?’ asked Max.

  ‘A new owner,’ he replied. ‘Doing it up to rent.’

  ‘To rent? You don’t know how much?’

  ‘No, but the owner’s here. You could ask him.’

  The owner came down the stairs to greet him. ‘It’s two separate flats,’ he explained. ‘But I’m wanting to rent the place as a whole. You can sublet if you want.’

  ‘Can I see the flats?’ asked Max.

  ‘Sure.’