by P J Brooke
The flats were small, but light and comfortable.
‘And here,’ said the owner, opening the back door, ‘is the garden. A courtyard, and three terraces.’
‘Wow,’ said Max. ‘It’s beautiful.’
They walked up to the top terrace, covered with a wooden pergola, and looked across to the Alhambra, glistening in the early evening sunshine.
‘And how much?’ asked Max. He whistled when the owner gave a price. ‘I’d have to rent out the flat downstairs. Can I get back to you?’
‘No problem. I haven’t finished decorating yet.’
Max took the owner’s card. Callejón del Paz was his only chance to get a view and a garden in the Albayzín. And gardening would be good for him. But he’d have to share it. Belinda might be interested.
Back in his flat, Max took out the piece of torn paper he’d found in his pocket on his walk to Playa Genovese. He examined it carefully, paused, then stared up at the Alhambra. It was a kid’s comic.
What the hell could that mean?
Chapter 34
Max arrived at police headquarters promptly at nine on Monday morning. He had missed his work. He was even beginning to miss Davila. Sargento Pedro was on desk duty as usual.
‘Max,’ he said. ‘I didn’t expect to see you back so soon. I’ve got something here for you. A woman left a parcel. Striking, she was. Looked like a dancer.’
‘Ah, sí. Thanks, Pedro.’
Max took the package straight to Forensics. Dr Guillermo had just arrived at work.
‘Max, I heard. Are you okay?’
‘I’m fine. Guillermo, could you do me a favour?’
‘Another one?’
‘Afraid so. Could you analyse this bag for me, and if possible date it?’
‘Seeing it’s you, Max. When do you want the results?’
‘Yesterday.’
Guillermo laughed.
Next stop, Roberto.
‘You should have taken more time off, Max.’
‘I couldn’t. I’ve given a lot of thought to Chávez. He’s been good to me. He knew everything that was going on. So yes, he had the information. But I still don’t believe he could be the mole.’
‘It’s hard to believe, Max. But he was the only one in the know. We’re tapping his phones. But so far nothing.’
‘Navarro?’
‘He’s still in the frame of course. But we’re convinced it had to be somebody higher up. I told Chávez you were returning today. He’s not pleased you’re back so soon. Don’t know if that means anything.’
Max’s mobile rang. ‘That was Chávez. He wants to see me.’
‘We’re acting as if everything with Chávez is normal. So don’t let anything drop.’
Felipe Chávez and Davila were waiting for him in Davila’s office.
‘Welcome back, Max,’ said Davila. ‘A bit better now, I hope?’
‘A bit. The break did me a world of good. So where have we got to?’
Chávez explained about the arrests. There was a long list of charges against prominent businessmen and various council officials and politicians – mostly bribery and accepting bribes.
‘There’s one other thing,’ said Chávez. ‘This possibility of corruption in our unit. We’ve arrested Grandes and some members of the Anti-Fraud team. But there’s this “Che” on the tapes. Enrique here was explaining that you think Navarro might have been tampering with the evidence on the Paco Maya case.’
‘I do, sir.’
‘Hmm. Anything else to add?’
‘Well, Navarro is Argentinian, and the nickname “Che” has cropped up. So it could be him. I’ve already mentioned a couple of other things to Inspector Jefe Davila.’
‘Sí. Sorry about that, Max,’ mumbled Davila.
‘That’s all right, sir. The murdered security guard told me he’d been leaned on by a couple of heavies, gitanos. They said there was no point in complaining to the cops as their boss had connections. High-up connections.’
‘Not that a … uhm … a gypsy would go to the cops in any case,’ said Davila.
‘Okay. Inspector Navarro knows your disciplinary has been dropped, and you’re back to work as usual. But not a word to him about our suspicions,’ said Chávez.
‘Of course, sir. And Francisco Gómez?’
The two senior cops looked at each other.
‘That’s a problem,’ said Davila. ‘The Espinosa brothers have solid alibis for the time of Paco Maya’s death, and we have no one else in the frame. To my mind, the death of Paco Maya and this … uhm … corruption issue seem separate cases. The judge is looking at the reports we’ve sent him.’
‘Yes, but why would Navarro tamper with evidence on the Maya case if they weren’t connected?’ asked Max.
‘If he did,’ said Davila. ‘Remember the evidence for that is very weak. I don’t want us to jump to conclusions.’
‘And Azul and Mendoza?’
‘They’re both out on bail for now. We’ll get them on bribery and tax fraud, but I doubt if they’ll give us any more on Carrington.’
‘Carrington still has all the cards, hasn’t he?’
‘We’ve got Europol on the case. They’ll be wanting to talk to you, Max.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Max’s office was much as he left it. He’d bring his plants, calendar, and bits and pieces back in tomorrow. Chávez wasn’t acting as if he had anything to hide. Max called up the Paco Maya files and went through them once again.
If the Espinosa brothers’ alibi was good, then somebody else must be involved. Person or persons unknown.
Dr Guillermo popped into Max’s office. ‘That was an easy one. There were traces of cocaine and a few grains of rice in the cotton bag you gave me. We can’t date the cocaine, of course, but the bag was barcoded … it’s about six years old.’
‘Thanks, Guillermo. Could you get me that in writing?’
Clara’s face lit up when Max stuck his head round her office door next morning.
‘Oh, Max. I lit a candle for you. Are you all right?’
‘Sí. Gracias a dios. Is the boss in?’
‘It’s good to have you back, guapo. He’s in his office. He’s worried about something. I think the rich widow is cooling off.’
Davila was behind his big executive desk, flicking through a pile of forms.
‘Ah, Max. This accusation that we have a rotten cop in our unit is bad news. You may be right about Navarro. Anything you discover, let me know without delay.’
‘Will do, sir.’
‘He’s looking very preoccupied,’ Max said to Clara.
‘Sí. There’s something on his mind.’
Max returned to his office and continued reading through the files on the Maya case. Nothing new struck him.
It took a lot of phone calls, but eventually the personnel offices of all the forces in Granada came up with three Argentinians: Inspector Navarro, one in the Policía Local, and one in the Anti-Corruption Unit. Max phoned Roberto once again.
‘I checked on that while you were away, Max. We’re looking into them.’
‘What do you think?’
‘Actually, I’m less sure now that Navarro’s involved.’
‘I’m convinced he is.’
‘Okay, Max. Keep pursuing that one then.’
Max took out his pad, turned to a fresh sheet of paper, and began to make notes. It must have been Navarro who planted the cocaine package in Gómez’s flat and sent the Espinosa brothers to threaten that poor security guard. And there was the ‘Che’ reference on the wire taps. Okay, there were two other Argentinians, but that didn’t rule out Navarro. Plus there was the old stuff – tampering with the cigar ash, the photos … But how did that bastard know they were going to Frigiliana?
Max looked at his watch. He’d promised to have lunch with Maite to discuss the memorial service for Margarita. They met in Plaza Romanila, behind the cathedral. Maite hugged him tightly. ‘We all miss her, Max.’
They sat outside the cafe La Ermita near the statue of the water carrier and his donkey. Maite wanted him to say a few words at the service. All Margarita’s friends were going to offer something, perhaps say a few words, read a poem or sing a song. Max eventually agreed to speak. He returned to his office heavy of heart. He wasn’t sure about the memorial service, even less so about speaking at it. He’d feel out of place. Better just to plant a tree in Jesús del Valle and leave it quietly to grow. Then he could always come and touch the tree when he needed to.
He sat there musing when his phone rang. ‘Dígame. Oh, Martín. Good to hear from you. I appreciate that. I’ll be fine. It takes time, I know. So how’s Special Branch then?’
‘Do you really want to know?’ Martín paused. ‘Max, I’ve got some news for you. You know I’ve been put on to the Carrington case? I’ve been pushing to get him extradited back to Spain. He may still be in Gib, he may be in London. I can’t find out.’
‘I appreciate what you’re doing.’
‘Well, I’ve heard back from MI5 to say they honestly don’t know where he is.’
‘Why MI5? Surely it’s a job for Europol?’
‘I’m coming to that. Apparently Carrington is on a retainer with MI5.’
‘What the …’
‘Si.’
‘But –’
‘Look, Max. Carrington’s one of MI5’s main sources of information on the drugs coming out of Colombia.’
‘Oh, sweet Jesus.’
‘It gets worse. He also keeps the spooks in the picture on Venezuela. Plus he’s the Venezuelan opposition’s main man in London. And British oil interests would love to see President Hugo Chávez kicked out.’
‘So what? We want Carrington for kidnapping and murder.’
‘Sí. But they’ve asked us to go easy on him.’
‘Jesus Holy Christ.’
‘He’s given them valuable information on the Colombian drug cartels. The Brits have offered to share that information with us if we back off. The Minister is keen to cooperate. He thinks this can help stop the flow of cocaine into Spain. In the long run that might save lives.’
‘And in the long run we’re all bloody dead. What about justice?’
‘Justice? This is politics. But I thought I’d let you know.’
‘Thanks, Martín. But can you tell the Brits from me that if I ever come across that bastard Carrington, I’ll kill him.’
‘I shall say no such thing. I’ll tell the Minister how disappointed you and the police are, but that you appreciate the delicacy of the situation. Keep in touch, Max. And don’t do anything rash. We honestly don’t know where Carrington is.’
‘Still in Gibraltar, I bet. I could pay a visit.’
‘Don’t be foolish. We’re pretty sure he left Gibraltar for London. And from there, who knows?’
‘Martín, are you being straight with me? Earlier you said he could still be in Gibraltar.’
‘I am being honest. We have a man in Gibraltar of course, and he’s convinced Carrington left under another name. And Max … Carrington’s type eventually come to a sticky end.’
‘Maybe, but eventually is not bloody good enough.’
Chapter 35
Roberto phoned Max at his flat that evening.
‘Si, I heard about the Carrington deal. But I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. Max, we’ll get that bastard one day.’
‘I hope you’re right, Roberto. But you didn’t phone about that, did you?’
‘No. Something’s cropped up on Chávez. Does he know Monsignor Mateo Bien?’
‘That Opus Dei creep? Not that I know of.’
‘Well, he’s arranged to meet him tomorrow. They are driving somewhere. He’s picking Bien up behind the Christopher Columbus statue.’
‘Christ. My gut feeling says Bien is up to his neck in all this shit. What do we do?’
‘Chávez doesn’t know my car. We follow them.’
‘You’re on.’
The next morning Roberto and Max waited, discreetly parked in Calle Pavaneras, next to Plaza de Isabel la Católica. Chávez was the first to arrive in his car.
‘Look, there’s Bien,’ said Roberto as the tall, thin priest in his cassock walked towards Chávez’s car. They followed the car as it went down to Carretera de la Sierra, and turned left towards Cenes.
‘Jesus, Mary and Joseph. They must be going to the monastery of Jesús del Valle, said Max. ‘What’s going on?’
But instead of turning up to Jesús del Valle the car sped on to the mountains in the direction of Pinos Genil, then turned upwards again towards Guejar Sierra. Max and Roberto looked at each other in surprise.
‘It’s a quiet road,’ said Roberto. ‘We’d better slow down and stay some distance behind them. We don’t want them to spot us.’
They went past the Canales dam, telegraph poles still visible where the village had been before it was flooded to build the huge reservoir of water from the snows of the Sierra Nevada. The car bypassed the village centre and stopped at a large prefabricated building on the other side of Guejar Sierra.
Roberto parked under a tree out of sight of the building. ‘Do you want me to skirt round the back?’ Max asked. ‘I could climb over this fence.’
‘Not yet. Let’s see what we’re dealing with first.’
Max and Roberto cautiously approached the entrance.
‘What the …’ exclaimed Roberto. ‘Look.’
Max read the plaque on the outside of the building. ‘The San Roco Disability Training Centre.’
Max and Roberto looked at each other sheepishly.
‘We’ve fucked up good and proper, haven’t we?’ said Roberto. ‘Chávez must be giving a talk. Let’s scarper before anyone sees us.’
‘But why go with Mateo Bien?’
‘Dunno. But then why not?’
They drove in silence back down the mountain. ‘Fancy a cerveza?’ said Roberto as they approached Pinos Genil.
‘Si. I need one.’
They sat beside the river, its waters glittering in the bright sun, ducks squawking around the rocks.
‘A Disability Training Centre. Bloody hell.’ Max shook his head.
‘Back to Navarro?’
‘Si. But I ain’t ruling out that cleric yet.’
‘Back to the drawing board. You know, Max, maybe there’s no connection between Paco Maya’s death and all this corruption business.’
‘I still think there is. I’ll go through the tapes of that meeting of the Brotherhood of the Bell – you never know.’
‘Sorry about this wasted trip. I was sure there was something.’
‘Me too. Another cerveza and a plate of papas al pobre then?’
‘Best idea we’ve had all day.’
Back in his office, Max checked the website for the San Roco Disability Training Centre, Guejar Sierra. There was a list of the centre’s financial supporters. It included Opus Dei, Granada. Ah well. So much for conspiracy theories.
Nothing for it but to listen carefully to the tapes of the Brotherhood of the Bell meeting. Max stopped the tape at Andrés Mendoza’s speech. He’d mentioned Paco Maya’s will. But how did he know that Paco had made a formal will? It wasn’t public knowledge. The only people who were aware of it were Max himself, Roberto, Navarro, Davila who would have told Chávez, Francisco Gómez, Catalina, and the lawyer who’d drawn it up. Could the lawyer have told Mendoza? Who knew?
Another dead end. He doodled on his pad. A new approach was needed. Maybe Clara might have picked up some gossip, or noticed something. She knew everything that went on in the office. Maybe Chávez and Navarro had become good buddies?
Just after two, Max and Clara met up in the Café Botanico, just by the old Botanical Gardens.
‘Max, I was just so shocked. I really don’t know what to say.’
‘Clara, that’s fine. I don’t want to talk about it.’
‘That’s okay then. But if there’s anything I can do …’
Lunch with Clar
a was more subdued than usual. But she did her best to make things seem normal, and almost succeeded.
‘How’s Chávez been?’
‘Marta, that’s his new secretary, told me he was pretty upset over what happened to you. And he’s working flat out as usual.’
‘How’s he getting on with Navarro?’
‘Che? Can’t stand him … nobody can. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh. No real reason. Let’s order. This is on me.’
‘In which case, I’ll have the steak with wild mushrooms.’
Max laughed. ‘On my salary? Okay, you’re on. So, what’s the gossip while I’ve been away?’
Clara served herself from the large bowl of baby lettuce with crisp garlic breadcrumbs and anchovies. ‘There’s even more to our Enrique than meets the eye. He drives out to that posh place, La Veleta, in Cenes for lunch. And guess what?’
‘What?’
‘There isn’t a rich widow.’
‘You mean you got it all wrong?’
She grinned. ‘It’s even better. My nephew, Pepe, started a part-time job as a waiter in La Veleta. Just lunchtimes – he’s a student, you know. Well … I asked him to keep an eye open for me.’
‘And?’
Clara leaned forward conspiratorially. ‘Enrique turned up with a young blonde bit. And she looked expensive. Very expensive. Pepe said he could hardly keep his paws off her.’
‘Now, that is a good piece of gossip, Clara. Our Davila. Pillar of the Church. Who would have thought it?’
‘Not in a million years. There’s hope for all of us then. How about pudding and a digestivo, Max?’
They gossiped over good coffee and then returned to their offices. Max phoned Raimundo in Málaga on his personal mobile.
‘Can you check all the calls made or received by Inspector Jefe Davila and Inspector Navarro from the time we suspected Carrington until Margarita’s death.’
‘They are your line managers, Max.’
‘Sí, I think I’m on to something.’
‘Vale. Mario’s got blanket authorization from the Minister, so we should be able to get the go-ahead.’
An hour later, Raimundo called back. Max wrote down the numbers, put the internal phone directory in his bag, and slipped out to a quiet bar. He found a table at the back and started to go through the list. Davila had called Teniente Patricio Grandes in the Mayor’s office, and then half an hour later Grandes had rung Davila back. Max checked the times. It was when the cops were on their way to Frigiliana, and Margarita was inside Rubén Carrington’s villa.