by P J Brooke
Back in the office, Max looked again at his notes on Navarro. Mierda, how blind he had been. Davila could fit the bill as well as Navarro, maybe better. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Trying hard to stay calm, Max went to Navarro’s office. The door was open and he was alone. Max knocked, and walked in.
Navarro grunted, ‘Oh. It’s you.
‘I just came to apologize, Ernesto.’
‘So you bloody should. But given the circumstances, okay. Davila told me you’ve been reinstated.’
‘Looks like it.’
‘And he’s recommending you for promotion.’
‘That’s what he said.’
Navarro shrugged. ‘Look, I’m sorry about the girl. And I’m sorry about arresting you.’
‘That’s all right. Argentina’s turn for the World Cup then?’
‘Sure is.’
They chatted about footie for a while before Max ventured, ‘Ernesto, I’ve been meaning to ask you. Who gave you that photo the day we were questioning the Espinosa brothers?’
‘Oh, those bastards. Enrique phoned me to say the lab had found the photo.’
‘And the security guard? You know, the one who said I’d put pressure on him?’
‘Scared shitless he was. No. Enrique asked me to interview him again, just in case you missed something.’
‘Did Enrique tell you where Roberto and I were on the day the girl got shot?’
‘No. I don’t think he knew. But come to think of it, maybe he did. He was really pissed off when you and Roberto did a disappearing act. And he said he would phone Chávez to see if he knew where you were. I didn’t hear what happened until the next day. What’s up?’
‘Oh, nothing. And thanks, Ernesto.’ said Max. He walked back to his own office, his heart beating against his chest. He had more than enough evidence. He phoned Roberto.
‘Max. I think you’re right. I’ll speak to Mario.’
A long fifteen minutes later, Mario called.
‘Max. You’re on to something. Do a report for Bonila and give it to him directly. I’ll speak to Bonila myself.’
Max took his report and Dr Guillermo’s note dating the rice bag round to Bonila’s office. Fortunately, the usual fearsome secretary was on holiday. The temp accepted it was urgent and took the report through to Comisario Principal Bonila immediately.
Max went back to his office to wait for Bonila’s response. The last time he’d blown the whistle, he’d been squashed, and this was going to be even worse. An anxious hour later, Max was summoned to the Comisario Principal’s office
Bonila was sitting very erect at his desk with Max’s report open, but face down.
‘Max, I’ve read your report carefully. Inspector Jefe Cruz from Málaga was just on the line. I appreciate the seriousness of the situation. I would never have expected this of Inspector Jefe Davila. In all the years I’ve known him, he’s been an honest officer.’
‘I’m sure he has, sir.’
‘Right, I’ll speak to him. There may be a simple explanation.’
An hour later Max was in Bonila’s office again. ‘Sub-Inspector Romero, the conclusions of your report have been proved correct. Inspector Jefe Enrique Davila broke down and confessed. This is extremely serious. He’s gone to his office to write out a statement. I’ll inform Comisario Chávez.’
Max stood at his office window, staring into the street, waiting for something to happen. His phone rang. It was Chávez, asking to see him right away.
‘Sub-Inspector, I understand that Inspector Jefe Davila has accepted the accusations made in your report. You know you should have come to me first.’
‘I agree, sir, but Inspector Jefe Mario Cruz told me to go direct to Bonila.’
‘I see. Do you suspect there might be anyone else involved? Navarro?’
‘I don’t think so now.’
‘Rotten apples in the barrel are bad news. I’ve even thought my phones are tapped. And that I was being followed.’ He looked Max in the eye.
‘I know nothing about that, sir.’
‘Hmm. Okay.’
‘And Francisco Gómez?’
‘Let’s wait a little longer. Then I’ll do a new report for the judge.’
‘So Gómez should be out soon?’
‘Probably.’
‘But we still don’t know who killed Paco Maya.’
‘That’s true. Where have you got to on the Maya case?’
Max summarized the situation.
‘All right then, Max. Keep plugging away.’
‘Could you tell me – what’s the situation with the three students?’
‘The palio incident’s going to be bloody messy if Azul put them up to it himself. Maybe the two priests or Gómez will make a formal complaint. But I really hope they don’t, because … well … it turns out that David Costa was being paid by the police to infiltrate the radicals and give us reports.’
‘I wonder who was behind that?’
‘The less you know about this the better. I’ve said too much already. It could be very bad for us if this emerged at the Committee of Inquiry into the demo.’
‘And Navarro?’
‘He’ll be reprimanded over the incident in the cathedral, maybe more.’
‘Yes, sir. I understand.’
‘Oh, and Bonila’s worried about Enrique. Could you ask Clara to get him a cup of coffee and keep an eye on him?’
‘I’ll go round straight away, sir.’
Max went to Clara’s office.
‘Oh, Max. What’s going on? Enrique looked really weird when he came back from seeing Bonila, and he seems to have locked his door.’
‘I think he may have had a difficult meeting.’
‘I’ll get him a café con leche from downstairs. He always likes that.’
Max went back to his office and flicked through a memo on recruitment policies. Personnel were concerned about the lack of Muslims in the Granada police force. There were none. Max stood up to stretch his legs. And then he heard a sudden loud bang. A gunshot? Jesus, Mary and Joseph! He jumped to his feet and ran towards Clara’s office. She stood shaking outside Davila’s door. She’d spilt the coffee down the front of her silk shirt.
‘Max?’ she said, crying.
Max shook the door. Navarro came running into the office
‘Coño. What the hell was that?’
It took three men to force the door. Max tumbled into the room. Davila lay slumped at his desk, revolver in one hand, blood splattered all over his papers.
‘Get an ambulance, quickly!’ Max shouted. But he knew it was too late.
Chapter 36
Max had promised to see Abbot Jorge before the funeral of Enrique Davila. He walked to Puente Maríano, then up the hill to the Abadía.
‘Come in, Max. You should have come to see me sooner‚’ said Jorge.
Max followed him to his study.
‘I heard what happened, Max. But tell me yourself now.’
For the next half-hour, Max poured his heart out.
‘Max, Margarita would want you to get on with your life. That’s the best cure.’
‘Sí, Jorge. I know, but it’s difficult.’
‘It is. But just concentrate on getting justice for Paco.’
‘And for Margarita. Look Jorge, I’ve got some questions.’
‘Go on.’
‘How much do you think the Archbishop and the Alcalde actually knew?’
‘Probably very little. No one will ever know now anyway.’
‘And Monsignor Mateo Bien?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘I know the man’s your friend, but it has crossed my mind that he might be involved in all this corruption.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I don’t think he would do anything so wicked.’
‘Can you be sure?’
‘No one can be sure of anything. He’s a Church politician. And he loves power … I know that. And a lot of people assume the worst about Opus Dei – the organization is too secretive
for its own good. But more than that, no. Mateo’s very committed to Opus Dei and he’s a genius at getting finance for their social projects.’
‘Would one of those be the San Roco Disability Training Centre in Guejar Sierra?’
‘His current pet project. Why do you ask?’
‘Nothing really. But I’m still not convinced.’
‘Then just drop it, Max.’
‘But the students who sabotaged the palio? They are Opus Dei.’
‘They went to the Opus Dei school, and Mateo makes a point of keeping in touch with his former students. Doesn’t necessarily mean anything.’
‘Jorge, it was sabotage.’
‘Idiotic recklessness. But that was Faustino Azul’s idea, wasn’t it?’
‘Just Faustino Azul? And it was more than reckless. It was damn near premeditated murder.’
‘It was bad. And Max, I accept I’m part of this whole bloody mess. I was greedy. I checked nothing. When we want something badly we become blind. I was naive. It simply never crossed my mind that the money for the Virgin’s cloak could be so tainted. But then it was Mateo who introduced me to Andrés Mendoza.’
‘Exactly. Did Mateo know Carrington?’
‘Not that I know.’
‘And the cloak?’
Jorge frowned. ‘Well, I was so busy I couldn’t get involved in commissioning the work, so Andrés offered to go to Seville with Mateo to discuss the cloak with the director of the workshop.’
‘And could Penélope Carrington have gone with him?’
Jorge paused. ‘Perhaps. Mateo showed me the proposed design for the cloak, and I was very happy with it.’
‘Do you have the phone number of the Seville workshop?’
‘No. But I know it was the Taller de la Viuda de Triana. It’s one of the best.’
Jorge was uncomfortable. ‘Before you go, let me show you the back of the Abadía.’
They walked round to the fire-damaged ruins behind the Abadía.
‘This used to be a school until there was a fire. It’s been empty ever since.’
‘And this is the building the Brotherhood of the Bell were offering to repair?’
‘Sí. But I heard that my dear friend Mateo had plans to turn it into a retreat centre for Opus Dei.’
‘And grab your property. How nice of him.’
‘Isn’t it. Maybe Mateo did a deal with the Archbishop. The Archbishop gets a Cardinal’s hat and Opus Dei get their centre.’
‘Could Mateo swing that one?’
‘Si. Opus Dei have a lot of influence in Rome.’
‘Bien’s a right tricky one, isn’t he?’
‘He is.’
‘So what is going to happen with this building now?’
‘I don’t know. Everything’s on hold. But now I’ve got no money for repairs. And the council will probably go ahead with the roads anyway. But I will fight that.’
‘Becoming a greenie?’
‘Sort of. There’s been too much destruction in Granada.’
Max glanced at his watch. ‘Okay, Jorge. Thanks for everything.’
‘De nada.’
‘I’ve got to get changed for Davila’s funeral. The police choir’s a tenor short now so I’ve been roped in for the funeral. I’m taking Davila’s place in the choir. Bloody ironic.’
‘I’ll see you there, then.’
Max returned to his flat, took his best uniform out of the dry cleaner’s bag, and polished his smartest shoes. Another funeral. Bloody Davila. Who would have thought it? An old Granada family. So well connected. And that’s why the bad guys wanted him.
Max phoned the workshop in Seville and spoke to the manager.
‘Bueno. The cloak for the Virgin of Sacromonte. One of our most important commissions this year.’
‘I understand a Monsignor Bien and a Don Andrés Mendoza came over to Seville to discuss the cloak with you.’
‘Yes, they did.’
‘Were they accompanied by anyone else?
‘Sí, two ladies. One was Don Andrés Mendoza’s wife, and the other, a Penélope something. I can’t remember. But she looked remarkably like Penélope Cruz. She caused quite a stir. The girls in the workshop all commented.’
‘Can you remember who made the final decision?’
‘If I remember rightly …’ The manager paused. ‘The process of commissioning is quite lengthy, you appreciate … We ended up with three options, and Doña Penélope strongly favoured the intertwined rose and pomegranate embroidery.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Nothing wrong with the cloak, I hope?
‘No, it’s beautiful. Very beautiful.’
The funeral was in the Renaissance church of San Jeronimo. The church was packed. Enrique Davila’s family had managed to get him the full works. The police choir were massed on the altar steps. The grieving family occupied the first pew on the right. And on the left were the high ranks of the three police forces, accompanied by the Alcalde and other dignitaries from the Ayuntamiento and the Junta de Andalucia. Behind them were a group of clerics, and then the congregation. The church lights blazed briefly, illuminating the gilded, painted, carved surfaces everywhere. It was only for a minute, but it was long enough for Max to catch Mateo Bien’s glance.
The bastard, thought Max. He must have known Rubén Carrington as sure as I’m standing here.
The Canon of San Jeronimo, accompanied by two other priests, began the Requiem Mass.
Bonila made a moving tribute to Inspector Jefe Enrique Davila. He made no mention of the case which was gripping Granada, or the suicide, of course. Instead he emphasized Inspector Jefe Davila’s dedication to his work, the extreme pressures of that work which led to his untimely death, and his care for the men under his command.
Max coughed, and then concentrated on the bones buried beneath his feet. Jesus Holy Christ. What a farce.
At Communion, the lights of the church came on again as the congregation stood up to shuffle towards the altar. Max checked the row of clerics. There was an empty space where Monsignor Bien had been.
Mierda. Max couldn’t leave until Mass finished. Then he’d promised to have a drink with Davila’s Homicide Unit.
The team met in the closest bar. It wasn’t a great place, but nobody cared too much about that. Clara had been crying. She shoved the crumpled tissue back in her bag, then gulped her mineral water thirstily.
‘Oh, Max. It’s only just dawning on me what damage Enrique had done. Sweet Jesus, I’m so sorry. And we’ve been told not to say a word.’
‘Me too. Bonila hauled me to his office to promise I wouldn’t say a word to the Press.’
‘Another drink, Max?’
‘Thanks, but I’ve go to go.’
‘Will the truth ever come out?’
‘Dunno. It’s not the priority.’
At the first opportunity Max made his excuses and left. There were no taxis in the street. Max hurried across town to the Opus Dei centre. This time he’d pin the bastard down until he got the truth. He rang the doorbell again and again. No answer. Max went for a coffee and then tried again. He was in luck. It was the same old man who’d answered the door last time he was there.
Max showed his police card. ‘I’m here to speak to Monsignor Mateo Bien.’
‘Ah. He’s left for the airport. He has a new post in Rome, you know. Such a holy man. He’ll go far.’
Max phoned the airport. The Ryanair flight to Milan ML 9347 had departed. It had a connection to Rome.
Chapter 37
It was Sunday, the day of Encarnita’s First Holy Communion. Max put the scrap of comic into the pocket of his best suit, and walked down to the Gran Vía. Isabel’s cousin, Eduardo, was giving him a lift to Diva. By the time they arrived at Diva’s twin-towered church, the organ was playing, and there were crowds of people in the street. Max and Eduardo squeezed into the church.
As the bells rang out noon, three priests in white robes walked down the aisle, accompanied by two altar boys
carrying huge candles. Behind them, a younger altar boy swung the ornate silver incense holder enthusiastically back and forth, letting out clouds of fragrant smoke. Then came the supporting players, well-scrubbed boys of seven or eight, dressed in uniforms of the armed forces, white prayer books grasped awkwardly in unusually clean hands. Then came the stars of the show, young girls in white, each carrying flowers and a silver rosary. Their faces were covered by veils, and their hands by long white gloves.
‘Look, there’s Encarnita‚’ Paula whispered to Max. ‘Doesn’t she look lovely?’
‘Yes‚’ said Max. ‘Poor kid. The Bride of Christ.’
Isabel looked disapproving, then smiled.
At the end of the service and the Mass, the Romero family gathered on the steps of the church. Paula had to be supported by Juan, her face pale, her body even more shrivelled than normal. She smiled bravely as she kissed Encarnita. Isabel was in her element, the silk roses on her hat dancing as she greeted everyone.
Leonardo appeared at Max’s elbow. ‘Tío Max, did you get the football tickets?’
‘I did‚’ said Max. ‘I have a good mate in the cops who knows how to find these things.’
Whooping with joy, Leonardo rushed off shouting, ‘Dad! Tío Max has got us the tickets for the match.’
‘Thanks, Max‚’ said Juan. ‘You have made one boy very happy. In fact two.’
The lunch was a banquet, a veritable banquet. Isabel’s entire family were there, friends, neighbours, relatives, even the bank manager and Paula’s doctor. There were almost as many people in the house as there had been on the day of Grandpa’s funeral. Max tried to keep out of the way. He didn’t want to put a damper on Encarnita’s big day. Nobody wanted to spoil the party. Nobody asked about Margarita. Nobody mentioned the Brotherhood of the Bell, either. It was as if none of it had ever happened. It was better that way.
The afternoon was lovely, so they could have lunch in the garden. Encarnita sat at the head of the top table, stroking the silken folds of her dress, slightly overwhelmed by all the attention.