Garcia noted something onto the open page of his notepad. ‘I understand that you and Miss Johansson did not get the opportunity to finish your meals?’
‘Alas not.’
Garcia feigned a look of concern. ‘And the food there is so good. A shame. Still, maybe they will let you back again. If you apologise.’
Blackman appeared not to welcome the suggestion, glancing once more at the uniformed officer. ‘But surely a captain of the Guardia Civil can’t be here about that trifling matter?’ he replied.
The Inspector held Blackman’s gaze for a few seconds, smiling - one of his favourite techniques to unsettle a suspect - before responding. ‘Tell me, Mr Blackman—’
‘Please, no need to be so perfunctory. You can call me Harry.’
‘As you prefer. Now, did you happen to take note of the heated argument that took place at a table close by your own?’
Blackman shook his head, a hand lifting up from the arm of the seat - fingertips scratching at his clean-shaven chin. A contrived action, thought Garcia.
‘Not that I remember,’ said the Englishman.
‘It was about the same time that you were arguing with the two German men,’ Garcia offered.
‘I’m afraid I don’t recall,’ said Blackman, with an apologetic shrug.
Garcia scribbled a brief note. ‘It’s no problem. I’m just trying to piece together what happened.’
Blackman appeared unfazed, eyes tight on Garcia’s as if awaiting the Inspector’s next move.
‘Do you know Mr Manfred Weber? His house is on this side of the valley, about two kilometres west from here.’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t had the pleasure.’
‘He was also in the restaurant that night.’
Blackman shook his head, hands before him in an open position.
Garcia watched the Englishman, glanced at Officer Ramos, then looked back to the Blackman. ‘Mr Weber was found dead this morning.’
Blackman suddenly seemed a lot less sure of himself. His eyes darted between the two Spaniards.
‘A heart attack, the doctor thinks,’ said Garcia. ‘We will hopefully know more when they do the autopsy. It was Mr Weber’s son that found him. In his stables.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Blackman said, somewhat ashen-faced. ‘But I fail to see what it has to do with me.’
Garcia leafed back a few pages in his notepad. ‘One of the two gentlemen that escorted you from the tavern, a South African man, seemed quite certain that these things were somehow connected.’
‘But that’s ridiculous!’
Garcia smiled. ‘That was also my reaction.’
Blackman shot the Inspector a confused look. ‘In which case, why then are we talking about this, may I ask?’
‘Well, another witness who was eating at the Tavern that night, reported that he thought he saw you arguing with Mr Weber?’
Blackman blinked, sucked in an indignant breath. ‘I did no such thing.’
‘You are quite certain?’
‘Absolutely.’
The Inspector pretended to scan the writing in his notebook. No witness had, in fact, claimed to have seen Blackman speaking with the since-deceased German, but Garcia found that the triggering of shock and outrage often led those being questioned dropping their guard to reveal useful titbits otherwise kept secret.
‘Do you speak German, Señor Blackman?’
‘A little, yes.’
‘You were in the British Army?’
‘Yes,’ said Blackman.
‘And you picked up your German language skills during the war?’
Blackman nodded. ‘Yes.’
‘As did I,’ Garcia replied. ‘A different war, but the same Germans.’
Blackman moved forward on the armchair, hands interlocked on his lap. ‘If there is something specific, I can—’
‘I think maybe it is relevant,’ said Garcia, ‘Because, according to Mr Stangle - that’s the South African gentleman who asked you to leave - you shouted at him in German…now let me see, ah yes… “Jedem das Seine”. Do you know what that means?’ Garcia kept a straight face but inside he was smiling. This part of the witness’s statement was accurate, and an accusation so specific could not be convincingly denied.
Blackman sank back into the armchair. ‘I said it, didn’t I?’
Another scribble in the little black book. ‘And can you tell me what it means, Mr Blackman. If you don’t mind?’
‘Literally, it means, “To each what we deserve”.’
‘ “To each what we deserve”,’ Garcia repeated. ‘An interesting phrase, indeed. Quite specific. Tell me, Mr Blackman. Why did you say these words to Mr Stangle?’
‘I can’t say that I remember.’
‘Please, do try.’
‘Well, probably it was a derogatory phrase I heard over there, during the war.’
Garcia gave the exchange another measured pause before continuing, ‘It was welded into the gates of the Buchenwald concentration camp, was it not?’
Blackman’s mouth opened and he glowered at Garcia. ‘You are well-informed, Inspector.’
Garcia shrugged, puffed out his cheeks, and glanced at Officer Ramos. ‘Maybe I am not as informed as I should be?’
‘Is that not true of all of us?’ said Blackman.
‘I suppose it is.’ Garcia engineered a knowing smile, then turned his head towards the open living room and the kitchen beyond. ‘You have a beautiful home here, Mr Blackman.’
‘Thank you. I think so, too. Although I cannot claim any credit. I merely paid for it.’
‘Oh, you should not underestimate the ability of some people with money to pay for quite ugly things,’ said Garcia. He returned his attention back to his notebook and sucked his teeth, contemplating.
‘Will that be all then, Inspector?’ said Blackman after several seconds, puncturing the silence.
The Spaniard pushed himself up from the low settee, smiled at Blackman for a moment, then offered out his hand. ‘Indeed, I will let you get back to working on that lovely car of yours. Thank you for your time. I apologise for the disturbance.’ Blackman rose to escort the two policemen to the front door.
As they stepped onto the porch, Garcia spotted the Norwegian woman, Liv Johansson, standing under a lemon tree across the garden. She was talking to the Gardener, her back to the Inspector. Garcia had noticed her around the pueblo on several occasions, but had never had the opportunity to speak with her. She glanced at him for a moment, her left hand on her hip, her right hand running through her hair, and for the briefest, most delicious of moments, he saw the face of his deceased wife.
She turned back to the gardener, and Garcia rubbed at his eyes. ‘Ah, one more question, if I may?’ Garcia said. ‘What is it that Miss Johansson does for you, exactly?’
‘She took care of the purchase of the house on this side while I was in England, then oversaw the repairs and redecoration.’
‘You did not want to handle things yourself?’
‘Captain Garcia, I had a business and a house to sell in England. I have accomplished many things in my life, but even I cannot be in two places at the same time.’
Garcia laughed. ‘That would indeed be difficult.’ He started down the steps, but paused once again. ‘Oh, if you do perhaps recall anything else about that night, please do call me.’ He held out a small card. ‘My details are on here.’
‘Of course,’ Blackman said. He took the card, dropping it straight into the breast pocket of his shirt without looking at it.
‘The police station is in the pueblo,’ Garcia said as he began to walk away. ‘You can always find me there. Day or night. I am “wedded to the job”, you might say.’
Liv Johansson stood under the shade of the lemon tree, watching the Inspector and his younger colleague as they made their way down the driveway to the dusty old patrol car.
‘You should tell Mr Blackman to be careful with that one,’ said Manolo from a few yards away, where he
was currently bent over, engaged in a tussle with the remains of a long-withered vine.
Liv kept her eyes on the departing policemen. ‘The Inspector? Why do you say that?’
‘I call him The Owl.’
‘The Owl?’ she said, turning back to the gardener.
‘Uh-huh. Because he sees everything.’
She glanced back to see the Inspector clamber into the car. He glanced at her and smiled.
‘Manolo?’
‘Si?’
‘Why do you say Mr Blackman should be concerned? He has nothing to hide.’
The gardener grunted. ‘This is Spain, señorita. Everyone has something to hide.’
19
Resolute
Somewhere in the Atlantic
November 7th, 1942.
HMS Bulolo ploughed through the dark Atlantic waters towards the straits of Gibraltar, under the welcome cover of a bulbous blanket of grey that stretched from one horizon to the other.
Flanked by two Royal Navy frigates, the ship which had formerly been an armed merchant cruiser and before that a cargo steamer, was now operating as the landing ship headquarters for the British component of Operation Torch, the Allied invasion of North Africa.
Down below, just under the waterline, in a smoke-filled briefing room that had once been the baggage store for civilian passengers, Commander Ian Fleming of 30 Assault Unit stood before a dozen of his officers delivering his final mission briefing. A group of overlapping maps of the North African coastline had been pinned together on the wall behind him.
Fleming was in full flow when his adjutant handed him a folded note. He scanned the message without pausing, but then glanced briefly at Lieutenant Blackman, who was sat in one of the middle rows in front of him.
Blackman was striving to project a calm and assured exterior to his fellow officers, but inside he harboured an intense, nervous excitement. This mission was to be his first opportunity to get back at the Germans since his escape from the beaches at Dunkirk more than two years earlier. He had transferred to the Commandos late in 1940 and to his surprise Fleming had personally selected him to lead a special reconnaissance raid on an enemy radar installation early the next morning.
‘Any further questions, gentlemen?’ asked Fleming, his gaze rapidly darting across the faces of each one of the assembled junior officers. ‘Well then, Godspeed to you and your men. This is what you’ve all trained for. Do your jobs, carry out your orders to the best of your considerable ability, and give Jerry a dose of his own medicine. Dismissed.’
Blackman rose along with the rest of the junior officers and started towards the exit at the rear, but froze when he heard the Commander’s voice calling his name. He looked back to see Commander Fleming beckoning him to come forward. He waited for his fellow commandos to pass, then strode towards the front of the room. ‘Sir?’
The commander held up a finger to say, ‘hold on’, and waited for the last of the men to leave. The adjutant, who had followed the final man to the back of the room, glanced back before closing the door behind him. He cleared his throat, eyes falling back to the piece of paper he had been handed a short while earlier. He unfolded it and handed it to Blackman. ‘I’m afraid I have some very unfortunate news for you, Lieutenant Blackman.’
The senior officer’s voice faded away as Blackman began to read the note - a typed, decoded radio message that had been relayed to the ship as they had approached Gibraltar.
DATE: 6.11.42
ATTN: Lieutenant Harry Blackman, 30AU
MESSAGE: Regret to inform you that your father, Arthur Edward Blackman and mother Agnes Delila Blackman killed night of 31 October during enemy bombing raid on Peterborough.
‘My deepest sympathies, Lieutenant.’
Blackman stood paralysed for a few seconds before taking a deep breath, folding the note and handing it back to his commanding officer.
‘Thank you, sir. Will that be all?’
Fleming’s eyebrows quivered momentarily. ‘There will be plenty of opportunities to get at the Hun, Harry. It’s going to be a long war.’
Blackman shook his head. ‘With respect, sir. I’d prefer to carry on with the mission. If that’s alright with you, sir?’
The Commander regarded Blackman for a moment before leaning against the metal desk behind him. ‘Are you quite certain, Lieutenant?’
‘Nothing’s changed, sir. The krauts are still out there. And this mission needs to go ahead.’
‘Sergeant Ferguson can step up—’
‘With respect, sir. Gus is a first-class soldier, but he is not cut out for command, and there isn’t time for anyone else to take over. You need me for this.’
Fleming looked to the grey metal deck, seemingly computing the options open to him, his thumb and forefinger stroking his short beard. After a moment, he looked back at Blackman. ‘Alright then, Lieutenant. But a word of advice - don’t make this personal. Remember your mission objectives. Revenge and a clear mind make for poor bedfellows.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘I need your word on this,’ said Fleming.
‘You have it, sir.’
20
The man in madrid
Police Station, La Mesita Blanca.
All Saints’ Day, 1970.
10:37am.
Diego Sanz, Inspector Garcia’s old army buddy and his contact at the Ministry of the Interior, had called back, as he had promised.
‘The secret police are on their way to you, Jesus. Are you sure you cannot extract yourself from this case?’
‘I wish I could, amigo. But there is nobody else. Do you have something for me?’
‘I do,’ said Sanz, lowering his voice. ‘ But it concerns your German neighbours. I think it’s time we had that talk you never wanted to have.’
Garcia stood still, the receiver pressed to his ear. He pictured the bloodied corpse of Peter Stangle, then the beaming, happy face of young Conrad Navarro. ‘Alright, Diego. Tell me.’
‘Okay, I only have a few minutes, so listen carefully. These people. They were important people in the Third Reich. Some were senior Nazis and quite unsavoury. Senior SS, Gestapo. People who ran the death camps, who rounded up Jews all across Europe. Some committed atrocities in the east. They are bad people. And they were given safe harbour after the war, by our government. By the Boss himself.’
‘So the stories are true.’
‘Stories usually are.’
A shiver ran down his back. His stomach felt as if laden with lead. He had known this, of course, all these years. Not the detail, for he had never asked. Never wanted to have it confirmed. Because that way you can pretend to yourself that you did not know what you are doing, who you were helping. You can sleep at night. He forced himself to think of Conrad Navarro once more, then asked, ‘And how is Harry Blackman connected to all of this?’
‘My man in London told me that Blackman was in some kind of special commando unit at the end of the war. We can’t know for certain, but its likely that this unit went after German scientists, engineers, people connected to the exterminations and work camps.’
‘Mierda.’
‘Exactly,’ said Sanz. ‘I think we can assume that his presence in your town is no coincidence, Jesus.’
‘You think he has some kind of vendetta?’
‘I don’t know, amigo. It is possible, don’t you think?’
‘But why now?’ said Garcia. ‘And why would he go to all the trouble of buying a house. And decorating it?’
‘Maybe that was the best way to blend in without causing suspicion?’
Garcia contemplated his friend’s words for a moment. It made sense. He thought about the foreign journalist who has disappeared two years earlier after turning up and asking questions. Garcia and his men never did find out what had happened to that young man. ‘And this spy, Weiland,’ he continued. ‘Why is he here in my police station insisting to sit in on the interrogations?’
‘Perhaps he is running Blackman as
a local asset?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Garcia. ‘He seems more interested in Blackman’s assistant, a Norwegian woman called Liv Johansson. She was hired to manage the purchase of his property and its renovation. Did you find anything on her?’
‘All we’ve got are her residency permit, driving license, and income tax declarations. Nothing to suggest she is part of this. Why? Do you have reason to think otherwise?’
‘I think she knows more than she’s letting on. And I am sure that she knows Weiland.’
‘Shit. Okay, look. My advice? Watch your back. Don’t trust anyone and tread very very carefully.’
Garcia sighed. ‘Just my fucking luck, another week and I would have been retired.’
‘So, what will you do now?’
‘A fifteen-year-old boy is missing, Diego. So, I will do what I have done for thirty years. I will do my job.’
‘You are a stubborn man, Jesus.’
‘So my wife always said, god rest her soul.’
‘She was a good woman,’, said Sanz.
‘Much better than me.’
‘Much better than both of us. Listen, I have to go, but if I find anything else, I’ll let you know. Just promise me that you will be careful.’
‘I’ve survived this long, haven’t I?’
‘Ciao.’
The Inspector placed the receiver back onto the phone. He sat in the chair, looking at the wood and glass cabinet across the room, to his medals in their discoloured old presentation case. He had never liked those pieces of cheap tin and ribbon; never liked what they stood for. Medals should be reserved for acts of bravery, not for simply turning up and following orders. He had kept them, put them on display, because to do so served a purpose; to protect him and his family. It had opened doors, created opportunities. But now, in a sudden flash of clarity, he understood that they represented something else. Something quite different. Willful ignorance. Acquiescence. Awards for failing to act. For failing to ask the questions that should have been asked. For not being brave.
The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies Page 10