Blackman let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Their officers all left early this morning. They gave their men orders to clean up and fucked off.’
‘Bastards,’ said Ferguson. ‘Do we know which route they took?’
‘North. Into the Harz mountains. They think they can hide there.’
‘Was our guy among them?’
‘Yes, he was.’
‘Right, then. North it is,’ said Ferguson.
Blackman swivelled around to face private Morrison, wagging his index finger at the private who had adopted the look of an admonished dog. ‘If you ever put our mission in jeopardy like that again, I’ll bloody well shoot you myself.’
25
Privilege
Police Station, La Mesita Blanca
All Saints’ Day, 1970.
11.10am.
The lawyer seemed like all young men from such family backgrounds; superior, smug, self-assured and utterly certain that their time was more valuable than yours. They were, thought Inspector Garcia, a class of people ignorant as to the improbability of their good fortune. That, or they were simply not at all bothered about the fact.
Daniel Arias-Sanchez was in his early thirties, wore a tailored, light grey suit - as was the trend with the younger and more upwardly mobile professionals these days - a mauve silk shirt with carefully selected tie and pocket handkerchief to match, gold cuff links, an expensive Swiss watch, and immaculate, polished brown shoes - all of which went perfectly with his quaffed hair, perfect teeth, and insipid grin.
‘Thank you for your time, Señor Sanchez,’ Garcia said as the man sat down and made himself comfortable. He gave the Inspector’s office a quick once over, making little effort to conceal his contempt.
‘Anything to help our local police,’ the lawyer replied, leaning back in his chair.
‘You probably heard about some incidents in the village over the last few days?’
‘Yes, of course, everyone is talking about it.’
‘Mr Blackman is being held as part of the investigation into the killing of Peter Stangle. You met him, correct?’
‘The Englishman? Yes, early this year. He was looking for a property in the area. A real estate agent in Malaga had connected us.’
‘You represent some of the local property owners?’
‘That is correct.’
Garcia made a scribble in his small notepad. ‘How many times did you meet Mr Blackman?’
‘Oh, I would say it was on maybe three or four occasions. I can check my records later if that helps?’
Garcia waved the suggestion away. ‘What was discussed in these meetings?’
‘Oh, you know. All the usual stuff about the process of buying property, taxes, notaries, insurance, legal costs. The usual stuff.’
‘And that required “three or four” meetings?’
‘I’m sorry?’ said the lawyer.
‘That seems somewhat excessive. Especially when his assistant, Miss Johansson, was employed specifically to handle all of his administrative affairs here in Spain.’
‘Well, that was at first. Before he employed her.’
‘At first?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then what more was discussed when you met him?’
The lawyer uncrossed his legs, gave a hint of a shrug. ‘Well, Mr Blackman seemed to take something of a broader interest in our town.’
‘In the people in our community?’
Sanchez gave a slight nod while shrugging again - the kind of non-committal response people give when they know they might need to contend events at a later date.
‘More interest in them than in buying a property?’ asked Garcia.
‘It seemed like that after a while, yes.’ The lawyer fingered at his collar, ran his hands through his hair, crossed, then uncrossed his legs again.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘Mr Blackman was a businessman and said that he was looking to make contacts here in Spain. I figured I could help him fit in.’
‘You didn’t answer the question, Mr Sanchez.’
‘Which was?’
‘I asked what you told him.’
Sanchez gave his right cheek another nervous scratch. ‘Like I said. I mentioned a few names of local business owners and the types of businesses they were in. I suggested a few places where he might be able to meet them. That kind of thing. There’s nothing wrong with that, right?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Garcia, and shot the man a quizzical smile. ‘From what you have told me, it seems that Blackman held an interest in some of your clients. Why do you think this was?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Come, now. You are a lawyer. Surely you must have some theories?’
Sanchez seemed to be struggling for words. ‘Inspector…I think you already know—’
‘Humour me.’
‘Well, some of my clients. Our neighbours, well…’
Garcia leaned forward. ‘Yes?’
Sanchez glanced towards the office door, whispered, ‘They have a past.’
‘We all have a past, Señor Sanchez. What specifically are you referring to?’ Garcia sat forward, turned his head to one side, eyes peering over his reading glasses at the lawyer, waiting for more information.
‘From the war,’ Sanchez whispered. ‘I think you know this already.’
‘Are you telling me that it was your impression that Mr Blackman was attempting to gain information about our German friends?’
‘It is possible.’
‘And why do you think he wanted to do that?’
‘How would I know, Inspector?’
‘I think you do know.’ Sanchez squirmed in his chair. Garcia was enjoying the power struggle. ‘Do you think Blackman came here to hunt war criminals?’
‘I couldn’t possibly know that.’
‘But you can guess. Maybe he was interested in some of the people you represent?’
‘I told you, I could not know this.’
‘People that you represented and who you still represent, do you not?’
‘I have a good client base in this pueblo, yes,’ said the lawyer.
‘And did you tell any of them this? Did you tell them that the Englishman, who is currently locked up in a cell twenty feet from here, might be a threat to them?’
‘I am not at liberty to disclose what I may or may not have shared with my clients, Inspector.’
Garcia peered into the man’s eyes, nodded. ‘You did, didn’t you? I think that you weren’t helping Mr Blackman at all. I think that you were trying to find out what he was up to, why he was here. To establish if he was a threat to people that you represent. Your clients.’
Sanchez clasped his hands together, sat back in his seat, offered no reply. He would be saying nothing more, but his eyes told Garcia all he needed to know.
‘Thank you, Señor Sanchez. You have been most helpful’. Garcia stood up and slipped the note pad back into his inside jacket pocket, offered his hand to Sanchez.
The lawyer rose, shook Garcia’s outstretched hand, then walked to the door and opened it. He paused for a moment. ‘Inspector, will what we discussed be included in your report?’
‘Señor Sanchez,’ Garcia replied. ‘On this whole matter, you may rest assured, there will be no report.’
Garcia directed the lawyer to the front entrance of the police station, taking no little satisfaction at having dented the man’s arrogance, before directing his attention at the desk sergeant. ‘Find out when that bloody doctor will be done with the Englishman. I need to question him.’
‘The doctor’s assistant just called,’ the desk sergeant replied. ‘They’re almost done patching him up now.’
‘Good, good,’ Garcia said, and started towards the hallway to this office.
‘There’s something else, Jesus,’ said the desk sergeant.
‘Is it important?’ Garcia said, gesturing towards the interrogation room. ‘I need to continue questioning the woman.’
&nbs
p; ‘The hotel called. They’ve lost one of their guests.’
‘What does that mean? What guest?’
‘An old man, in his sixties. They said he arrived last night at about eleven. He’d flown into Malaga. From Argentina.’
Garcia, who had remained poised to walk away, turned back to Rubio. ‘When was he last seen?’
‘When he checked in last night. The maid noticed his door unlocked this morning, and checked on him. He was nowhere to be seen.’
‘Were his things still in his room?’ said Garcia. Rubio nodded. ‘Well, perhaps he just went for a walk?’
‘Apparently, he wasn’t very mobile. Quite “ill-looking”, they said.’
Garcia felt his blood pressure rising, a sharp pain at the side of his forehead. ‘Send one of the boys over to talk to the hotel owners.’
‘Alonso’s in town. I’ll radio him.’
‘Good. And Rafa, do we know this man’s name?’
The desk sergeant picked up a sheet of paper upon which were his untidy notes. ‘Walter Krügel.’
‘Another German?’ said Garcia.
‘Uh-huh.’
The two men exchanged concerned looks, before Garcia said, ‘Keep me informed,’ then strode away, around the corner and along the hallway. Officer Ramos was standing guard outside the cell that housed Liv Johansson. ‘Antonio, get her back into the interview room.’
Ramos nodded his acknowledgement.
‘And do we have any aspirin?’
‘Yes sir, in the cupboard in the kitchen.’
Garcia headed to the kitchen at the end of the corridor and rummaged through the first aid box. He was in the middle of swallowing two tablets when officer Gomez appeared in the open doorway. He was holding an old shoe box and panting.
‘Are you alright?’ said Garcia.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Gomez, ‘but you need to see this.’ He placed the box down on the counter with a soft thud. Whatever was in the box was far heavier than a pair of shoes.
The policeman lifted the lid, placed it aside, then stood back, beckoning at the Inspector to take a look inside. Garcia stepped towards the box. Inside it was a black semi-automatic pistol. At the end of its barrel, some peculiar grooves and small protrusions. Gomez placed another item down, it wrapped in newspaper. He unrolled it to reveal a long, blued metal cylinder about a foot long and two inches in diameter.
The Inspector peered at the gun. ‘A Walther P38, with a suppressor. And it’s chambered for 9mm parabellum rounds.’
‘Yes sir, just like those we found near Stangle’s body,’ said Gomez.
‘Where was it?’
‘One of the army boys found it in the undergrowth outside Blackman’s villa. About twenty meters away from the wall.’
‘As if it had been thrown from inside the property?’
Gomez nodded. ‘We dusted it for prints but it had been wiped clean.’
‘So, it is possible that our killer might still be out there,’ said Garcia, patting the younger colleague on the shoulder. ‘Good work. Bring me Johansson, then get back out and give Alonso a hand. We have to find that boy.’ He placed the lid on the box and picked it up.
‘Yes sir.’
The Inspector was sitting at the metal table a few minutes later, thumbing through his notes, when Officer Ramos escorted Liv Johansson back to the interrogation room and guided her to the seat opposite Garcia.
She lowered herself down, grimacing as she did so, her eyes on the table, her hand once again touching her bruised cheek.
The Englishman, Guy Weiland, hurried in behind them and took up his position in the seat at the rear of the room, glowering at Garcia as he did so.
The Inspector ignored him, turned back to the Norwegian. ‘Miss Johansson, it seems clear to me that Mr Blackman’s purpose in coming to our village had something to do with his past, and with certain people that we have living here. My superiors want me to focus on investigating the dead man who we found at the villa this morning and about whose death you claim to know nothing.’
Her eyes remained focussed upon the middle distance between them.
‘Peter Stangle, however, cannot be brought back to life, so we can deal with this later. Personally, what concerns me the most is the disappearance of Conrad Navarro. We have police officers, the army and many of our neighbours scouring the valley for him.’ He placed both palms down, leaned towards her. ‘I thought the boy was simply playing up, as boys do. But now I am not so sure. And now, it seems, another individual also remains unaccounted for. And I am certain that you know something about all of this.’
‘I’m quite sure I don’t,’ she replied. Garcia saw her eyes flit towards Weiland.
‘I have been a policeman for thirty years. I know when someone is holding back on me.’
The Norwegian responded with a look of weary innocence.
‘La Secreta are coming. You know who they are?’ he continued.
‘Well, yes. Of course, but I still don’t—’
Garcia tapped on his wristwatch. ‘They will be here in about nine hours. Sooner, perhaps. And they will take Mr Blackman into custody for sure. This I cannot prevent. But if you cooperate, if you convince me that you were not part of this, maybe I can stop them from taking you. If you talk to me.’
Her eyes rose to meet his. ‘There is nothing to tell.’
He held her stare for a moment, then bent over to reach for the heavy shoe box by his feet, placed it down on the table. He lifted the lid, then picked up the gun in one hand, the suppressor in the other. ‘An assassin’s weapon. We found it close to the villa.’
He saw the woman’s cheek twitch, her interlocked fingers tighten. He lowered the gun back into the box and placed the lid back on top of it, pushed the box to one side. ‘The calibre of the bullets matches that of the empty cartridge cases we found near Stangle’s dead body.’
Her gaze had returned to the table surface.
He rose up, moved around the table to her side. ‘Stangle had been executed. But you knew this, I think.’
‘I told you, I don’t remember.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘No!’
‘Did Blackman kill him?’
‘No!’
‘But you said you did not remember.’
‘He wouldn’t, he couldn’t do that.’
She had begun to shake and drew her arms towards her, tight against her chest.
Garcia was behind her now. He lowered his voice, adopted a more conciliatory tone. ‘Do you know what the police commissioner told me when he called me at two o’clock this morning? He said to make sure that somebody goes down for this.’
Her head angled slightly towards him.
‘Someone always goes down for things such as these, Liv. Always. It’s how things work in this country. Now, I will try to do my job, to find the truth. But I told you, the secret police are on their way. They are not so concerned about the truth. Or justice. They will be looking for someone to blame, and to resolve these matters with the minimum of fuss. Do you understand me?’
Her eyes flitted toward his.
‘I do not want anyone to suffer unnecessarily. Not you. Not Conrad Navarro. You know him. He is a good kid, right?’
‘He is.’
He lowered himself onto the table at her side. ‘Then help me, Liv. Tell me what I need to know.’
The Norwegian’s lips parted a fraction, and she swallowed. Her eyes darted again towards Weiland, then back to the Inspector’s. She swallowed again, her eyes dropping to her hands resting on the table. She was slowly caressing the knuckle of one hand with the the thumb of her other. Her tell.
Come on, woman. Break goddammit.
Garcia held his breath, held himself still. Eyes unmoving from the Norwegian. He heard Weiland’s chair creaking, and the Englishman cleared his throat.
Johansson glanced at Weiland again.
‘Don’t look at him.’ Garcia tapped a fingernail on the table. ‘He can’t help you now. But I can.’<
br />
Her eyes were watering. She swallowed once more, took in a deep breath. ‘Okay, I’ll tell you.’
26
Pillow talk
Cortijo Magdalena, La Mesita Blanca.
Three months earlier.
Liv Johansson lay face-down in the crook of Harry Blackman’s arm, her hand gently caressing his moist chest. He was on his back, his shirt unbuttoned and with the bedsheet covering his midriff.
‘I was a Nazi hunter. At the end of the war, and for six months after,’ said Blackman. ‘My unit hunted them across France, the Low Countries, Denmark, in Austria and in Germany.’
‘How many did you catch?’ she asked.
‘More than a hundred of the bastards. We were very good at it. We knew their tricks, the networks they used. We learned how to think like they did.’
‘What happened to them?’
‘Not enough.’
Liv lifted her head to make eye contact with him. ‘They didn’t pay for their crimes?’
‘A few went to the gallows, if that is what you mean. But not many. Some of them got short prison sentences. The majority got away scot-free and went back to their families, their towns, their jobs.’
‘Even after what they did?’ she asked.
‘Yes, even after that.’
‘But why? How did your people let that happen?’
Blackman lifted her hand from his chest, pushed himself up and reached to pull open the bedside cabinet drawer. ‘It takes a lot of time to prosecute that many people. There were eight hundred thousand members of the SS at large after the war ended. On top of that there were millions of other soldiers, politicians and bureaucrats, those that ran the camps and the factories that worked millions to death for the benefit of the fatherland. It would have taken years. Decades. And our governments, the British, Americans and the French, they had other things on their mind, like dividing up Germany, reconstructing their cities, and getting their economies going again. And don’t forget, we had a new enemy by then, the “Beast from the East”.’
‘So there was no justice for their victims?’
‘Not much.’
The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies Page 13