The woman had moved to an open drinks cabinet, a wood and brass globe. ‘Would you care for a drink, Mr Blackman?’
‘A bit early for me, thank you.’
Her glass replenished, she returned to the sofas and sat down opposite him. A coffee table lay between them, upon which sat a vase of withering flowers.
‘My condolences for your loss.’
The woman snorted. ‘Like you care,’ she blurted, but then, regaining her composure, ‘I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.’ She took a swig from the glass, lifted her legs up onto the sofa, and gave the Englishman an expectant stare while clasping the drink with both hands. She was an attractive woman, shoulder-length brown hair neatly bunched behind her head, a slender build. Likely no more than forty, he thought.
‘May I ask why you brought me here?’ he asked.
Her eyes dropped to the glass in her hand. ‘My first husband disappeared in 1938. The Nationalists said he was a red. We never saw him again.’ She held Blackman’s stare for a few seconds before gesturing to the semi-dried flowers in the vase on the table between them. ‘And now, my Manfred has been taken from me too.’
‘Life can indeed be cruel, Señora Weber.’
She peered at him once more, took another sip from her glass, and cleared her throat. ‘Manfred had lost his first wife and their daughters to an American air raid during the war.’ She looked at the withered flowers once more. ‘I think that was what brought us together. Me, the widow of a socialist and him…’. She let the sentence hang, staring into space for a moment, then snapped back to fix her eyes on him once more. ‘They say that you are in La Mesita Blanca because of the German community that lives here.’
Her rapid change of tack upon him caught Blackman off guard. ‘And who are they, exactly?’
‘Oh, come on,’ she scoffed. ‘I think you know very well who your neighbours are, Captain Blackman.’
He leaned forward. ‘Is there something you want to tell me?’ He glanced over his shoulder, half expecting an ambush.
‘My son thinks you came to this town to cause problems for the people that live here.’
‘And why would he think that?’
She broke away from his gaze, lifted the glass to her lips and swallowed the golden contents, then swung her legs off the couch to the floor and stood up. ‘I have done nothing wrong. I committed no crimes.’ She glanced at the open drinks cabinet, then placed the empty glass down on the coffee table. ‘I have lost people to war. I had another husband, and a father. And two brothers. They went to fight, or were taken. They never returned. Who came to help us when the fascists rose up against our government in 1936?’
‘Why did you bring me here, Mrs Weber?’
She glared at him for a moment, as if torn about how to respond. About how much to trust him. ‘I believe my husband was murdered.’
The sudden revelation took him by surprise. ‘Inspector Garcia said it was a heart attack.’
She shook her head, walked to a bureau nearby, opened it and picked up something from within, then returned to where he sat. She was holding what appeared to be an ornate porcelain egg cup, which she placed on the table. It consisted of two parts; the lower base to contain the egg, and a domed top to cover it. ‘There are people here who dream of keeping alive the dreams of their past masters. Are you aware of the old military camp at the end of the valley?’
Blackman raised his eyes from the egg cup to hers. ‘I have seen it, yes.’
‘They have a sports club there. It is for local boys and girls. The German kinder. My son went for a while, but he was discouraged from doing so by the woman that runs it. Her name is Volkenrath.’
‘Discouraged? How so?’
‘Manfred may have been a pure blood, but I am of mixed Spanish and Moroccan heritage. Volkenrath and some of the older youths, her acolytes, did not welcome that. One of the staff there, threatened my son. A South African man. You’ve probably seen him around town. He’s one of their security team. When I complained, he just insulted me.’
Blackman sat back. ‘I fail to see why that is of my concern.’
Her eyes returned to the white object in front of him. ‘Open it,’ she said, lowering herself back onto the couch.
He reached forward, picked up the egg cup and lifted the lid to reveal the contents.
‘My son found that at the edge of our property the day after Manfred died. There was a hole in the chain-link fence. Somebody had broken in.’
Blackman stared at the small glass object inside, which he recognised as an ampoule used to contain substances to be administered by injection. ‘You did not report this?’
‘Report it to who?’ she scoffed. ‘Inspector Garcia? You do know he was one of Franco’s foot soldiers? He’s been in this town for three decades. People like that don’t survive that long by interfering with things like this and besides, he is retiring very soon. You think he wants to risk anything?’ Her eyes flicked towards the empty glass tumbler. Her hands were trembling, her nails were unnaturally short.
‘You think one of your husband’s compatriots killed him?’
She inhaled as if buying time, then responded with a subtle nod. ‘Manfred had a tendency to say things that upset the more fervent of their community.’ Her eyes wavered for a moment. ‘There were threats. Warnings to keep his mouth shut, but he ignored them. He said I shouldn’t worry, that it was the rants of a crazy person.’
Blackman peered at the small ampoule once more. ‘Mrs Weber, why are you telling me this?’
She swallowed, took in a protracted breath. ‘I do not believe that we are born good or evil. Not the majority of us. I believe that our environment shapes us greatly. My husband had a past. He had his demons. But he changed, Mr Blackman. Whether you can believe that or not. He did. After all these years living here in Spain, he was a different man. A good man.’ She was staring at him intently now, her hands shaking even more than before. Her open lips were quivering, as if she was rehearsing the words that were to follow. ‘There was a letter.’ She slipped her hand down the side of the leather cushion of the sofa on which she sat, retrieved a sheet of white paper. She held it out for Blackman to take.
He reached forward and peered at the handwritten note.
Take your bastard half-breed. Leave this village & never return. There will not be another warning.
‘My husband found that note on his car windscreen a few days before his death. He was very angry. He loved our son. Some words were said in public at a restaurant in the town the night before he died.’
‘I saw it,’ said Blackman. ‘I was there. It looked very…heated.’
She nodded, one finger tracing the rim of her glass.
Blackman looked at the note again. ‘I have to ask you again, Señora. Why are you telling me this?’
‘To warn you.’
He looked at her, eyebrow raised. ‘I fail to see why I should be in any danger.’
She snorted in derision at him, then stood up, picked up her empty glass and started towards the drinks cabinet again. ‘Why then do you carry a gun?’
He dropped his gaze, thinking that his revolver must have become visible, but it remained buttoned. He looked back to where she was standing, lifting the lid from a crystal decanter.
‘When you’ve been around these people for as long as I have,’ she said, ‘…you tend to notice when people are carrying concealed weapons.’ She refilled her glass and another, which she brought back and placed down in front of him. ‘They know who you are and what you did at the end of the war. They know you hunted people like them.’
Blackman felt his heart rate accelerate but, doing his best to mask his rising concern, asked, ‘Then why would they not just kill me too?’
She looked at him, as might a mother to her confused child. ‘You are too prominent. You have connections, here and in England. You, they decided to be patient with. To just watch. To see what you did. To see what moves you made.’
‘They’ve been surveilling
me the whole time?’
‘That South African man I mentioned. Peter Stangle, his name is. He’s followed you several times when you’ve been out walking your dog. And the one who calls himself Navarro, he had his son take many photographs at your house before you even arrived.’
None of this was a surprise to Blackman. He had expected as much, and had been quite sure that he had spotted two different men tailing him around the village on a number of occasions. Yet still, he could not stifle a cold shiver down his neck. Suspicions are one thing. Having them confirmed is another. He realised that he was still grasping the paper with the warning on it. He placed it down onto the coffee table and shot her a sceptical look. ‘Do you recall another British man? A big Scotsman. Taller than me, red hair. He had a busted nose, like a boxer. He was in this part of Spain on several occasions last year.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, but there was another man who came here, asking questions. He wasn’t British though. He was Scandinavian, I think. He disappeared.’
‘The journalist?’
She lifted her drink, nodded. ‘He came to this house one night.’ Blackman watched her rush another sip of the scotch. ‘I remember it clearly. I was in the garden pruning the roses, when the doorbell rang. I opened the gate and saw him standing there in a bright, red chequered jacket. He asked to speak to my husband, but Manfred was away on business, so he left.’
‘He didn’t return?’
‘I never saw him again. Nobody did.’
He reached for the scotch she had poured for him and took a swig. He let the vapours drift up into his nostrils, then swallowed it. It was good whisky. ‘I must say, I find this all a bit hard to believe. How do I know that your German friends aren’t just using you to try to warn me off?’
‘These people are not my friends, Mr Blackman.’ She placed her glass down, empty once again. ‘Sure, we moved in their circles, attended their family gatherings and parties, but I saw the way they looked at me when I was with Manfred. They despised me and they never accepted my son. That woman, Volkenrath, she would not accept him into that youth club of theirs. Our son was distraught - he went to school with their children, but she said the club was only for Germans. Manfred complained to Herr Navarro, but he said we should not be surprised.’
The door opened, Señora Weber’s son peeking from behind it. He glanced at the Englishman, then to his mother.
She turned back to Blackman, smiled. ‘I’m afraid I must prepare to leave.’ She signalled to the teen, who closed the door behind him as she rose to her feet.
Blackman placed his glass down, stood up.
Señora Weber touched him on the arm, eyes wide. Concerned. ‘Please consider what I have told you carefully.’
Blackman pulled away from her hand and started to the door, but then paused. ‘Tell me, Señora. How does a woman who lost her husband to the fascists end up marrying one of them?’
The warmth drained from her face. She stepped towards him. He could smell her perfume, her breath. ‘Wars make monsters of men, Mr Blackman. But I only ever knew the man.’ She was very close to him now, eyes on his, the empty tumbler twisting back and forth in her right hand. ‘Tell me. Why do you suppose that my husband and all the other Germans felt safe here in Spain?’
‘It’s not hard to deduce,’ Blackman replied. ‘Fascists look after each other.’
She smiled a knowing smile, gave him a faint shake of her head. ‘Manfred told me exactly why they were safe here.’
‘Because the Spanish protect them,’ he said.
She shook her head. ‘No, Mr Blackman. Because the British do.’
Garcia froze, peering over the top of his coffee. ‘She said what?’
Harry Blackman repeated what he had just said. ‘She told me that it had been my own government that had brought the Germans to Spain, under a secret deal with your government. They paid them off with Nazi gold.’
‘That is absurd.’ He lowered his voice, leaned closer to Blackman. ‘Everyone here in the village knows that our German neighbours have a…shall we say, questionable past. Not that we would ever talk about it. Not under normal circumstances. But why would your government help them escape justice? The Allies had people hunting Nazis all over Europe at the end of the war.’
‘I know that, Inspector,’ said Blackman. ‘Because I was one of the hunters.’
33
Revelations
Cambridge, England.
Christmas Eve, 1945.
Smoke poured from the chimney of The Six Bells. Its log fire roared away inside the pokey lounge area where Harry Blackman, Gus Ferguson and two of their former army colleagues sat around a table, their pint glasses nearly empty. The recently demobbed soldiers were enjoying a final drink together before returning to their families and to their pre-war lives.
Jimmy White, the now former corporal in Blackman’s special commando unit, downed the last of his beer. ‘Right, my round.’ He stood up and walked to the bar.
‘So, Captain. Will you be going back to Cambridge?’ said the third man, Bob Mansfield. ‘You were going to study languages, weren’t you?’
‘You can drop the Captain now, Bob. We’re all civvies now,’ said Blackman. ‘And, no. I figured I’d look at something more useful. Civil Engineering, maybe.’
Ferguson snorted. ‘That will make a change, building bridges rather than blowing them up.’
Blackman lifted his glass. ‘I’ll drink to that.’ He drained the beer, placed the empty glass down and wiped his mouth with his jacket sleeve, only then noticing Jimmy White shuffling back toward him. His attention was focussed upon the newspaper in his hands.
‘Oi, Jim, you forgot our drinks, you dozy sod,’ said Mansfield.
White lifted his gaze from the newsprint in his hands, his face as white as the paper on which it was printed.
‘What is it, mate?’ said Ferguson, the big Scotsman twisting on his chair to peer at his friend.
White folded the newspaper twice, placed it down onto the table, pointed at a small news article. ‘He escaped.’
‘Who escaped?’ said Ferguson, peering at the article.
The Scotsman started to read it, but Blackman, who had not taken his eyes off Jimmy White’s face, already knew the answer. ‘Von Ziegler.’
‘You gotta be fucking joking,’ said Mansfield, pushing himself up to get a look at the paper.
White lowered himself down and leaned forward, his head in his hands. ‘After all them months. After everything we did.’
Ferguson read aloud, his index finger tracing the sentences on the paper. ‘It says they had him in Frankfurt. Him and five others. They were due to stand trial in the new year. One of the guards was doing his morning patrol. He found their cells empty.’
‘How’s that bleeding possible?’ said White, his head still buried in his hands.
Blackman pictured the holding facility in Frankfurt which he and his unit had visited on several occasions. It was a fortress-like former police station on the outskirts of the city, one of the few buildings to have remained intact after five years of British and American bombing raids.
Ferguson looked up from the paper. ‘I don’t believe it. How can that have happened?’
Blackman stared back at him, both men coming to the same conclusion; that nobody simply ‘escapes’ from a secure prison such as that.
The former comrades’ thoughts were interrupted by the voice of the man sitting at the table adjacent to theirs. ‘They probably let the bastard out.’
Blackman glared at the man, a wiry individual in his late forties wearing a dark suit, a thin cigar in one hand and a half pint glass in the other.
‘What did you just say?’ said Ferguson, glaring at the man.
The man nodded at the paper in the Scotsman's hands. ‘It’s obvious, in’t it?’
Blackman, leaning on his forearm, shifted to face the man. ‘What is obvious?’
‘He’s useful to our side. Him and other men like him. S
enior Nazis. They’re useful, in’t they?’
‘What are you talking about?’ said Blackman.
The man shuffled on his seat to face Blackman and lowered his voice as if preparing to share a state secret. ‘It’s all about the Reds now, in’t it?’ He pointed at the paper. ‘Senior jerries like that Ziegler fella. We gotta be pragmatic. We need ‘em now, don’t we?’ The man grinned and took a swig from his drink. ‘Makes sense, if you think about it. We should never have been fighting the jerries, anyway. That Stalin, he makes Hitler look like a choir boy, he does.’ The man inhaled upon his cigar, let the smoke linger in his open mouth for a moment, then expelled it upwards. ‘The Reds was always gonna be the bigger threat. Edward the eighth had that right, if you ask me.’
The man gave Blackman and his colleagues a knowing look and started to lift the cigar to his mouth again when Blackman grabbed his wrist with one hand, then clamped his other around the man’s jaw. He leaned forward, teeth clenched, glaring at the startled older man. ‘I ought to—’
‘Harry,’ said Ferguson. ‘Let him be. He dinnae know what he’s talking about.’
Blackman glanced at his friend, then back at the now trembling man, before releasing his grip. He rose up, peered down at the man who was now backing away. ‘I’m getting my friends another drink. You’d better be gone before I get back,’ he snarled, then walked to the bar.
The startled man downed his drink and stood up. His hand shaking, he pointed towards Blackman, who was standing at the bar, his back turned away. ‘That man,’ he said as he pulled his coat on. ‘He’s got the devil in him.’
34
Old dog, old tricks
Police Station, La Mesita Blanca.
All Saints’ Day, 1970.
3:05pm
A double knock at the cell door interrupted Inspector Garcia’s ongoing interrogation of Harry Blackman.
‘What is it?’ he shouted.
The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies Page 17