We thanked him and Lisa gave him her card. He kissed her hand.
‘Senorita, it has been my pleasure to be of assistance to such a beautiful young woman. I will be in contact as soon as Joachim gets back to me.’
We left the Embassy and walked back towards Knightsbridge. It was quite frustrating, we had a number of irons in the fire but we could do nothing but await developments.
‘Fancy lunch in Harrods?’ I asked. ‘But no shoe shopping!’
She pouted once more. ‘Meanie!’
We spent the afternoon wandering around the shops in Knightsbridge. We had just reached Hyde Park underground when Lisa’s mobile trilled. She flipped it open.
‘Hello…….I can’t believe you’ve got back to us already……He knew all about it already?....Yes of course, it’s lisa dot mann, all lowercase, dot seneschalproduction at business dot net…. You will, well thank you……No, I’m sorry, I’m very flattered but I’m in a relationship. ….Thank you goodbye’
She had flushed a bright scarlet during the latter part of the conversation.
‘Do I get the impression that you made an impact on Senor Lorente?’ I asked innocently.
‘Lay off Ian.’ She snapped.
‘Sorry, I was only teasing, I didn’t mean to upset you.’
‘No, I’m sorry, it’s just that it gets a bit tedious at times, when half the guys you meet hit on you. Mind you, he was fit, if it hadn’t been for James, I might have accepted his offer of dinner.’
‘It’s your own fault, you should not look so bloody appealing. Other women must hate you.’
‘I thought you didn’t notice.’
‘I noticed, I am a man. But I hid it well, professional ethics and all that. Besides which I’m nearly three times your age, I’ll settle for the relationship we’ve got. I look on you as a favourite niece.’
She smiled at me, ‘I always knew that you were the one I could come to when I was in trouble or had a problem. I like that, Uncle Ian.’
‘Okay enough of the sentimental mush, unless you want me to get all misty eyed. What did he say?’
‘His cousin knew all about it, he had researched it himself for a thesis on the atrocities of the Spanish Civil War…that must be a cheery read! Anyway, he’s emailed us all of the information. Unfortunately. No road trip to Madrid.’ She stuck out her bottom lip. ‘Come on let’s get home.’
Chapter 10
Forty-five minutes later, we had it. Lisa had gone for the laptop even before I had closed the door. She waited impatiently whilst her email loaded. Sure enough there was an email from Senor Lorente at the Spanish embassy. She hurriedly opened the attachment and began to read.
“The Battle of the Ebro and the massacre at Montegrillo.
The Battle of the Ebro began on 24th July 1938, when the Republican Commander-in-Chief, General Rojo ordered an offensive an attack across the River Ebro, aiming to break out and link Catalonia with the rest of the Republic. The Republican Colonel Modesto’s troops crossed the Ebro along an eighty kilometre front. Initially successful, the Republican forces crossed 80,000 troops over the river advancing on Gandesa. On 26th July Modesto attacked the strategically important Hill 481 at Gandesa, an area well fortified with trenches, bunkers and barbed wire. The hill was vigorously defended by the Nationalists and the Republicans suffered heavy losses. After six days the Republicans retreated to Hill 666, which they successfully defended from a counter attack from troops of General Yague’s Army of Morocco, assisted by falangist and requetes militia.”
‘Falangist, Requetes?’ Lisa queried.
‘Fascists and Carlists, another right wing paramilitary.’ We read on.
“The Nationalists counterattacked on 1st August and successfully forced the Republicans to withdraw. Massed heavy artillery gave the Nationalists a great advantage; General Queipo de Llano used 500 artillery pieces to fire up to 13,500 rounds per day. The Nationalists also had total air superiority, allowing the Condor Legion to continuously attack Republican positions. The Republicans were unwilling to withdraw and suffered heavy casualties. The Republican International Brigades were withdrawn in September after an agreement between President Negrin and the League of Nations. By October the Republican forces were being forced to withdraw and when the battle ended on 16th November, all of the Republic’s troops had been forced to pull back across the Ebro.
Republican casualties are estimated at 50,000 killed and wounded and nearly 20,000 taken prisoner. Nationalist casualties were lower at 37,000 killed and wounded.”
‘Bloody hell, this reads like a history text book. It’s told us nothing useful.’ Lisa snorted. ‘This is useless.’
‘Hold your horses.’ I said. ‘It fits with the letter, hinting at World War One type conditions, and we haven’t finished yet. Read on.’
“On 20th November, two companies from the 40th Division were ordered to cross the Ebro in a raid into Republican territory. The raid was led by Commandante Sanchez de Vega and consisted of troops who had so gallantly held Hill 481. Commandante Sanchez de Vega was killed during the crossing of the river and Capitan Molinero assumed command. The raiders penetrated 20km into Republican territory, arriving to the village of Montegrillo just after dawn. Montegrillo was an anarchist commune established some fifteen years earlier. As day broke, the company of about 200 men stormed the largely unarmed village. On the orders of Molinero, all the male inhabitants of the village over the age of 10 were shot by firing squad. The women and children were held captive in the school. Molinero encouraged the mass rape and murder of the all the captive women over the age of 12. Finally the village was destroyed by explosives and fire.
The children were released, only after the surviving boys had been mutilated to incapacitate them. It is from these survivors that the story of the massacre was pieced together by Republican forces sent to repel the invasion. Despite close pursuit, the raiders succeeded in returning safely to Nationalist territory, without loss. Capitan Molinero was censured for his role in the massacre, but no formal action was taken against him. When the war ended, he disappeared from the record.”
Whilst reading this, Lisa’s voice had thickened with emotion and her eyes blazed with anger. ‘What a bastard!’ she exclaimed.
‘Civil wars are always nasty, you seem to get far more atrocities than in normal warfare, perhaps because the hatred is stronger in an internecine struggle.’
‘That’s hardly an excuse for murder, rape and the mutilation of children!’
‘Agreed.’
‘Do you think Miller was involved in this?’
‘It matches with the letter, but that’s not real proof.’
‘I’d better phone Lorente and thank him for his help, you never know, we might need his help again.’ She picked up the phone and dialled. I wandered into the kitchen to make two mugs of tea, then began to leaf through the free newspaper I had been handed outside the tube station. Once again it was full of election-mania and the words of Richard Sinclair in particular. Despite his party being a small and in my opinion, extremist group, Sinclair had challenged the Prime Minister to a face to face debate, as if her were the leader of one of the main opposition parties. His speech in Kilburn was quoted. “We have all seen the corruption of the big political parties in parliament, corruption that the government was responsible for failing to prevent. Why? Could it be because their party too had their noses in the trough? I call upon the Prime Minister to meet me in open debate, where he will have the opportunity to reassure the public that his government has their interests in mind. However, it is an offer I doubt he has the courage to take me up on, for that would take a moral courage that he has shown himself to lack.” The Prime Minister had declined to even dignify the offer with a reply. I could understand his point, but I was not convinced that ignoring Sinclair was the best way to counter the poisonous threat of the BNRA. A series of vox pop interviews by the paper seemed to bear out my instinct. To the man in the street, Sinclair was beginning to appear to be the heroi
c man of the people, who was standing up to the arrogance of the unpopular big political parties. The mainstream parties were only serving to make Sinclair more popular by their tactics. I finished reading the article and saw Lisa was putting the phone down, there was a strange look on her face.
‘What’s wrong?’
‘Senor Lorente told me something that makes this all the more relevant to our research.’
‘Oh. What?’
‘Molinero, it’s the Spanish for Miller!’
Chapter 11
The next day my world came crashing down around my ears. I was awoken by the ringing of my mobile phone. I blearily peered at the caller id displayed on the screen. Jane. I slid open the phone.
‘Hello.’
‘Ian is that you? Where are you, I’ve been to the house several times, but you’re never there.’
‘I decided to get away for a few days, to lick my wounds as it were.’
‘I need to see you, we’ve things to discuss.’
‘I’m not going to be back for a couple of weeks. What do you want to discuss?’
Her voice softened ‘I really didn’t want to do this over the phone.’ A pause. ‘Look Ian, I really don’t want to hurt you. I still care about you. I love you; it’s just that I’m not in love with you. I’ve been thinking; I want to get on with getting my life back. I don’t want to wait two years for a divorce. I want to get this over as soon as we can.’
‘I thought you had to have grounds for a quicker divorce, adultery, unreasonable behaviour or something. I don’t really want to wash our dirty linen in public. You do know that it all has to be put in writing to the court. Isn’t it easier just to live apart for two years and get the divorce that way?’
‘I’m sorry Ian, but I want my life back now, not in two years.’
‘What’s the hurry?’ I paused not wanting to go on, but unable to stop. ‘Is there someone else?’
‘No…yes...sort of. There’s a potential someone else. We’ve met a few times, I seeing him at the weekend; we’ve not slept together, if that’s what you’re worried about. But if it takes me committing adultery to get the divorce, then…..’ She left the sentence hanging.
‘Who is it...? No, don’t tell me, that would be worse.’ The thought of Jane with another man made my stomach turn to ice, I felt physically sick. That Jane could move on so easily didn’t just hurt, it tore me apart.
‘How can you move on so quickly, does the last thirty years mean so little?’ I asked.
‘I’ve done my grieving Ian, the last five years of our marriage. I’m ready to move on. I’m not being callous; it’s just the way I feel. I want my life back.’
I understood what she meant, but that did not stop me feeling like a worn out old shoe that had been cast aside. It did nothing for my feelings of self worth, in the past days my ego had taken a battering. That Jane could move on so easily didn’t just hurt, it devastated me. She had not committed adultery, but she already had another man with whom she felt she might establish a relationship. How could she toss me and the years we had spent together aside so easily?
‘I don’t think I can do this at the moment. You need to get legal advice and so do I’
‘Okay Ian, I’m sorry if you’re upset, you know I wouldn’t deliberately hurt you, but having made the decision to end our marriage, I need to get on with my life. I can’t remain in limbo for the next two years. Will you think about it?’ I agreed and we said our goodbyes.
I collapsed on the bed and cried. I had shed tears before this, but this time I cried as if my heart was breaking, which it was. I lay there for ten minutes, the tears soaking into to my pillow. There was a gentle tap on the door and Lisa poked her head tentatively round the door. I was mortified that she should see me in such a state.
‘Ian, what ever’s the matter?’
‘Jane phoned, she wants a divorce now, she’s got a potential man in her life.’ I said sobbed haltingly ‘I’ve been replaced already. It’s a shock to find out I’m so easily…… disposable. I don’t think I have anything left to lose.’ She took my hand in hers.
‘Ian, I’m so sorry. Is there anything I can do?’ I shook my head, mopping my eyes with my sleeve. I fished out a handkerchief and blew my nose.
‘Any chance of a cup of coffee? I’m in danger of getting dehydrated with all this undignified weeping. I’ll try to pull myself together while you get it.’ I went to the bathroom and washed my face in cold water to try to make my eyes less red and puffy. When I went into the sitting room, she was sitting there with two mugs of coffee.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I said ‘I didn’t mean to make an exhibition of myself and embarrass you.’
‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’ she snapped angrily. ‘Give yourself a break, you’re going through some serious shit, you’re only human, you’re not bloody Superman. If you weren’t affected by something like this, you’d have to be Mr Spock from Star Trek, you know, no emotions. I can’t believe your wife could treat you like this after so long, what a bitch!’
‘No, she’s not; she’s just had enough and can’t take any more. She doesn’t mean to hurt me, but she needs to move on. It’s just that I’m not ready to let her go.’ I sipped the coffee. ‘Can we just get on with our work, if I don’t find something to occupy my mind; I’m going to make a bloody fool of myself again.’
She gave me a glare. ‘Ian I don’t want to hear any more of that crap. Stop being so hard on yourself.’
I was saved the rest of her lecture by the ringing of the telephone. Lisa picked up the receiver.
‘Hello.’ Pause. ‘Oh it’s nice to hear from you again, I didn’t think it would be so soon.’ Pause. ‘Yes, I would.’ Pause and she scribbled on a pad beside the phone. ‘That’s marvellous!’ Pause. ‘That’s really useful; it was so kind of you to let me know. Bye.’
I raised my eyebrows enquiringly.
‘That was Mrs George. We set her thinking yesterday. She had a root around in some other papers she inherited and found a Red Cross postcard. It was sent by William to his mother in August 1940. He told her he’d been interned by the Germans and was being held at St. Denis.’
‘Sounds interesting. Fancy a trip to France? If I dash back home to pick up my passport, we could catch a Eurotunnel shuttle this afternoon.’ I jumped at the chance to escape the mess my life had become.
‘Hold on Ian, we can’t get carried away. I know, why you’re eager to be gone, but you taught me better than that. If we’re going to head off into France at random hoping that we might find something. I don’t even know where St Denis is. Let’s do a bit of research first and see if it’s worth going to France.’
‘Yeah, you’re right of course. I do know where St Denis is though, it’s a suburb just north of Paris, it’s where the Stade de France is, where they played the 1998 World Cup final.’
‘Helpful!’ She said sarcastically.
The internet is a marvellous thing, within a few minutes; we discovered that St Denis was an internment camp run by the Germans. It had held over a thousand British, Commonwealth and American men in a former army barracks. What was better still, it had been preserved as a museum, with its own displays and small archive.
‘Looks like you get you road trip Ian. The shopping won’t be as good as Madrid or Barcelona though.’ She teased.
I left her to book passage on the channel tunnel and somewhere to stay, whilst I headed to Suffolk to pick up my passport and a few clean clothes. In just over three hours I was back, I had driven like a bat out of hell; the speeding tickets would probably catch up with me later. We arrived at the terminal in Folkestone just ten minutes before check-in closed. We were directed over the bridge and down to where the shuttle awaited. As directed, I pulled the car into the carriages and drove down the interior. We travelled a considerable distance through the inside of the train.
‘Are we driving to France, or what?’ Lisa asked.
‘Not been through the tunnel before?’
&
nbsp; ‘No, I don’t really like the idea of tunnels underwater; the Blackwell Tunnel freaks me out enough.’
‘Half an hour and we’ll be through.’ I said pulling the car to a halt. ‘You can get out and stretch your legs, if you want to.’
‘Thanks, but I think I’ll stay here.’
With a gentle lurch the train moved off and in a couple of minutes, the daylight outside disappeared. The crossing took just half an hour. As we drove out of the carriage into the afternoon sun, Lisa tapped our destination into the satnav and guided by the bass timbre of the mechanical voice (I had turned off the annoying female voice), we set off into France. An hour later we were driving through Picardy, past the former battlefields of the Somme and on round Amiens. Another ninety minutes and we reached the outer fringes of Paris; we stopped to pay our toll at the peage after a surprisingly good journey. At the bottom of the A16 things changed, the traffic began to increase and our rate of progress slowed to a frustrating crawl as we were caught up in the frantic Parisian rush hour. At long last we pulled in to our suite hotel in the shadow of the futuristic bowl of the Stade de France. We parked the Saab and carried our bags into the six storey modern concrete and glass structure. The reception area was striking, with light wood modern furniture contrasting with the black flooring. We were greeted by a young female receptionist, who rapidly changed to speaking English after being subjected to my Franglais. After checking in we went to our impressively appointed neighbouring rooms, complete with TV, microwave and sitting/dining area.
We bought food from the refrigerators in the gourmet bar and carried the packs of soup, pesto pasta and fresh bread upstairs and heated it in the microwave in our room. We sat at the table eating and discussing our plans for the following day. I put on the TV, typically French, the news channels were all in French and so rapid that I found it difficult to follow. Then the news cut to something we recognised, with pictures of rioting Asian youths in London and several other cities, the commentary said ‘Les émeutes suivant des attaques aux communités asiatiques.’ - The riots followed attacks on the Asian communities, - this is what we saw the start of on Sunday, and now the reaction was setting in. The TV then cut to a familiar figure, Sinclair. We could not follow his speech as it was dubbed into French, but it did not take a genius to work out what he would be saying, ‘The problems in society caused by incomers who did not consider themselves to be British or accept a British way of life… then he would go on about the values of our forefathers which had made Britain great.’ I could hear the measured, reasonable tones of his educated voice, even though it was drowned out by the French commentary.
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