‘What task?’
‘The general has – or rather had – two dogs, Principe and Reina. Last night, on the Calle Belén, someone shot Principe. The general was very fond of the dog, and so was the general’s lady, who had bought it a collar encrusted with semi-precious stones. That collar has disappeared. So we are not only looking for a murderer. We are also looking for a thief.’
Paco found it hard to believe what he was hearing. ‘A murderer?’ he repeated. ‘This afternoon I saw you shoot a man through the back of the head, and now you have the nerve to call someone who shot a dog a murderer?’
‘I was just doing my duty,’ the major said, unperturbed. ‘We have no facilities for keeping large numbers of prisoners here, and it would clearly be insane to release them – they would only immediately rejoin their militias and give us more trouble in the future. So what choice do we have but to execute them? Besides, can you honestly say that the same thing isn’t going on on your side of the front line?’
‘No,’ Paco admitted. ‘I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.’
‘So, let us get back to the dog,’ the major continued. ‘Whether I consider its death a murder or not is irrelevant. That is how the general sees it, and he is the one who decides what is important and what isn’t. He wants the killer caught and punished – and I think you are the man to track him down.’
All the clues had been there, and Paco should have seen it coming. But he hadn’t, and now, as the realization of what was expected of him finally hit home, he was filled first with incredulity, and then with rage.
‘I won’t do it!’ he exploded.
Major Gómez smiled. ‘I think you will. The alternative, after all, is the firing squad.’
‘I don’t care,’ Paco said hotly. ‘When all around me human life is being treated as if it means nothing, I refuse to glorify the death of a dog by treating it as a serious crime.’
‘So you are quite prepared to be shot?’
Paco slammed his fist down hard on the table. ‘You remember what you said to Alfredo just before you put a bullet in his head?’ he demanded. ‘You said we should live up to our boast that it was better to die on our feet than live on our knees. What else could you possibly call the job you’ve offered me than a chance to live on my knees?’
Major Gómez casually picked up his pistol, and aimed it at the centre of Paco’s chest. ‘I could shoot you now, you know,’ he said. ‘It would make a bit of a mess, but I have a batman to clear up my messes for me. So I’ll ask you one last time, Inspector Ruiz. Will you work for me?’
‘Go ahead and pull the trigger,’ Paco said defiantly.
The major placed his pistol back on the table, and smiled again. ‘You are no good to me dead,’ he said.
‘And no good to you alive, either,’ Paco pointed out.
‘There’s more than one way to skin a cat,’ the major told him.
‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’
‘You should find out some time tomorrow.’ The major turned his head towards the door. ‘You can take your prisoner back to his cell now, corporal,’ he shouted.
Chapter Five
The heat was already building up in the centre of Madrid, as it did early every morning during the long, stifling summers. Nacho the barman watched the water cart trundle slowly past the Cabo de Trafalgar, spraying the street as it went. A new coolness wafted into the bar’s doorway, but it was a coolness which would last only as long as it took the sun to climb over the high buildings and start to beat mercilessly down on the Calle Hortaleza.
Nacho retreated back into the empty bar. He sighed. Only the morning before the Cabo had been filled with eager militiamen, drinking their sol y sombras, bragging about what they were going to do once they were up in the mountains, and thanking him for the meals he’d made up for them. He would have been glad to do the same thing that morning, too, had there been anyone to serve or cook for. But there wasn’t. He’d watched eagerly as the bus had pulled up in front of the bar that evening, but none of the men who’d got off had been patrons of his. He wondered what had happened to Pepe the street-cleaner and little Alfredo the shoeblack, and hoped that wherever they were, they were safe.
The door opened and two young men entered the bar. One of them was tall and skinny, the other shorter and a little podgy, but both were wearing the boiler suits that identified them as workers, and had Anarchist black-and-red handkerchiefs around their necks.
‘Good morning, comrades. What can I get you to drink?’ Nacho said. ‘A coffee? Or a brandy? Perhaps one of each?’
‘We don’t want anything to drink,’ the taller of the two men replied. ‘But we would certainly appreciate a little information.’
‘You’ve come to arrest someone?’ Nacha asked suspiciously, wondering which of his customers would disappear next.
The taller Anarchist shook his head. ‘That’s a job we leave to others,’ he said. ‘We’ve been up in the sierra, fighting the Fascists.’
‘Then perhaps you might know what’s happened to some of my cust . . .’ Nacho began.
‘That’s why we’re here,’ the shorter Anarchist interrupted. ‘For most of yesterday, we were fighting side by side with a comrade who went by the name of Francisco Ruiz.’
‘Paco!’ Nacho exclaimed. ‘Do you know where he is, or what’s happened to him?’
The taller Anarchist nodded his head gravely. ‘I’m afraid that I do know. I’m sorry to have to tell you that Comrade Ruiz is dead.’
‘What about the others?’ Nacho asked. ‘Luis the tailor, little Alfredo the boot-boy . . .?’
‘We know nothing of them,’ the taller Anarchist said.
‘But they left on the same bus as Paco.’
‘Perhaps he was separated from them. That’s the kind of thing which happens in war. At any rate, we got to know Comrade Ruiz. He fought well and hard, and died bravely.’
‘I’m sure he did,’ Nacho said solemnly. ‘That would be just like Paco.’
‘And now our business is with Comrade Ruiz’s widow,’ the tall man told him. ‘You see, we consider it our duty to tell her that he died fighting as a true hero of the Republic.’
‘But his wife – his widow I should say – is behind enemy lines. In Valladolid,’ Nacho told him.
‘Valladolid, you say.’ A smile flashed briefly across the man’s mouth, and then was gone.
‘That’s right,’ Nacho agreed. ‘So there’s no possible way you can contact her.’
‘Oh, I wouldn’t be too sure about that,’ said the tall man, turning towards the door.
‘What about his girlfriend?’ Nacho asked. ‘Who’s going to tell her that he’s dead?’
The tall man stopped in his tracks. ‘His girlfriend?’ he repeated.
‘That’s right. She lives upstairs. Well, actually, she started out living on a different floor to Paco, though now she’s virtually moved in with him.’
‘They have been living in sin?’ asked the shorter man, as if the thought outraged him.
The taller man coughed nervously. ‘Don’t make jokes like that, Raul,’ he said to his partner. ‘I know you’re only having your bit of fun, but other people might think that you really believe in the bourgeois morality which the Revolution has all but swept away.’
‘Of course, you’re right,’ said the shorter man, looking suitably chastened. ‘My strange sense of humour’s got me into trouble before now.’
The taller man turned his attention back to Nacho. ‘This girlfriend?’ he said. ‘Was Comrade Ruiz just having a fling with her, or was he really very keen on her?’
Nacho laughed, then remembered he was talking about a dead man and was instantly sombre again. ‘If you ask me, he was a lot keener on her than he was on his wife,’ he said. ‘To tell you the truth, if we had such a thing as divorce in this country, it’s my opinion he’d have got rid of Pilar a long time ago.’
The two Anarchists exchanged glances. ‘Perhaps we should go and see her,’ th
e taller man said. ‘After all, someone has to break the news to her, and she would probably appreciate the words of comfort we have to deliver.’
‘That’s true,’ Nacho agreed gravely.
‘So if you’ll just tell us exactly where she lives . . .’ the shorter man suggested.
Nacho gave them the address, and the two Anarchists left the bar. They were an odd couple, the barman thought, as he watched them walk out on to the street, and not just because, physically, they were such a contrasting pair. There was something about their manner which wasn’t quite right, and though he couldn’t exactly put his finger on what that something was, it left him with a vague feeling of unease. And there was the fact that they didn’t know what had happened to Luis and Alfredo the shoeblack. How was it possible that they’d managed to get split up from Paco? But, then, as the militiamen had said themselves, strange things happen in a war, and he supposed this was only one of them. Pushing his doubts to one side, he picked up a glass and began to polish it.
*
Cindy Walker looked down at the letter she had just written to her parents – a letter she was not even sure, given the state of things since the army revolt, would ever get delivered.
Dear Mom and Dad, she read, I expect you’ll have been reading in the newspapers all about the war which has broken out over here, and I imagine it seems like pretty scary stuff. But it’s not like that at all – at least, not where I am. I’m perfectly safe here in Madrid.
And so she was, she thought. For the moment. But what would happen if the Nationalists started bombing the centre of town from the air? Worse, what would happen if, as Paco had said it might, the rebel army swept into the city?
There were loads of demonstrations out on the streets when first I arrived here, the letter continued, but now the militias have taken over order has been restored.
It sounded all wrong, she decided. Yet it was almost impossible for her to make it sound right. Her parents were country people. They’d seemed lost when they’d visited her in the middle-sized town where she’d done her bachelor’s degree. So how could she even begin to describe to them the complex life in a big city – and a foreign big city at that?
She remembered how bewildered they’d been when she’d announced her intention to go to college. But nobody from their town ever went to college, they’d pointed out. It just wasn’t done. And as for her telling them she was going on after her degree to study for a doctorate – well, the only doctors they could understand were the ones who delivered babies and fixed broken legs.
She read the next section of the letter – the one she had found most difficult to write.
I have to tell you something very important. I’ve fallen in love. I know what you’re going to say. I’ve only been in Spain for two weeks. How could I possibly have fallen in love in such a short time? Well, all I can tell you, is that I have. He’s . . .
She had run out of words at that point. What could she tell them about Paco? That he was the most wonderful man she’d ever met? That he had absurd ideas on the nature of honour – ideas that were more in keeping with a romantic medieval knight than with a police inspector who had seen so many brutal murders – but that she wouldn’t wish him to change one iota? That he was still married, but shared his bed nightly with their darling daughter?
The knock on the door shook her out of her musings, and when she opened it she found two young men in boiler suits standing there.
‘Señorita Walker?’ the taller of the two asked.
‘Yes, that’s me.’
‘We have brought you a message from Paco Ruiz. He would like you to join him in the mountains.’
Cindy felt her heart start to beat faster. Paco had said that the fighting in the mountains would be a serious business – that it would be no place for a woman. And he was not the kind of man to change his attitude on things like that overnight. ‘Did you speak to him yourselves?’ she asked.
‘Of course. We’re friends of his. That’s why he asked us to take you to him personally.’
That didn’t sound like Paco. It didn’t sound like him at all. Cindy forced a smile to her lips. ‘And is he keeping his moustache trimmed now that I’m not there to nag him?’ she asked. ‘I’m always telling him not to let it get too straggly, but I know he never pays any attention to me when he’s away from home.’
The taller Anarchist returned her smile. ‘Then the sooner you have him under your thumb again, the better. But I must say that when I saw him yesterday, his moustache looked fine.’
Cindy moved quickly, but the tall man was even quicker. As she tried to slam the door, he pushed hard in the opposite direction, and she was sent sprawling backwards on to the floor. She struggled to get to her feet again, but the Anarchist was already on top of her, pinning her arms down with his knees, and clamping his hands firmly over her mouth.
‘If you scream when I take my hands away, I will, with great regret, be forced to kill you,’ he growled, and now he sounded like one of the rich young men who lived in the barrio de Salamanca, rather than the working man he’d just pretended to be. ‘If you understand what I’m saying, nod your head,’ he continued, no less menacingly.
Cindy nodded her head as far as it would go, and the taller Anarchist climbed off her. She looked around, and saw that the smaller man was also in the apartment now, and had a pistol pointing right at her.
‘Paco Ruiz doesn’t really have a moustache, does he?’ the taller man demanded.
‘No,’ Cindy agreed.
‘You’re a smart girl,’ the tall man told her. ‘And if you carry on being smart no harm will come to you. On the other hand, if you start acting stupidly, you’re as good as dead.’
‘What is it you want?’ Cindy asked, doing her best to fight back a growing feeling of panic.
The tall man smiled again, but this time it was not at all a pleasant smile. ‘We told you just a few moments ago what we want,’ he said. ‘We want to take you to see your boyfriend.’
*
From the angle of the sunshine which was streaming in through the small barred window, Paco estimated it was two o’clock in the afternoon, which meant that he had been locked up in the storeroom for at least fourteen hours – fourteen hours which had seemed like an eternity. He had been served two basic meals by a stony-faced private who plainly thought the food was wasted on him, and had been allowed to empty his toilet bucket into the street drain once. For the rest of the time, there had been nothing to do but think. Think about Cindy, how much he loved her and how much he already missed her. Think about the fact that he had been a complete bloody fool to turn down Major Gómez’s offer – which would at least have bought him a little more time – and yet at the same moment be sure that he had been absolutely right to reject it.
He heard the tramp of soldiers’ boots outside, then the door swung open and Major Gómez entered with two very large private soldiers. Someone else, on the outside, bolted the door behind them.
‘What’s going on?’ Paco demanded. ‘Have you brought these thugs to beat the crap out of me? Because if you have, you’re wasting your time. Whatever you do to me, I’m not going to work for you.’
The major shook his head, almost as if Paco’s comments had saddened him. ‘You disappoint me,’ he said.
‘Really?’ Paco answered. ‘I’m mortified to hear that.’
‘Do you want to know why I’m disappointed in you?’ the major asked, ignoring the sarcasm.
Paco shrugged. ‘Why not? I have no pressing appointments to keep.’
‘I am disappointed that you could imagine, even for a second, that I would attempt to gain your co-operation by having you beaten up. I’m a good enough judge of men to know what will, and will not, work – and I had hoped that you were a good enough judge of men to appreciate that fact about me.’
‘So maybe I’m not the hot-shot policeman you thought I was,’ Paco suggested.
‘Or perhaps you’re so outraged at the idea of investigating the
death of a dog that your usual instincts have been clouded,’ the major said. ‘But once you’re on the case, all that will change.’
‘You never give up, do you?’ Paco asked. ‘Even when it should be obvious to you that you’re not going to get what you want, you never give up.’
Instead of answering the question, the major walked across to the far end of the storeroom. The moment he had taken up his new position, the two big privates stepped into the centre of the room, creating an effective barrier between the officer and the prisoner.
It looked like an orchestrated, pre-planned move, Paco thought. It looked, in fact, as if the major was in fear for his safety. Yet Gómez did not appear in the least bit frightened. He was smiling, and that smile seemed to be one of triumphant amusement. ‘I told you last night there was more than one way to skin a cat,’ he said.
‘And what’s that supposed to mean?’
‘Why don’t you go and have a look out of the window?’ the major suggested. ‘See what’s happening on the street?’
Paco walked over to the window. On the opposite side of the street were two more private soldiers – and standing between them was a blonde woman wearing a grey skirt which only just covered her knees and a white sweatshirt with the number 18 on it.
An anger colder than any he had ever experienced before gushed through Paco’s blood. He slowly turned to face the major, who was still protected by his wall of flesh and muscle. ‘You’re a real son of a bitch, aren’t you?’ he said.
‘Perhaps,’ Gómez replied. ‘But you have to admit, I’m a clever son of a bitch.’
Flinging himself at the two bodyguards in an attempt to claw his way through to the major might give him momentary satisfaction, Paco thought, but it would be a pointless exercise at a time when he should make every action count.
‘You can dispense with your thugs now,’ he said.
‘How can I be sure of that?’ Gómez countered.
‘I thought you were a good judge of men,’ Paco said. ‘Or was that nothing more than bullshit?’
The major hesitated for a second, then shouted out instructions to the man on the other side of the door, and ordered his escort to leave. Prisoner and officer stood glaring at each other for a few seconds, then Paco took a couple of steps forward. ‘If you’ve hurt her . . .’ he said menacingly. ‘If you’ve so much as harmed one hair on her head . . .’
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