Even at a steady walking pace, it took him less than half a minute to reach the church at the corner of the Calle Belén. If the soldiers had been running, as they claimed, it would have taken them a considerably shorter time to get to the spot. But the killer had already gone by then – dashing down the street and disappearing around the sharp bend.
Paco stopped again, and looked down at the dark, almost star-shaped stain in the beaten clay. Principe’s blood! But why had the killer shot the dog? That was the question. Had it been a personal act of revenge against the general? Or had the killer a pathological hatred of all dogs, and just happened to choose this one to take it out on?
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Paco said aloud. ‘You’re not interested in solving this case. You can’t be interested in solving this case.’
Whether the motive for the murder had been specific or general, the killer should have waited for a more opportune moment, he thought. The man had been a fool to shoot Principe so close to a crowded street, where there was every chance he would be spotted. Unless. . . . Unless he had no choice, because there was a compelling reason for killing the dog right then! But what the hell could that compelling reason possibly be?
He started walking again, turned the sharp bend at the corner of the church, and saw the pleasant Plaza de Santa Teresa ahead of him. There was a sentry standing in front of the house where Colonel Valera – the matinée idol – was billeted, just as there’d been one at the same post the last time he’d visited the square. Paco came to a halt in front of the man.
‘Were you on duty the night that the general’s dog was killed?’ he asked.
The sentry scowled. ‘I know who you are,’ he said. ‘You’re that detective from Madrid.’
‘That’s right,’ Paco agreed.
‘I don’t want to talk to you,’ the sentry said.
Paco sighed. ‘Major Gómez has put me in charge of the investigation into the dog’s death,’ he said. ‘He will have no objection to you talking to me. What he will object to is my dragging him away from his breakfast so he can order you to co-operate.’
The sentry considered what Paco had said. ‘No, I wasn’t on duty,’ he admitted finally.
‘So who was?’
‘Nobody.’
‘Nobody?’ Paco repeated.
‘There are three of us on permanent assignment to this post,’ the sentry explained. ‘We each of us do an eight-hour stint of duty. Except that sometimes we don’t.’
‘And what exactly do you mean by that?’
‘Sometimes, Major Gómez comes along and tells us we won’t be required that day.’
‘Let me get this straight,’ Paco said. ‘You’re saying that Major Gómez comes along personally and says that you won’t be needed?’
‘Yes.’
‘That doesn’t make a lot of sense,’ Paco, pointed out. ‘Either a building is worth guarding, or it isn’t. Wouldn’t you say that’s true?’
The sentry shrugged. ‘It’s not my place to make sense out of things,’ he said. ‘I’m told to stand guard somewhere, and I stand guard. I’m told I can go away and have a drink, and that’s exactly what I do. I’ve given up trying to figure out the way officers’ minds work.’
Paco nodded as if in agreement, turned, and walked across the square towards the house where Major Gómez was billeted. Of course there wasn’t a sentry on duty that night, he thought. He should have been able to work that out for himself, without even speaking to the guard.
He stopped in his tracks, and shook his head in self-disgust. He was thinking about the bloody case again – not just pretending to, but actually applying all his brain-power to getting to the bottom of it. Idiot!
He reached Gómez’s house, knocked on the door, and was admitted by a valet who looked at him as if he were dirt.
The major was sitting at the table in a reception room, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. ‘One of the few advantages of being the head of security is that I don’t have to make an early start, like most of my brother officers,’ he said.
‘And another one is that you don’t have people shooting at you every day,’ Paco said dryly.
Gómez grinned, as if he were genuinely amused. ‘Take a seat, Inspector,’ he said. ‘Would you care for a cup of coffee?’
Paco nodded, and sat down. ‘I’ll have it black,’ he said.
Gómez clicked his fingers, and the valet placed a cup in front of Paco and filled it with strong, black coffee. ‘I trust the food I had sent over to you last night was satisfactory,’ the major said.
‘Why wasn’t there a sentry on duty outside Colonel Valera’s house, the night that the dog was killed?’ Paco asked.
Gómez studied the glowing end of his cigarette as if it had acquired a sudden fascination for him. ‘Wasn’t there a sentry on duty?’ he asked.
‘You know there wasn’t.’
‘I have posted scores of guards all around the village perimeter,’ Gómez said. ‘There is no real need for sentries within the village itself, but the colonel likes to have one because that shows what an important man he is. And sometimes I like to withdraw his sentry – to remind him that he is not quite as important as he would sometimes wish.’
‘Just like that?’ Paco asked incredulously.
‘No, not just like that,’ Gómez replied. ‘I spin him some line about needing the men for other duties, and he pretends to believe me. But we both know what is really going on.’
‘Aren’t you afraid he’ll complain to the general about you?’
‘That would be as good as saying that he cannot control one of his subordinates. It’s not a position he wants to find himself in.’
‘Let’s get back to the night the dog was killed,’ Paco said. ‘Are you now admitting that there was no sentry on duty?’
Gómez frowned. ‘Do I admit it?’ he asked. ‘I think you’re forgetting your position again, Ruiz. I am the head of security here, and you are my prisoner. I will not be interrogated by you.’ His face relaxed a little. ‘But I see no harm in answering that particular question. Withdrawing or maintaining the sentries is a matter of whim, rather than policy. Sometimes I feel like insulting Valera, sometimes I don’t. But since there is no system, there is also no record. There may, or may not, have been a sentry on duty that night. I simply can’t remember.’
Paco shook his head. ‘That’s not true, and you know it,’ he said. ‘The private soldiers I talked to yesterday heard the killer running off down the Calle Belén. If there had been a sentry posted outside Colonel Valera’s house, he couldn’t have failed to see the man as he entered the square. Which would mean that you’d have no need of me now.’
For a second, Major Gómez was silent, then he threw back his head and roared with uncontrolled laughter. ‘I somehow keep forgetting that I’m not dealing with one of those bloody idiots from the military intelligence unit, but with the man who was capable of solving the Atocha station murder case,’ he said, when he’d finally calmed down. ‘It’s obvious to me now that I’ll have to give you more rope than I’m usually prepared to give them. But . . .’ his voice was suddenly serious again – almost, in fact, threatening, ‘. . . but do be careful that you don’t use all this extra rope I’m giving you to hang yourself with.’
He still hadn’t explained why he’d decided to lie about not knowing for sure whether there’d been a sentry on duty that night, Paco thought. But there was only so far you could push a man like Gómez, so that line of questioning was closed to him at least for the moment.
‘Why did you decide that I didn’t need an escort any more?’ he asked.
‘I thought over what you said about needing the same freedom to carry out your investigation as you had in Madrid. It soon became obvious to me that having two soldiers following you about would impede that freedom. So I issued instructions that you were to be allowed to move around alone.’
‘Aren’t you afraid that I’ll take it as a golden opportunity to make a run for it?’
<
br /> The major shook his head. ‘Oh no, my friend. Not at all. As long as we have your Yanqui lady-friend safely under guard, you wouldn’t even dream of leaving this village.’
‘You really are absolutely sure I won’t decide to abandon her, are you?’ Paco asked.
‘Absolutely,’ the major confirmed. ‘As I’ve told you before, I can read men very well. And I know that you would not desert her – even if your life depended on it.’ He took a sip of his coffee, and lit up another cigarette. ‘The general has had the dog buried,’ he continued, going off at a tangent. ‘But if you wish, I am sure I can persuade him to let us dig the animal up again.’
‘Why should we want to do that?’ Paco asked.
The major’s eyes narrowed. ‘I am not a policeman like you, so perhaps I’m wrong, but isn’t it normal in homicide investigations for the detective in charge to want to see the corpse?’ he asked suspiciously.
Paco cursed his own stupidity. He felt as if he were sitting on some kind of mental see-saw, first becoming far too involved in the case, and then going in exactly the opposite direction – and making it obvious to Gómez in the process that he had absolutely no interest in it at all.
‘You’re quite right, major,’ he said. ‘I do always want to see the corpse.’
‘Then why didn’t you request permission to view it this time?’ Gómez asked, with the hint of suspicion still in his voice.
‘Perhaps it’s because the victim is a dog,’ Paco replied, making his explanation up as he went along. ‘Somehow, I’ve been treating it differently from the way I treat other murders. But it isn’t different at all. The killer is human, just as all the other killers I’ve dealt with have been human. And the body may indeed give us some clue as to who this killer is.’
‘That’s just what I was thinking,’ Major Gómez said.
‘Where is the dog buried?’
‘In the garden behind the palacio.’
Paco drained the last of his coffee, and stood up. ‘Then, by all means, let’s go and disinter it,’ he said.
Chapter Ten
The walled garden behind the palacio was a pleasant retreat from the hustle and bustle of the village. It was criss-crossed by paved paths, and there were several stone benches, each of which caught the sun at a different time of day. Almond and apple trees were flourishing, and it was plain that though there was a war going on, the flower-beds had suffered from no lack of attention.
Major Gómez led Paco and the two enlisted soldiers to the fig-tree which was growing up against the back wall. ‘A couple of days more and we’d have been too late,’ he said to Paco. ‘The general’s lady has ordered a marble tombstone from Burgos, and once that’s in place, I don’t think the general himself would ever have agreed to us digging up the corpse.’
A marble tombstone! Paco repeated to himself. A bloody marble tombstone! For a dog! He watched as the soldiers began to dig. It was not nearly as hot up in the sierra as it would be down on the plains around Madrid, but it was still hot enough, and by the time one of the diggers’ spades hit something solid, both men’s vests were drenched in sweat.
‘Be careful!’ Major Gómez said hastily. ‘Don’t damage the coffin. Dig around it.’
‘The coffin?’ Paco said.
Major Gómez shrugged. ‘As far as the general and his lady are concerned, nothing is too good for Principe.’
The soldiers knelt down, and began to scoop soil out of the hole with their hands. It was a slow, awkward process, but eventually they had cleared enough earth away to pull the casket free. It was made of polished walnut, Paco noted, with a beautifully crafted curved lid, on which there was a brass plate which read:
Principe, dear friend and loyal companion.
We will never forget you.
Your loving master and mistress.
A sudden thought struck Paco. ‘Did the general’s wife really care about the dog?’ he said to Gómez.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Paco admitted. ‘Perhaps it’s because when she got back from Burgos she was making such a fuss about Principe being dead, but she almost completely ignored Reina.’
Major Gómez nodded thoughtfully. ‘It’s probably true that the general has greater affection for the animals,’ he said. ‘But it’s also undoubtedly true that Principe was devoted to the general’s lady.’
That was often the way with dogs, Paco thought. It was the love they really had to work for that they cherished the most. ‘Open the coffin up,’ he said to one of the diggers.
The soldier lifted the lid, and the air was instantly filled with a foul smell. Paco looked down into the coffin. Principe had been placed in it in such a way as to conceal most of his injuries, and had probably looked quite peaceful when he’d been laid to rest – but nothing looks peaceful after the maggots have been working on it for a couple of days.
‘Take the dog out of the coffin, and put it out on the ground,’ Paco told the soldiers.
Gingerly, the two men lifted the decaying body out of the box and placed it beside the fig tree. Paco bent down over the corpse, and Gómez, a handkerchief to his nose, did the same.
‘How can you stand the stench?’ the major mumbled, almost gagging after every word.
Paco chuckled. ‘When you’ve examined corpses which have been bobbing up and down in the River Manzanares for a couple of weeks, this is nothing,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Now let’s just see what we can learn from this particular stiff.’
He ran his finger along the dog’s side, and when he reached the dead animal’s shoulder, he let out a short whoop of triumph.
‘Have you found something?’ Major Gómez asked.
‘Yes. The entry wound.’
‘But the dog was shot in the head.’
‘Private Pérez is certain that he heard two shots,’ Paco said. ‘It was the second one that blew half the animal’s head off.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
‘Because if the first shot had been the fatal one, there would have been no need for a second. So what happened with that first shot? Well, it could have missed its target completely, or it could merely have wounded Principe. We now know that it was the latter case.’ Paco looked up at the two soldiers, who were standing some distance away. ‘Has either of you lads got a knife on him?’
One of the privates handed him a big clasp knife of the type which peasants use for everything from splicing pieces of rope to cutting up pieces of spicy chorizo sausage for their lunch. Paco opened the knife and gouged into the flesh of the dead dog.
‘I’m looking for the bullet,’ he explained to Major Gómez. ‘It won’t be as much use to me as it would be if I had all the resources of the forensics lab in Madrid at my disposal – we won’t, for example, be able to prove it was fired by any particular gun – but at least it will establish the type of weapon that was used.’
He dug a little more with the knife, then extracted the bullet from the rotting corpse. He held it in the flat of his hand for Major Gómez to examine. ‘What do you make of that, señor head of security?’ he asked.
‘It’s a thirty-two calibre bullet,’ the major said confidently. ‘There’s no doubt about it.’
‘And what calibre does your pistol fire?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘And that, of course, is true of all the other officers, too.’
Gómez suddenly looked very disturbed indeed. ‘This is not good,’ he told Paco.
‘Isn’t it? I would have thought it was very good. There are thousands of enlisted men in the village, but many fewer officers. We’ve narrowed down our list of suspects considerably.’
‘Perhaps we have,’ Gómez agreed. ‘The problem is, we’ve narrowed it down to the wrong list of suspects.’
‘The wrong list?’ Paco repeated.
‘The general intends to have whoever killed his dog executed. If it’s an enlisted man, then there’s no problem. It will serve as a good example to the rest of the men of
what happens if they ever dare to step out of line. But it’s an entirely different matter if the killer turns out to be an officer. Officers are gentlemen. You do not shoot one of them like a dog, even if he has shot a treasured dog himself.’
‘Are you saying that the general won’t want to hear the truth?’ Paco demanded.
‘I am saying that he will want a truth which suits him,’ Gómez replied. He brightened, as if a new idea had come into his mind. ‘Who is to say that it was an officer’s gun which did the shooting, anyway? After all, there are many thirty-two calibre pistols in Spain.’
‘But how many are there in this village which are not in the hands of army officers?’
‘Perhaps a few. Perhaps more than a few.’
‘You don’t sound very convinced,’ Paco told him.
Gómez’s face darkened again. ‘Be careful, my friend,’ he warned. ‘If you let your investigation proceed along this path, you will be treading on very dangerous ground indeed.’
Paco stood up and wiped his hands on the trunk of the fig tree. ‘You can bury the animal again,’ he told the two soldiers.
He felt a prickling at the back of his neck, and knew that he was being watched. He turned round quickly, and directed his gaze at the upper windows of the palacia. The beautiful, angry woman he had seen for the first time the day before was staring down at him. And even at that distance, he could read the look of pure hatred on her face.
She wanted her beloved dog’s killer found he thought – but not as much as she wanted to see the ex-policeman who was investigating the crime safely in his grave. What was it that Gómez had said about her? That he’d heard her talk at dinner parties, and her views made even her husband seem like a dangerous left-winger. That wasn’t hard to believe. Though her eyes were alluring, they were also the eyes of a fanatic.
The general’s wife continued to watch them for a few seconds more, then, after giving Paco a final, contemptuous flick of the head, she disappeared from the window. Beside him, Paco heard Major Gómez let out a deep sigh, and turning saw that he, too, had been looking up at the window.
The General's Dog Page 8