‘There are those who contend that the general’s lady is the most beautiful woman in the whole of Spain,’ the major said wistfully. ‘And sometimes I think that perhaps they are right.’
‘Tell me about her,’ Paco said.
‘About the general’s lady?’
‘That’s right.’
Gómez glanced at the soldiers, who had placed the walnut coffin back in the shallow grave and were now covering it with soil. ‘We’ve been standing still long enough,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we stretch our legs a little?’
Paco followed him up the garden. Gómez came to a halt at a point midway between the fig-tree and the house, then looked quickly at both, as if checking that it would be safe to have a private conversation. Apparently satisfied that no one could overhear them, the major placed his right foot on one of the stone benches, and took out his cigarettes.
‘So you want to know about the general’s lady,’ he said, striking a match. ‘What exactly would you like me to tell you about her? And more importantly, how could it possibly be of any value to your investigation?’
‘A policeman automatically collects all kinds of information from all kinds of sources,’ Paco told him. ‘Most of it never turns out to be of any use, but occasionally, he’ll find he has a tiny sliver of knowledge which just fits into the pattern and makes the picture complete.’
Gómez nodded, as if accepting the point. ‘Where would you like me to start?’ he asked.
‘Let’s begin with her background,’ Paco suggested. ‘Is her family as rich as her husband’s so obviously is?’
Gómez shook his head. ‘She comes, I believe, from relatively humble circumstances.’
They were often the worst, Paco thought. The ones who had climbed the mountain themselves were usually the people who did their best to ensure that nobody else scaled the same heights. The ones who had once been the victims of snobbery turned into the greatest snobs of all once they had it in their power to be so. ‘How did the general meet her?’ he asked.
‘She was an actress,’ Major Gómez replied. ‘And by that,’ he added hastily, in case there should be any misunderstanding, ‘I don’t mean to suggest that she was a music-hall performer.’
Paco grinned. ‘Of course you don’t. How could a general’s wife ever have been anything but an actress in the truly classical sense?’
‘She has appeared in all the great plays of the Golden Age of Spain,’ Gómez said sharply, as if he had taken it on himself to defend her honour from a suspected slight. ‘Molina’s The Prudence of a Woman, Vega’s Pedro Carbonero – any masterpiece you care to mention.’
‘And was she any good?’ Paco asked.
Gómez looked vaguely uncomfortable. ‘I went to see one of her performances once. I couldn’t take my eyes off her for a second. And I was not alone in that. She had all the men in the audience in the palm of her hand.’
‘That doesn’t answer my question,’ Paco, pointed out. ‘I didn’t ask you if she was beautiful – I can see for myself that she is. What I wanted to know was if she had any talent.’
‘She was not a naturally gifted actress,’ Major Gómez conceded. ‘But, you see, that really didn’t matter. Her name alone was enough to fill any theatre she appeared in. And anyone who saw her perform came away adoring her. I expect that’s how it was for the general. No doubt he saw her on stage one night, and fell in love with her. Flowers would have followed, and finally they would have got to meet each other.’
‘And when they did meet, she saw his bald head and stumpy little legs, and she couldn’t help throwing herself at him?’ Paco suggested.
‘A little scepticism is a useful quality in a criminal investigator,’ Gómez said, with a warning edge creeping into his voice. ‘But if you take that scepticism too far – or let the wrong people hear you expressing it – then even I can’t protect you from the consequences.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Paco said, trying his best to appear to express the contrition he didn’t actually feel. ‘Let me ask you one more question. Has the general’s wife, as far as you know, ever . . .?’
Major Gómez put up his hand to silence him. ‘I think I have already said enough,’ he told Paco. ‘Possibly more than enough.’ He looked back towards the fig tree at the bottom of the garden. The soldiers had finished refilling Principe’s grave, and were now patting the earth down with their shovels. ‘It is time for me to get back to my other duties,’ he continued, throwing his cigarette on to the path and grinding it with the sole of his boot. ‘Perhaps when we’ve had a few drinks together one night, I may be willing to answer more questions about the general’s lady, but for the moment, the matter is closed.’
Chapter Eleven
Paco and Cindy sat at the table in their homely gaol on the Calle Jose Antonio, the remains of a superb paella on their plates in front of them, the bottle containing the dry Rueda wine almost empty.
‘Your Major Gómez certainly knows how to look after his prisoners,’ Cindy said contentedly.
‘Hmm,’ Paco answered, absently.
‘What’s on your mind, Ruiz?’ Cindy asked.
‘Gómez. I’ve no idea what game he’s playing. Part of the time I think he really wants me to work on this case of his, and part of the time I’m almost sure he doesn’t.’
Cindy looked puzzled. ‘I don’t see what possible motive he could have for not wanting you on it,’ she said.
‘Neither do I,’ Paco admitted. ‘Unless, of course, he himself is involved in some way with the death of the dog, and so doesn’t want it solving.’
‘If he didn’t want the case solving, why did he rescue you from the firing squad?’ Cindy asked. ‘He didn’t have to do that, did he? Nobody else had any idea who you were, and in another few seconds you’d have been just one more unidentified dead body.’
‘True,’ Paco agreed.
‘And then, of course, there’s the fact that he had me kidnapped,’ Cindy continued. ‘He risked sending his men into enemy territory just so they could bring little Cindy back to this village. And for what reason? To make sure you’d co-operate with him.’
‘I know all that,’ Paco said. ‘And the theory that he does want to get to the bottom of the mystery is supported by the fact that it was him, not me, who suggested that we dig up the dog to see if we could find any clues.’
‘So what’s your problem with him?’ Cindy asked.
‘My problem is that there are a couple of things he’s said which might suggest that the last thing he wants is for the truth to come out.’
‘And what might they be?’
‘The first one is that he lied to me when he said he couldn’t remember whether or not he’d posted a sentry outside Colonel Valera’s house the night the dog was killed. Why did he lie? Perhaps because removing the guard was far from the random act he claimed it was.’
‘What are you saying, Paco?’
‘That it’s possible he knew exactly what was going to happen, and didn’t want anyone there to witness the killer running into the square.’
Cindy poured the last of the wine into their glasses. ‘That doesn’t make any kind of sense,’ she said. ‘The basis of your whole theory so far is that shooting the dog was unplanned – nothing more than a measure of desperation. Now you’re contradicting yourself completely and saying that Major Gómez had anticipated the whole thing.’
‘I know,’ Paco groaned. ‘But there has to be some reason why the major lied about the guards.’
‘What was your second point?’
‘If he really wants the killer brought to justice, why did he tell me to disregard the most vital piece of evidence we’ve uncovered so far?’
‘The bullet?’
‘Yes, the bloody bullet. It was almost definitely fired from a pistol belonging to one of the officers, yet Gómez warned me in no uncertain terms to stay well away from them.’
‘And he also explained why,’ Cindy pointed out. ‘The general doesn’t want to know if one of his officers is involved.
’
‘That’s what Gómez said,’ Paco agreed, ‘but I’m not sure that I believe him. You have to remember that the general has suffered a tremendous loss of prestige over the dog, and if it means shooting one of his officers to regain it, I don’t think he’d hesitate for a second.’
‘You might be wrong about that, and Gómez may be right,’ Cindy said. ‘After all, he does know the general much better than you do.’
‘You’re missing the point,’ Paco told her. ‘It’s not what I believe which is important here. It’s what the major believes. And I don’t think Gómez really believes that the general would refuse to accept the fact that one of his officers is the dog’s killer.’
‘So why did he feed you that particular line of bullshit?’
‘I don’t know,’ Paco admitted.
A rueful grin appeared on Cindy’s face. ‘You know what you’re doing, don’t you, Ruiz?’ she said. ‘You’re talking about the case. And not only that, but you’ve got me interested in it, too. I thought we’d agreed this was one murder which you had no intention of solving.’
‘I have to talk about the case,’ Paco said in his own defence. ‘I made the big mistake this morning of not being the one who suggested we exhume the dog. The only reason we’re still alive is because I’ve got a job to do, and if I’m to convince Gómez that I’m really serious about finding a solution, I have to devote at least a part of my mind to the investigation.’
He was telling the truth – but not all of it. It was necessary to appear to be working on the killing, but he was also in the grip of his investigator’s instinct, and he wanted to solve the case – if only for his own satisfaction.
‘What about the other part of your mind?’ Cindy asked, cutting into his thoughts.
‘I’m sorry. I don’t quite understand.’
Cindy smiled indulgently. ‘The part of your mind which is supposed to be trying to find a way to get us out of here.’
‘Not much luck there,’ Paco said, shaking his head. ‘Major Gómez seems to have done a very good job of sealing this place off. There’s a checkpoint on every road out of the village. And there are motorized patrols scouring the area for any Socialist militiamen who have strayed beyond their own lines. Even if we could find a way to get rid of the guards outside this house, and then somehow managed to sneak through the village undetected, we wouldn’t get more than half a kilometre as things stand at the moment.’
‘At the moment?’ Cindy repeated.
Paco shrugged. ‘The situation may change. The militia might overrun the village at any time, and we’d be free again.’
‘But that’s not likely, is it?’
‘Not from what I’ve seen of the way the two sides are conducting the fighting,’ Paco confessed. ‘It’s much more likely that it will be the rebels who advance.’
‘Well, then?’
‘That might also present us with opportunities. The rebels are concentrated around this village now. Once they start to spread out, we might see a loophole we can slip through.’ Paco looked at his watch. ‘It was a good lunch, and now I’d better get back to pretending to be an investigator,’ he said.
Cindy raised a questioning eyebrow. ‘Pretending?’ she said.
*
Towards dusk the heavy trucks began to rumble back into the village, followed by the tramp, tramp, tramp of thousands of pairs of weary feet. Lamps were lit in the bars on the Calle Mayor and the main square. From out of the shadows came the prostitutes, heavily painted and ready to ply their trade once more. The army had returned from its day’s fighting in the sierra, and after a brief rest it would be ready for its night’s drinking and whoring.
Paco walked towards the Calle Belén, the two parts of his mind working simultaneously on his two separate problems. If he knew why the dog had been killed, he argued for the hundredth time, it should be obvious who had killed it. If he could find some way of getting out of the village, he could save his darling Cindy. And suddenly, the two problems fused together, and became only one. If he could track down the killer, he could use the offer of silence to blackmail the man into helping them make their escape!
‘Sometimes I’m so smart I even surprise myself,’ he said aloud.
And sometimes you can be so stupid that you can overlook the most obvious clues and go off on a wild-goose chase, a tiny, nagging voice at the back of his brain reminded him. He wished he had Fat Felipe with him at that moment. He could imagine his overweight partner lumbering along at his side, belching, scratching his armpits and occasionally asking just the right question to put his boss back on track.
The church door was open, and, on a whim, Paco stepped inside. It was like most country churches – plain in the style of its outer construction, but elaborate in its internal decoration. Feeling as if plaster saints were watching him disapprovingly from every alcove, Paco advanced down the aisle towards the statue of the Virgin. On feast days she would be dressed in a rich cloak and a gold crown, then paraded through the streets high above the crowd, on a pallet which it took ten strong men to lift. But even without the extra trappings she acquired for the fiestas, she was still impressive enough.
Paco ran his gaze over the wooden cloak which had been carved so skilfully that it looked as if it were swirling in the wind. He let his eyes rest on the face, which almost seemed alive, and on the wooden jewellery which had been painted so cunningly that it actually seemed to glitter. The statue was a labour of love – a combination of art and devotion – but he did not think the simple Nazarene woman who had given birth to Jesus Christ would have been able to recognize herself at all in this representation.
He took a further step forward. Even the carved tears cascading down her wooden cheeks appeared to be real. It had been a statue of the Virgin in another village, far to the south of this one, which had helped to solve his last case, he remembered – but he didn’t anticipate this particular Virgin getting him any nearer to the truth about who had killed the general’s dog.
He heard a muted cough, and realized he was not alone in the church. He turned, and saw a soldier – a private – on his knees behind one of the pews. The man had his hands clasped together, and his head bent reverently in prayer. Then he lifted his head, and Paco saw it was Jiménez, one of the group of soldiers who had discovered the dead dog.
‘Good evening, señor,’ the private said.
‘Good evening to you,’ Paco replied, and then, perhaps because of the proximity of the statue, he suddenly remembered an amusing joke which had been going round the bars in Madrid, and chuckled to himself.
‘Is something funny, señor?’ the boy asked.
‘Yes, as a matter of fact, there is,’ Paco replied. ‘Do you know how you can prove, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Jesus Christ was a Spaniard and not a Palestinian?’
‘No, señor,’ the young soldier replied, a blank expression, which was probably habitual, on his dull face.
Paco took up the same attention-grabbing stance he would have adopted if he’d been telling the joke to some of his cronies in the Cabo de Trafalgar. ‘There are three ways you can prove it,’ he said. ‘Firstly,’ he held up one finger, ‘Jesus didn’t leave home until he was thirty-three.’
The regulars of the bar would already have started to chuckle, but Jiménez looked at him as if he were speaking a foreign language.
‘Secondly,’ Paco pressed on, holding up another finger, ‘we know he was Spanish because his mother thought he was God.’
The men in the bar would have been punching each other on the arm by now, but Jiménez still gazed at him uncomprehendingly. Still, Paco thought, he’d gone too far with the joke to stop.
‘And the last proof,’ he said, raising a third finger, ‘is that Jesus thought his mother was a virgin!’
The blank expression remained on the young soldier’s face. ‘I don’t understand, señor,’ he said.
No, of course he didn’t, Paco thought, cursing himself for being as insensitive as Private Pé
rez had been when he’d goaded poor, slow Jiménez the day before. The young soldier was a country boy, not one of the pampered middle-class professional students who lived in the city, sponging off their parents until long after the time they should have started supporting themselves. He couldn’t even begin to imagine their leisurely existence – and hence was lost even at the start of the joke. His life before joining the army would have been entirely different. He would have been working in the fields from the time he was ten, and probably knew the land far better than any professor of agriculture.
An idea struck Paco – a way he could use the knowledge that this young campesino had acquired through years of backbreaking work.
‘You remember the day that the general’s dog was killed, don’t you?’ Paco asked.
‘Yes, señor.’
‘Could you tell me whether or not there were any bitches in the village on heat on that day?’
‘No, señor, there weren’t,’ the young soldier replied, without a second’s thought.
‘Are you sure about that?’
The boy laughed, as if this time Paco had made a joke which he could understand. ‘Of course I’m sure.’
‘Explain your reasoning.’
‘Excuse me, señor?’
‘How do you know there were no bitches on heat?’
Jiménez frowned, and Paco could almost trace his slow mental processes. These kinds of things were not something you thought about, the country boy was telling himself – they were something you just knew.
‘The male dogs who are allowed the free run of the village lay in the shade as they usually do,’ Jiménez said finally. ‘And the ones which were chained up did not howl.’
Of course, Paco thought. It was simple once it was explained. There had been a time when he would not even have needed to ask Jiménez the reason for his certainty, because as a village boy himself, he’d already have known the answer. But after over twenty years of being away from the land, he’d lost all the country instincts he’d once possessed.
‘Is there anything else you want to ask me, señor?’ Jiménez asked.
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