by Jack Treby
And so Charlotte had bitten her lip, squeezed herself into the tightest black dress she could find and went to greet her guests with a convincing approximation of cordiality.
Luis Cuerpo was sitting opposite her at the dining table. He was the leader of the SFA, the other sham political party. Several middle–ranking military gentlemen were placed either side of him, none of whom had any real significance. The only common factor was that they were all allies and beneficiaries of the current regime. Antonio Fracaso was not at the table. As a genuine opposition leader, he had not been invited.
The guest of honour was Emilio Títere, an ageing but handsome actor, who had made his name in a string of telenovelas – the Hispanic equivalent of Australian soap operas. Emilio was now, like Charlotte’s boyfriend, the leader of a major political party. Unlike Juan Federico, however, he was fully expected to win the forthcoming election. The Junta had selected him as their puppet ruler and the greying actor was looking forward to his new role. Emilio was not in a good mood, however, when he arrived at the ranch. ‘Got stood up by some idiot of a journalist,’ he complained as he entered the drawing room. ‘Meant to be interviewing me this afternoon.’ A servant handed him a glass of wine.
‘Same thing happened to us on Friday,’ Juan Federico recollected. ‘Some daft Englishman.’
‘He did turn up eventually, darling,’ Charlotte said. ‘But only after you’d left to go to that meeting of yours.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘We had a long talk, actually. He spent most of the interview staring at my chest.’
After drinks, the party moved through to the dining hall and the guests were served a rich and expensive meal that Charlotte considered merely passable. The others, however, were rather impressed by Juan Federico’s hospitality.
Talk around the table was focused almost exclusively on Father José and the controversial interview that had been broadcast the previous evening.
‘Bloody man ought to be shot,’ one of the guests was grumbling; a military gentleman. ‘What right has he got to cast doubt on the motives of our new government? What does he know any way? Should stick to preaching and leave the politics to the politicians.’
Charlotte had the misfortune to be sitting next to this man. She had forgotten his name almost as soon as she had been introduced to him. She nodded politely as he spoke but had some difficulty stifling a yawn.
Juan Federico was more animated. ‘The interview should never have been broadcast,’ he asserted. ‘What did they think they were playing at, broadcasting that kind of inflammatory propaganda?’
‘Bloody station should be closed down,’ the military gentleman agreed. ‘Take the lot of them out and shoot them, that’s what I say!’
Emilio Títere had been called away to the telephone during dessert. He returned to the table with a frown on his face. ‘That was the general,’ he said. ‘Someone’s taken a pot-shot at Sentido.’
Conversation ceased abruptly.
‘Father José?’ Charlotte asked, breaking the silence. It was the first interesting bit of news she’d heard all evening.
Emilio nodded. ‘Just outside the church. A few hours ago, according to Hernandez. The government’s been trying to contain the story until they get a proper idea of what happened.’
‘But surely the general...’ Luis Cuerpo, the SFA leader, stopped himself abruptly. He did not want to be indiscreet. ‘Is the priest dead?’ he asked bluntly.
Emilio took a deep breath. ‘Hernandez isn’t certain. They didn’t actually get him at the church, but a couple of the parishioners were injured.’
‘Serves them bloody right!’ the military gentleman exploded.
‘Sentido was driven away from the back of the building but there was an altercation at a roadblock. According to the police, the priest was badly injured in the crossfire.’
Charlotte frowned. ‘But why would the police open fire on a Catholic priest?’
‘It wouldn’t be the police, darling,’ Freddie told her.
‘Escoria,’ the military gentleman concluded. ‘Bloody Azulitos.’ Obviously, it would be the Azulitos.
‘That is what the police believe,’ Emilio answered diplomatically.
‘So where is he now?’ Charlotte asked.
‘No one seems to know, my dear. The police are still searching the area. The army’s been called in as well. One man was definitely killed. It’s a strange thing. Apparently, there was a British journalist there, in the car with Sentido. You know, I think it was the chap I was meant to be meeting this afternoon.’
~ ~ ~
A bucketful of water smacked hard against my face. I coughed and spluttered and tried to sit myself up. I was lying in a cell in the centre of Toronja. I didn’t know it was the centre of Toronja but I did know it was a cell. It was the second time I had been locked up in less than three days. It was beginning to look like I might have offended somebody.
There were three men standing adjacent to the bed. One of them I recognised. It was the desk sergeant; the man who’d put me in a cell before. He was smiling grimly, his hands still grasping the empty bucket. I was back in the depths of the Central Police Headquarters. ‘Get up!’ the sergeant snapped, placing the bucket down on the concrete floor.
I rubbed my eyes and swung my legs over the side of the mattress. My head was dripping water onto the floor. A random thought struck me. ‘I don’t suppose this is a good time to ask about my mother?’ Nobody replied.
The other men were watching me closely. One was tall and thin; he was dressed in civilian clothes. The second was uniformed and rather fat. This man, I soon discovered, was the chief inspector.
‘Stand up,’ the sergeant barked again, with a look of satisfaction on his face. He obviously enjoyed giving orders. It was probably just as well he had joined the police force. At his signal, two subordinates entered the cell and I was dragged, still dripping, into a nearby interview room.
It was dark and windowless. A single forty–watt bulb illuminated the blank walls. The policemen sat me down on a metal chair and handcuffed my wrists to the steel rods at the back.
The two officials arrived at the door. The desk sergeant hovered behind them but was quickly dismissed. The underlings also departed and the metal door slammed shut behind them with a worrying finality.
I swallowed nervously. My memory was beginning to return. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked. ‘What am I doing here?’ So far, the two officials had not uttered a single word. At least I was with the police and not with the Azulitos. The men in green must have picked me up at the roadblock.
‘Just a formality,’ one of my interrogators informed me smoothly. This was the thin one; the civilian. ‘We need to ask you a few questions. My name’s Viscoso. This is Chief Inspector Lopez.’ Viscoso extended a hand but then remembered my hands were tied behind my back. He smiled apologetically and sat down in a plastic seat on the opposite side of the table.
Inspector Lopez was not so courteous. He was an ugly man with a stubbed nose and a badly shaven chin. His eyes were shrivelled up, no doubt due to the number of interviews he’d conducted in rooms lit by forty–watt bulbs. ‘We want to know about Sentido,’ he growled, his voice a deep, unpleasant rasp.
‘Is he alive?’ I asked. The last thing I remembered was seeing the priest doubling over after a bullet had struck him from behind.
Inspector Lopez grimaced.
‘We were rather hoping you could tell us that,’ the other man admitted. ‘We are deeply concerned for his safety.’ Deep concern was etched into Viscoso’s narrow face.
The inspector seemed a little less sympathetic. ‘We want to know where he is. Dead or alive.’
‘People in these parts attach a great deal of importance to the dead,’ Viscoso explained. ‘Superstition, of course, but people do take it very seriously. We need to find out if the priest was killed.’
‘I wish I could help you,’ I said. ‘I honestly don’t know.’
‘You were there at the roadblock,’ the inspec
tor pointed out.
‘Yes, but...I was knocked unconscious. I’m afraid that’s all I remember.’ I didn’t feel inclined to offer up any extra information. Actually, I had nothing more to offer.
Inspector Lopez gazed at his companion. Viscoso changed the subject. He looked down at a file he had brought with him into the room. ‘I gather you’re a journalist,’ he commented brightly.
‘That’s right. I‘m a newspaper correspondent. For the Herald.’
‘Ah, yes. The International Herald Tribune. A fine newspaper.’
‘Er...no. The Daily Herald. It’s a British paper.’
‘Oh.’ Viscoso frowned slightly. ‘Well, probably better known in your own country than here. I see your mother was born in San Doloroso.’
‘In Hermosa, yes.’
‘A beautiful place.’
‘I’ve never been there.’
‘You must. It’s absolutely delightful.’
Inspector Lopez was becoming visibly agitated. ‘We’re wasting time, Viscoso.’
Viscoso smiled. ‘I’m afraid the inspector here is a little impatient.’
‘The car that was abandoned on the side of the road,’ Lopez demanded. ‘The Ford Fiesta. That was yours?’
‘Er...yes.’
‘Who else was in the vehicle?’
I hesitated.
‘We know you were driving. We know the priest was with you. But there was a third man. And a woman.’
‘A local girl, so we’ve been told,’ Viscoso added. ‘But with blonde hair.’
‘Is she all right?’ I asked.
‘Who is she?’ Lopez demanded, leaning forward. I flinched under the force of his malodorous breath.
‘We really would like to know,’ the civil servant agreed. ‘And the identity of the other gentleman you were seen with. He was an Englishman, I take it? A friend of yours? Perhaps the man who came here to vouch for you the other day?’
I said nothing. There was something not quite right about these proceedings. The only witnesses to the events at the roadblock were the Azulitos themselves. ‘Look, I don’t mean to be difficult...’ I began.
Viscoso beamed. ‘Well, that is decent of you.’
‘But if I’m going to be questioned like this, well...shouldn’t I have a lawyer present? Or somebody to look after my interests?’
‘No lawyer!’ Lopez snapped.
‘A phone call...?’
‘Listen, Sunny Jim,’ the inspector bellowed,‘I could have you taken out and shot!’ He didn’t actually say “Sunny Jim”, but I hesitate to repeat his real words.
‘Inspector!’ Viscoso cut in. ‘There’s no need for that.’ He turned back to me. ‘I’m afraid Chief Inspector Lopez is feeling a little agitated. I do apologise. Of course there’s no question of you being taken out and shot. We are just very concerned to discover what has happened to our dear friend Father José. Of course you will be granted access to a lawyer. But if Sen...if Father José is injured, we need to get to him as soon as possible. Time is of the essence. And I assure you, it is very much in your interests to cooperate.’
I looked from Viscoso to Lopez. Lopez smirked unpleasantly. ‘You were found lying unconscious next to a dead body. The man was murdered; stabbed in the chest.’
‘He was an Azulito,’ I blurted out.
Viscoso nodded. ‘The inspector managed to deduce that from the uniform. We believe the Azulitos may have been behind this whole assassination attempt.’
Obviously, the Azulitos were behind the attack. And obviously the police already knew that, because they’d been at the church when the attack took place. They had not lifted a finger to help us.
‘Apparently, there is a rather good set of prints on the hilt of the blade,’ Viscoso continued. ‘The knife is currently with the chief inspector’s forensics department.’
‘It won’t take them long,’ the inspector assured me. ‘And I’m willing to bet those fingerprints belong to you. Which, Sunny Jim...’ – he leaned even further across the table – ‘...makes you a murderer.’
Chapter Eight
The Azulitos would almost certainly have slit her throat, but Lolita Corazón had stamped and bit and kicked until one of the brutes had inadvertently loosened his grip. With her free hand, she had punched the other man in the face and in a split second of confusion had managed to bolt for the trees. A burst of gunfire had enveloped the girl and she had run for dear life.
The forest, which ran parallel to the road, was artificial and afforded little cover. The trees were thin and planted in long straight lines. There were several men already on the plantation, ahead of her. They were chasing the priest. When the other Azulitos called out to them, they turned back and tried to encircle the girl.
This distraction provided Dick Carter and Father José with vital seconds in which to escape.
Lolita, meantime, darted sideways and up, then across a narrow pathway and out into the real jungle. The Azulitos continued the chase, but the terrain was more difficult here and Lolita was blessed with longer legs. She scrabbled across a clump of rocks and found a small stream which cut through the jungle. There was a ditch alongside it, covered in foliage.
Now, some hours later, she popped her head up from behind a clump of bramble. There were twigs in her hair and her face was smeared with mud, but the sound of her pursuers had died away. She glanced around nervously. There didn’t seem to be anybody about. Tentatively, she pulled herself out of the ditch. She was still wearing her Sunday Best and she cursed silently as the dress snagged on the bramble and started to rip. She pulled the hem clear and slipped down to the stream to give her face a quick wash. That done, she took a deep breath, clambered away from the ditch and followed her own trail back to the plantation.
There was a mud track on the near side of the forest, which she approached with caution. Several policemen were wandering about, but she managed to keep herself well out of sight. When they were gone, she crept quietly back onto the path.
For a moment, she stood immobile, uncertain what to do. She wanted to return to the main road, to find out what had happened to her companion, but on reflection thought better of it. The police would almost certainly still be there, if not the Azulitos as well. Lolita, like any ordinary citizen of San Doloroso, had good reason to fear the police.
She glanced up and down the track, but could not remember which way was which. The policemen had re-entered the plantation a little way down the hill. That decided it: she would head off in the opposite direction.
Clouds were gathering overhead. With grim inevitability, the heavens opened. Her dress was already torn. Now it would be soaked through. Lolita’s Sunday Best would never see the inside of a church again.
The path was a dirt track rather than a road. She moved cautiously. If anyone came by, she would have to throw herself into the bushes and hide. Luckily, the trail was barely used. There were certainly no cars about. At one point, a teenage lad sped past on a bicycle but otherwise, the track was deserted.
Time passed and gradually the light began to fade. After a couple of hours, Lolita saw a second track up ahead. It split off from the main path and led to a small farmhouse, which she could see in the distance. There were lights on inside the building. Realistically, this was her only chance of finding shelter for the night. She followed the trail up to the farmhouse.
The building was a small stone affair with a wooden door and a corrugated iron roof. She knocked at the door and a bearded middle-aged man answered it. He gazed at the girl standing out in the cold rain and he frowned.
‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ she said. ‘My name’s Lolita. I don’t know where I am. Can you help me?’
‘Lolita?’ an English voice exclaimed from inside.
Dick Carter leapt to his feet and arrived at the door in seconds. ‘Bloody hell, girl, you’re soaked!’ The bearded man, who owned the cottage, stepped backwards in surprise. ‘It’s all right, mate, she’s with me,’ Dick explained, in fluent Escoria. He move
d forward and escorted the shivering girl inside.
The farmer found her some dry clothes and Lolita was seated over by the fire. Dick passed her a glass of water. When she had recovered a little, he quizzed her about the events at the roadblock. What had happened to his friend, he asked; what had happened to Patrick Malone? Lolita couldn’t really tell him anything. ‘I think maybe he is dead.’ She gazed sadly into the fire. ‘Is the father...?’
‘Oh, don’t worry about him, love. He’s in the back room. He is wounded, but he’s going to be all right.’
A bullet had struck the priest in the right shoulder. Somehow, Dick had managed to pick him up and carry him half a kilometre across the artificial forest. They had dashed through the trees in a straight line and come crashing out onto the pathway just as a small truck was hurtling uphill on the way back to the farmhouse. It was pure luck that the driver managed to pull up in time. Dick Carter is always lucky. He seems to lead a charmed life. When the driver of the truck saw who the injured man was, he was only too willing to help out. In the few vital seconds that Lolita had distracted the Azulitos, they had bundled the father into the back of the truck and driven off. By the time their pursuers had reached the path, the little red truck was out of sight and the native Indians had cut straight across into the jungle on the opposite side.
It was thirteen kilometres to the cottage from there. On the dirt road, it had taken them almost half an hour. Lolita had taken nearly three hours to walk the same distance.
Jaime Amable, the driver of the truck, had been more than happy to let the two men stay the night at his house. The man’s wife was away and wouldn’t return until the following morning. Amable recognised Father José. The bearded farmer had visited the church in Ardiente many times and he was pleased to help out. Dick and Jaime dressed the priest’s wound as best they could. The bullet, thankfully, had passed straight through.
‘We stay here?’ Lolita asked Dick later on.
‘I don’t think so, love. It won’t be safe for more than a night. We need to get the father as far away as possible.’