“Take your time, Jack,” whispered Julio. “There’s no rush. Do you want anything?”
“The shutters are casting stripes of black shadow across the room. It’s hard to see…”
There was a pause that stretched to minutes before Jack spoke again. “She’s lounging there on the sofa. Like a proper little diva. She’s got nothing on but a pair of dark panties. They’re swallowing the light like a hole in the universe. I’m just standing there looking. Drinking in the sight. She doesn’t say a word, keeps her face coyly turned away like I’m not there. One foot on the floor, the other stretched out along the cushions...”
Another long pause.
“The effect is gorgeous. But something’s spoiling it. There’s a bad smell in the room. And…”
JAMES
I stopped as the picture turned inside out. I didn’t gag the way I had at the sight of Gato’s body, but this was infinitely worse. Her mouth had been taped over, and her hands were trapped out of sight under the small of her back. What I’d thought was a trick of the light oozing through the shutters was a series of long, deep, parallel slashes encrusted with drying blood, running from her collarbone down to her pelvis. The cushion and floor were stained dark, and up close it was far worse: intricate, sadistic butchery that I still can’t bring myself to put it into words.
I’d already dialled the emergency number when my sense of self-preservation took over and I slammed the handset back onto its cradle. If the authorities were already after me, I was going to have a hard time arguing my innocence. I was sure they’d have the forensic skills to prove that someone else had done it, but I had no confidence that they’d even bother trying when they could place a foreign trouble-maker right there in the apartment with the victim.
My head still spinning, I went to my bedroom to get a blanket to cover her. Then, pausing just long enough to offer up a prayer to anyone who might be listening, I gathered my stuff together and went to the front door. At that point, however, I realised that I’d be seen leaving.
It didn’t make a lot of difference – Trini’s mother would be able to give a good description of me – but if I could conceal my movements that might give me a head start. And I suddenly realised with horror that I still had the killer to contend with. He must have come for me – I couldn’t see any other explanation for the carnage – and he might still be hanging around.
My heart pounding, I took out and loaded the air pistol I’d been carrying since Almería. Nervously holding the weapon in front of me, and knowing that it would make little difference in a life-and-death struggle, I checked the bathroom. Finally I headed for the main bedroom and gingerly pushed open the door.
No one was going to have to break the news of Trini’s death to her mother. And she wouldn’t be giving my description to the police. She lay there, face-down on her own bed, a nylon stocking embedded in the folds of her swollen neck. She was fully dressed and there were no signs of sadistic play. I guessed she’d been nothing more than a nuisance to be disposed of. She must have come home early and interrupted the evil bastard at his work. She unquestionably saved my life.
JACK
Jack stopped, pulled a small, flat bottle of brandy from his pocket, unscrewed the cap and took three or four mouthfuls. He was about to put it away again when he remembered his manners and offered the bottle to his companions. Each of them took a polite sip, Julio wincing as he did so.
“I think that’s the hardest bit over,” announced Jack, his face white and his lips not much darker. “You know, this is the first time in decades that I’ve uttered a word about all this or even acknowledged its existence. It’s a relief in a way. But there’s a lot more to come, and the next bit is so embarrassing that I’m curling up inside just thinking about it.”
He drained the bottle, stood, and walked across to the other side of the room. There he turned a cheap, hard armchair to face the wall, and they sat back-to-back: Jack in the chair and his two companions perched on the edge of the bed facing the window.
JAMES
I needed to change my appearance more convincingly than ever, and I was stumped for ideas. I thought of the way Txako had disguised himself, but his bone structure was so delicate that he’d been able to pass as a young woman without difficulty. I could never pass as Trini, or even get into her tiny clothes.
Then once again my strange imagination saved me. I found what every older woman in southern Europe has at the back of her wardrobe: a mourning outfit consisting of a long black dress and a matching hat with a dense veil attached. Worrying that if I were caught in drag I’d serve time as a pervert and a thief whether or not they believed my story, I took the time to wiggle into the black outfit.
Once again I was about to leave, but then it occurred to me that a middle-aged woman in mourning wouldn’t be seen dead carrying my brightly coloured holdall. By unpacking all my stuff, I was able to squeeze it and the holdall itself into a battered brown leather suitcase that I found under the bed. Looking at myself in the full-length mirror I was shocked to see just how much I looked the part, and for the first time in my life I offered up a prayer of thanks for my short, stocky build.
Trying to walk in as ladylike a way as possible, and sweltering already in the long, black dress, I lugged the suitcase down the stairs and out into the street. I was too preoccupied with getting away to think about how I would deal with a conversation. I simply concentrated on remembering the way to the station, while the larger part of my brain replayed black and white, flickering images of my last walk into the apartment. When a car pulled up alongside me I almost dropped the case and ran, but it was no more than a kindly couple taking pity and offering me a lift. I just shook my head, wisely not trying to speak.
As I left the familiar neighbourhood, the horror and ridiculousness of the situation hit me. I felt crushed by a renewed sense of loneliness. Worse still, the paranoia that had plagued my life over the previous few weeks was once again in full flower. During the long, hot walk to the station I looked sidelong at every car, every gun-toting policeman, every loiterer in a shop doorway. My stomach knotted at the sound of every siren. I thought my heart would stop when somebody yelled for the police a few metres behind me, and it continued hammering long after a teenager ran past clutching a woman’s handbag. But what caused me the deepest misery was the feeling of guilt. Part of my mind was trying to tell me that Trini and her mother had fallen victim to a random attack unconnected to my situation, but the rest of me knew better.
Only one thing kept me from breaking down: anger. I’d been aware of it growing inside me since my hasty departure from Granada, and day by day it had kept on growing until something felt ready to burst. I was no longer interested in going on to Barcelona and the French border. Resolution was needed, and that would only be found back in San Sebastián where everything had started.
I took the first train available—an air-conditioned luxury express. As I settled down in my premium seat, free of the suffocating black dress and hat, I was at least physically comfortable. But I hadn’t thought to buy food, and a couple of hours out from Valencia, chilled by the cool artificial breeze blowing through the carriage, I began to feel pangs of hunger.
At first I kept myself to myself, but a charming gentleman named Pepe, who introduced himself as a taxi driver from the Navarrese town of Elizondo, persisted in his attempts to draw me out. For a while his witty chatter helped to take my mind off my stomach, but then the steward came down the aisle taking orders for lunch. I took a look at the menu, but when I saw the prices my appetite vanished.
Pepe looked concerned as I declined to order. "My friend, aren’t eating with us?"
"I think not," I replied. "I’m not really hungry."
"But you haven’t eaten. You must be famished."
"No, really. I couldn’t eat just now."
He let the matter drop, but protested again when food was put in front of him: "My friend, it hurts me to see you not eating. Allow me to order something for
you."
"Honestly, I’d rather not. I’m quite comfortable," I lied.
As my new friend started his lunch, he seemed in as much pain as I was. Both of us were imprisoned by our respective cultures: he was too much the Spaniard to eat in front of a hungry man; I was too much the Englishman to accept his charity. He finished his meal in silence, perhaps offended that I’d condemned him to indigestion.
He spoke again as our train wound through the last few kilometres of wooded hills before San Sebastián: “My friend, you’re causing me to worry. You don’t look happy, and you haven’t eaten all day. Do you have somewhere to go, somewhere they’ll give you a decent meal?”
I replied that everything was going to be fine, but I must have delayed just a little too long. “Would you let me give you some money to buy yourself a meal? I’m a proud man myself, and I know it’s not easy to accept kindness, but you’d make me so much happier.”
In the end, feeling as if I might weep if I tried to thank him, I let the man give me a five hundred peseta note. This seemed to relax him, and he carried on making conversation: “If you’re ever in my hometown, you must come to the Hostal Garazi. My sister Blanca runs it while I drive people around, and I’d make sure she gave you a very good deal.”
“Is it part of the Basque Country?” I asked.
“We’re Navarrese,” he replied with a smile. “Half-Basque, you might say. Our way of life is similar, but we lose patience with their constant bickering.”
“I read somewhere that you’re only half-Spanish as well.”
“Not even half,” he responded with a laugh. “Navarre is an ancient kingdom in its own right. Nobody likes us very much. The rest of Spain think we’re more French than Spanish, the Basques think we’re more Spanish than Basque, and the French… well, they don’t give a damn about anybody.”
It was my turn to laugh now. “I’d love to come,” I said, “as long as you and Blanca let me pay the proper rate. I’ll write to you when I get back home to England. Have you ever been there?”
JACK
They waited several minutes for Jack to continue before realising that he was asleep. He barely stirred as they lifted him onto the bed and removed his shoes before letting themselves out and heading downstairs for lunch.
“What do you think, Julio,” asked Miguel as they ate.
“I was starting to think you’d never ask,” replied Julio. “For himself, I think he believes every word he says. How much of it is true as in factually accurate, God alone knows. Something happened to him, though. Even before his funny turn, he reminded me of an army veteran I know who suffers from PTSD. At least some of it must be true.”
“What I mean,” said Miguel patiently, “is that he’s finally put himself at the scene of a serious crime. We can find out easily enough if these murders actually took place. And what I’m wondering is this: if the murders did happen, is Burlton good for them?”
Julio looked astonished. “Hey, he’s a bit messed up, but it never occurred to me that he could be a murderer. Why? Do you think he’s capable?”
“I don’t know, but there’s death in his eyes. I’d guarantee you that he’s killed at least once. I saw it when he took out the Audi. You know as well as I do that the first time you do it, something snaps. It’s never quite as hard or as shocking another time. And I’d bet my career that he’s crossed that river. It might have been an accident or it might have been in self-defence, but he’s capable of killing again.”
“You want us to sweat him, Chief, instead of all this wandering around? To be honest, I’m coming to like and respect him, but not enough to stop me doing my job.”
“I think he’d have a complete and permanent breakdown before he gave away anything he didn’t want to. And I think we’re on track with him. The next step is that he’ll want to go back north. The Legion is going to be waiting for him, and he’s going to die. But I’ve seen his type, and I don’t think he’ll go down without company.”
CHAPTER 13
“I always thought what a beautiful city this was to come home to. Now I’m not so sure.” It was Julio speaking.
They had a fresh car, the Ford having been left for collection in Valencia. On arrival at Bilbao airport, Miguel had rented a bland Japanese saloon with dark tinted glass. There had been no pre-booking, no involvement by others, and the rental and deposit had been settled with a substantial overpayment of cash direct to the franchise manager. They anticipated being able to arrive in San Sebastián quite anonymously by road, and the journey passed without incident. At Jack’s request, Julio drove down the ramp into an underground car park by the seafront.
On climbing the stairs to street level, they found a bar and sat down at an outside table overlooking the beautiful, semi-circular Concha beach. While Jack gazed fondly at the stunning view they had of the almost landlocked bay, Miguel ordered coffee with toasted cheese sandwiches. Julio had his notepad out and the voice recorder ready to run, and there was a clear expectation that Jack would resume his story.
The Englishman sat silently for several minutes, still gazing out over the bay. Then his eyes tracked an industrious cockroach scuttling past the table, and he seemed to return to the present.
JAMES
Father Ignacio looked even older and more careworn than I remembered him, but he didn’t seem surprised to see me—just concerned that I might have been followed. I put his mind at rest and was about to pour out what I had been through when he said something that rocked me back in my seat.
“I know about the girl and her mother. You must be devastated. Do you want to tell me about it?”
“You don’t believe I did it, do you?” I asked timidly, half afraid he’d contradict me.
“No, I don’t believe you did it, firstly because you’re not the type, and secondly because I know who did do it.”
“Thank goodness,” I enthused. “Such a relief to know I’m not in trouble with the law after all.”
“Hold on, James, you’ve committed serious crimes. The police will want you even if they believe your story about the murders. And the biggest problem of all is the identity of the real killer. The CSP will find it easier to arrest an outsider like you than to admit that the killer is one of their own.”
“Sorry, I don’t understand. The CSP?”
“The Cuerpo Superior de Policía. Franco’s secret police.”
“So it is the authorities who have been after me. After what they did to…,” I had to pause for a moment, “…what happened in Valencia, I thought it had to be a criminal gang or a paramilitary group, or just some psycho.”
“But remember, in a way it’s all of them. Violent men in this part of the world don’t fit the neat categories that…”
“You’ve told me that before,” I interrupted. “Police and terrorists and criminals…”
“…and indeed psychopaths,” he continued. “Permeable boundaries. And until I recognised the handiwork of this particular psychopath from the news coverage, I didn’t know who exactly was involved. We’ve almost a dozen so-called intelligence agencies. They’re all loyal to the regime but each has its own agenda and command, and they devote most of their energies to infighting which I’m sure is what the Generalísimo intends. I was sure that one of them was watching you. Perhaps you were seen with Carlos. Gato was living on borrowed time, and the cove behind Igeldo was the perfect spot for an ambush.”
“So it’s my fault he’s dead. He was there to see me.”
“Don’t make yourself more important than you really are, James. The fault is Gato’s own. And if anyone shares the blame, it’s Carlos. But you have nothing to be proud of. And you had no business coming back here, either in the summer or now. You turned our lives into a game, you drew other people into it, and you lived while they died. Three of them now; five if you count Gato and Carlos.” He paused. “Didn’t you ever wonder what the connection was between them all? Didn’t you ask yourself why the woman who hid you in her flat was so broken up?”
I thought back for a moment. “No, she couldn’t have been. She…”
He interrupted me: “She’s Gato’s widow, or rather she was. And Carlos was their son. It was a calculated gamble sending you there after their deaths, but she was willing and there’s nowhere else in the city you’d have been any safer. Which brings me to a more important question: What brings you back? It’s no safer for you now than it was a month ago.”
“It isn’t safe for me anywhere. I want to go home, and until this has been sorted out I don’t dare go to the border.”
“How do you expect to put things right? If they were trying to get you even down in Andalusia, they really do want you.”
“There has to be a way,” I answered. “Tell me about this man, the real killer. Who is he?”
JACK
“Yes, who the hell is he?” echoed Miguel. “For God’s sake, Jack, I thought you’d given us all the salient facts at the safe house. We were about to let you slip out of our hands. Since then you’ve presented us with a series of violent crimes and now someone who sounds very much like a serial killer. Were you actually going to get on a train back to England and leave us in the dark?”
“I don’t know,” replied Jack quietly. “I really don’t. I didn’t know how much I could trust you with, how much I could even trust myself. And frankly I still don’t. Shall I carry on?”
JAMES
I listened as the priest told me the story of a young boy from the Basque Country. He had barely survived the massacre of his Catholic family by a Republican gang in the final weeks of the Civil War. Growing up first in an orphanage, then taken in by an uncle who idolised Franco and Hitler, he joined a right-wing militant group calling itself the Condor Legion. As an ambitious young policeman he rose through the ranks with his profession and political vocation intertwined. He used police resources in the service of his private goals, and in return he and his comrades eliminated enemies of the state in ways that even the grises couldn’t risk.
THE ENGLISH WITNESS Page 16