‘Is that a machete?’ Growing curiosity in her voice.
‘See for yourself.’
‘Mierda.’ Galíndez picked up the weapon with both hands. A scimitar, the curved blade mottled with rust. She brushed away encrusted dirt with her finger. ‘Hombre, there’s something written on it.’
Atienza raised his flashlight, illuminating the inscription.
Galíndez looked at it, wide-eyed. ‘Puta madre.’
Two rows of writing. The first consisted of elegant, precisely etched symbols, Arabic by the look of them, worked into the metal with great skill.
The second line ran parallel to the first. Bigger letters, crudely stamped onto the sword:
Capitán Leopoldo Guzmán 16.4.1937
‘Is that your man?’ Atienza asked.
Galíndez nodded, her eyes still fixed on the blade.
LEGUTIO 2010, PENSIÓN ARALAR
Atienza stood by the entrance to the pensión, watching as Galíndez finished putting her forensic kit into the car. She slammed the door. ‘Thanks for everything, Sargento.’
‘De nada. Listen, this is a one-way street, so the best thing is to go straight down and turn in the square at the end, see where those trees are?’
‘Got it. Thanks again for helping with the skeletons.’
‘You’re welcome. I hope those cabrónes didn’t upset you?’
Galíndez looked away. ‘They wound me up, that’s all.’
He smiled. ‘In this part of the world, that’s not the worst thing that can happen. I’ll see you around. Maybe I’ll look you up if I come to Madrid?’
‘Do that.’ Galíndez climbed into the car and adjusted her mirror. She leaned out of the window. ‘Hasta pronto.’ Atienza shook her hand and walked to his car.
Galíndez eased the car forward. Down a side street she caught a glimpse of the dam, its dark water burnished by the setting sun. Ahead, she saw the square and slowed, ready to turn.
Ten metres away, a figure stepped off the pavement. It was the construction worker, Aïtor, heading for a bar on the other side of the square. Galíndez stopped the engine and gripped the wheel, her knuckles white. When she took her hands away, they were shaking.
LEGUTIO 2010, BAR ANTZOKIA
The barman looked up. ‘Kaixo, Aïtor. What will you have?’
‘Beer.’ Aïtor leaned against the bar. ‘Nothing like a day’s work to build up a thirst.’
The barman held a glass under the tap. The nozzle hissed, spluttering froth.
‘Out of beer? I can always go somewhere else.’
‘I’ll get a new barrel,’ the barman said. ‘It’ll only take a minute.’
‘Fine, I’m off for a piss.’ Aïtor walked to the rear of the building, through a large tiled area in semi-darkness, wooden tables and benches where the restaurant had once been. At the far end, a murky passageway led to the toilets.
Mikel disconnected the empty barrel and rolled it towards the storeroom. Behind him, he heard a rustle at the door and turned, hoping it was another customer. No such luck: the bar was empty. He shrugged and went to get the new barrel.
In the men’s komun, Aïtor washed his hands in cold water. The hot tap hadn’t worked in years and Mikel still hadn’t fixed it. At least there were paper towels today. He dried his hands and tossed the screwed-up towel on the floor with the others, wondering why he still came to this dump. Once, the place had been a popular restaurant. Now, it was just a seedy bar with a dwindling clientele as competition grew from the places springing up round the dam. When they finished the new complex, most customers would take their business there. Certainly he planned to. No more hundred-metre walks to take a piss or hot water taps that never worked.
He stepped out into darkness. Someone had turned out the light in the old restaurant, reducing the passageway to a dark tunnel. At the far end, he saw a figure, framed against the dim light, coming towards him. A pale face emerged from the shadows.
‘What did you call me?’ Galíndez said.
N-240, GAMARRA MENOR, 2010
With just a kilometre to go before she reached the A-1, Galíndez started looking for the slip road. After that, she could look forward to the monotonous three-hour drive back to Madrid. Behind her, she saw the flashing light of a patrol car in her mirror, travelling fast, probably on its way to an accident. As the patrol car passed, it veered in front of her and slowed, forcing her to brake. A hand emerged from the driver’s window, pointing to the verge. She pulled over.
The patrol car stopped a few metres ahead. Galíndez killed the engine and waited, rehearsing her story: No, really, was I going that fast? An attitude of quiet surprise. Here’s my ID. That’s right, I’m guardia – just like my father, actually. Mendez said stuff like that worked every time and she ought to know, she drove like a lunatic.
Galíndez opened the window as a figure in a hi-vis vest came toward her. Atienza leaned in through the window. ‘You want the good news or the bad news?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘He’s not going to press charges. I don’t think he could face his pals if they heard you’d beaten the crap out of him.’
Galíndez frowned. ‘So what’s the bad news?’
‘You’ve got a problem.’
He’s guessed about the tablets. Dilated pupils maybe. ‘What sort of problem?’
‘I think they call it anger management.’
She relaxed. He doesn’t know about the medication. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘I saw that builder in the square and had a quick word with him.’
‘It was a hell of a word: he’s got a broken collarbone and two black eyes. Why didn’t you tell me if he upset you that much?’
Galíndez stared into the dark, gripping the wheel. ‘I’m my father’s daughter.’
‘What does that mean?’
She turned and met his gaze. ‘It means I don’t ask anyone to fight my battles for me.’
‘Wait here.’ Atienza went back to his car and returned with a plastic box under his arm.
‘What’s that?’ Galíndez asked.
‘Two chorizo sandwiches, an apple and a flask of strong coffee. You’re in a hurry so you might be tempted not to stop and eat. I’m donating my supper to you.’
‘Gracias,’ she said, touched. ‘Dinner’s on me if you come to Madrid.’
Atienza gave her a wave of acknowledgement and went back to his patrol car.
Galíndez waited for him to drive away before she started her engine. It was dark now, nothing to see but the endless stream of headlights in the opposite lane. She had just taken a bite of chorizo sandwich when her phone buzzed. She took the call, glad for the distraction.
‘Ana? It’s Mendez. I’ve got a problem.’
‘Only one?’
‘Well, two when you get here. I’ve got a body in the chiller, some hooker who got carved up. I need someone from forensics to sign it off and you’re the only one who isn’t sick or having a baby – at least as far as I know, anyway. Can you do the DNA stuff for me?’
‘I’m near Vitoria right now. Can I do it tomorrow?’
‘Sure. Seven thirty,’ Mendez said. She hung up.
The road to Madrid became a blur as Galíndez turned her thoughts back to the rusty sword on the back seat. A sword that had killed the three people whose skeletons were bagged up in her boot. Three more killings to be added to the list of Guzmán’s bloody deeds. It was unlikely she’d ever know why those people were killed but at least there could be no doubt as to the killer’s identity. His name was inscribed on the blade, for God’s sake.
VILLARREAL, 10 MARCH 1937
Next morning, Ochoa was ordered to photograph the prisoners. The three men ignored him. The woman was nursing the baby and she lowered her head to shield the child from the camera with a curtain of black hair.
Later, as Ochoa passed General Torres’s tent, he heard Torres and the teniente talking. Curious, Ochoa paused and lit a cigarette, glancing round as he blew a long breath of smoke into the damp air.
There were no guards nearby and he sidled closer to listen to their discussion.
The general was giving orders for the execution of the prisoners.
Foreign journalists had arrived, the general said. Reporters from the Catholic Herald: their accounts of the war were key to winning the support of the US government. Because of that, it was best they were not aware of the executions. Which meant, said the general, the teniente should kill them tomorrow evening, while the reporters were being entertained in the mess. There would be ample time to kill the Reds without alerting the Yanquis.
Once the executions were completed, the general went on, it would be a kindness if the baby were to be adopted. He had a couple in mind, good Catholics, members of the party, too. A childless couple like them deserved a child far more than the Red whore down in the cellar.
Adoption would be for the best, the teniente agreed.
A nurse from the Sección Femenina would care for the infant until the new parents could be contacted, General Torres continued. They were a wealthy couple and they would pay handsomely for the child. Naturally, the teniente would be rewarded for his assistance in the matter. And, of course, for his silence.
Naturally, the teniente agreed.
Outside the tent, Ochoa heard footsteps approaching and saw one of the regular soldiers, a big surly private. The man warned him not to get so close to the general’s tent. If he didn’t want a bullet in the back, he should fuck off out of it.
Ochoa took his advice.
5
SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, HOTEL ALMEJA
Guzmán stood at the window of his hotel room looking at the sea through his reflection in the smeared glass. He snatched up the handwritten note and read it again.
You Killed her.
He’d been wrong to think no one knew him here. Someone knew him very well indeed. Deep in thought, he left his room and went out to get a breath of sea air.
They were pulling a drowned man from the harbour as Guzmán walked along the seafront. A crowd had gathered to watch several men in a rowing boat as they struggled to retrieve the corpse from the dirty water. Finally, the men got a grip on the body and manhandled it aboard. It lay on its back, causing gasps of horror among the spectators as they saw the distorted face, the sodden mop of pale blond hair above wide, staring blue eyes. Some know-it-all in the crowd claimed the man was a sailor, lost from a foreign vessel in the Bahia de Vizcaya. It was a reasonable hypothesis that Guzmán had no reason to doubt, far less to care about, and he left the jabbering crowd by the quay.
As he walked to the Buick, he sensed movement around him. Slow, subtle actions, men holding newspapers but not reading them, others taking an age to light a cigarette, their eyes following him. He slowed, suddenly aware of more men stepping out from behind parked cars and shop doorways, taking up position. He didn’t have to turn to know there were others behind him.
A sharp-faced man was walking towards him. The double-breasted leather coat might as well have had Policía painted on the back, Guzmán thought.
‘Inspector Rivas. Head of General Mellado’s Security Police.’
‘Guzmán, head of the Brigada Especial,’ Guzmán said, staring him down. ‘Although I’m sure you know that, just as you know that I outrank you. What do you want?’
‘I’m investigating the killing of a legionario at General Mellado’s mansion last night.’
‘Legionnaires like killing one another,’ Guzmán said. ‘What’s new?’
‘I understand you were talking to the general’s bodyguards before you left the mansion. What was your conversation about?’
‘One man was my driver earlier in the evening. A big guy with scars on his face. I tipped him a hundred pesetas.’ Guzmán met Rivas’s eye. ‘Why not ask him?’
‘He was the man who was killed. There was no money on him.’
‘Then it’s clear theft was the motive, wouldn’t you say, Inspector?’ Guzmán smiled. ‘Anything else, or shall I call Franco’s HQ and let them explain why obstructing me in the course of my duty has cost you your job?’
You were with Señorita Torres at the dinner, I believe?’ Rivas said, ignoring his threat.
Guzmán gritted his teeth. ‘You’d do well not to bother her, bearing in mind who her father is.’
Rivas shrugged. ‘General Torres doesn’t have the clout he used to.’
‘No? He’s a personal friend of Franco. And since I report to the caudillo’s HQ, I’ll be very happy to let him know you’re bothering one of his old friends.’ Guzmán stared into Rivas’s eyes until he looked away. ‘Understood?’
The inspector’s face twitched. ‘I’m not suggesting Señorita Torres is implicated in the killing, Comandante, but you must appreciate I have to carry out a thorough investigation.’
‘Then I suggest you get on with it. And forget about Señorita Torres.’
‘This isn’t Madrid, Comandante,’ Rivas muttered. He gestured to the men around him and they melted back into the doors and alleyways.
‘Thanks for the geography lesson.’ Guzmán turned and walked across the road, straight towards the surly plain-clothes men on the far pavement. Grudgingly, the men moved aside. Ten paces further on, Guzmán stopped and looked back. Across the road, Inspector Rivas was standing stock-still, watching him. Guzmán shrugged and walked unhurriedly into the narrow streets of the old town, feeling Rivas’s eyes burning into his back as he went.
SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CAFÉ SOL, PLAZA 18 DE JULIO
There was still an hour before Ochoa’s train got in and Guzmán took a seat at a café in the plaza. He inspected the walkway on the far side of the square with a practised eye, noticing brief, hurried movement as someone slipped out of sight behind a kiosk.
He ordered coffee and a brandy to accompany it. The brandy was cheap and rough though far less offensive than the coffee, which tasted as if it was made from powdered acorn flour. If the price didn’t reflect that, there would be trouble.
He looked up, hearing the tapping of heels on the cobbles. A gypsy was coming across the square, making straight for him.
‘Buenos días,’ the gypsy said deferentially. Guzmán liked that.
‘I apologise for bothering you,’ she added, thinking he was ignoring her.
Since Guzmán was ignoring her, he liked her persistence less. He gave her a critical glance. Tall, curiously masculine, troublingly big hands. A gaunt, cadaverous face with high cheekbones, skin coarsened by the sun or, more likely, drink. Her attempt at a smile revealed a missing front tooth. No, he was mistaken: teeth. Since she wasn’t selling faded flowers stolen from the cemetery, that could only mean one thing. He stayed silent, waiting for her to reveal it.
‘This will come as a surprise, señor...’ she began.
‘You’re a whore.’ Guzmán shrugged. ‘I’m not surprised at all.’
‘Is the gentleman clairvoyant?’
‘No, I’m a policeman.’ He saw her expression change. ‘Don’t worry, gypsy whores are very low on my list.’
‘There’s a list?’ she asked, worried now.
‘There’s always a list.’ He stared at her hands again. ‘Are you sure you’re not a man?’
The gypsy shrugged. ‘Who can ever be sure of anything in this life?’
It was a good answer, managing to avoid his question entirely. That gave him confidence in her. ‘Do you tell fortunes?’
She took a pack of cards from her tattered bag and set them on the table. The cards were greasy and much handled, rather like their owner, he imagined.
‘If you’d be kind enough to select four cards, señor?’
He chose the cards, and watched the gypsy arrange them on the table.
‘The cards suggest it’s time to let go of the past. Is there a lady you want to forget?’
Guzmán leaned forward, startling her. ‘Which card is that?’
‘The card of Death, señor, though it doesn’t always indicate someone dying.’
‘But it can,’ he said, think
ing of El Lobo. ‘Dying with a bullet in them, perhaps?’
The gypsy swallowed, drawing attention to her Adam’s apple. ‘It’s possible.’
Guzmán reached for his wallet and counted out several bills. ‘Here’s forty pesetas.’
‘You could have fucked me for half that,’ she muttered ungratefully.
‘No doubt,’ Guzmán said. ‘Though the cost of the penicillin after would have been prohibitive. I don’t know why you’re complaining: forty pesetas will buy you something to eat.’
‘Yes,’ the gypsy agreed, ‘two bags of roast chestnuts.’
‘And I very much hope you enjoy them, señora,’ Guzmán said, dismissing her. She began to gather up her cards. ‘Have that brandy if you like,’ he added. ‘It’s foul.’
The gypsy downed the brandy in one gulp and turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Guzmán said. ‘Can you lift a curse?’
‘It depends, señor. Is the person who cursed you still alive?’
He shook his head and the gypsy sighed as her hopes of extracting more money from him were dashed. ‘Unfortunately not. The curse stays in place until your death in such cases.’
Guzmán put his wallet away. ‘Then I’ll bid you good day, señora. Or señor.’
Across the square, a man was watching him from a seat outside one of the dingy bars under the covered walkway. The same man who had been hiding behind the tobacconist’s kiosk twenty minutes earlier. Aware of Guzmán’s gaze, he looked down at his newspaper.
As the gypsy went across the square towards the harbour, the man got up and came over. He was tall and rangy with an expression that looked like he’d been drinking vinegar. It was possible he was one of Inspector Rivas’s goons, though Guzmán doubted it. His clothes were too expensive for a local policeman. That was confirmed when the man took a seat at the next table and sat looking out at the square.
‘You’ll be Capitán Viana, I take it?’ Guzmán said.
The Exile Page 8