Confessional

by Anthony Masters

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because he’s already blackmailing me.’

  Bishop Carlos looked steadily at Marius Larche in the claustrophobic blanket of darkness. ‘No, monsieur, you’re wrong. I’m entirely celibate.’

  ‘But why should he be blackmailing you then?’ Larche stared at him with incredulity.

  ‘I have to protect Anita. He told me he would provide complete proof of the homosexual relationship he had with Eduardo – unless I paid him.’

  ‘But you could be doing that for the rest of your life. Why didn’t you go to the police?’

  ‘I have come to you now, monsieur. You must keep him quiet.’

  ‘How long has it been going on?’ Larche was trying to adjust himself to this latest development.

  ‘Since he had his notice.’

  ‘Where’s the money coming from?’

  ‘Not from church funds, if you’re thinking that. My aunt left all her money to me recently and it is my personal choice as to how it is spent.’

  ‘How could you be so naīve?’ said Larche furiously.

  ‘This is not a situation I can easily live with, believe me,’ the Bishop said stiffly. ‘I would prefer to take a more clear-cut Christian stance than support a blackmailer.’

  ‘You’d do all this for Anita?’

  ‘Of course.’ Larche couldn’t see his expression in the darkness but his tension was almost tangible. ‘But now I want you to intervene – to arrest him if necessary. Nevertheless, you have to reassure me that none of this will reach Anita.’

  ‘I can’t reassure you of that, Bishop. I wish I could, but it’s impossible. I can try to keep everything discreet, but Calvino will have to know – of course.’

  ‘If she’s told it’ll kill her.’

  ‘I suppose you wish the assassin had struck him too,’ observed Larche.

  Bishop Carlos gazed at him expressionlessly. ‘Such an idea would be totally against my Christian belief.’

  Larche was silent.

  ‘I have to trust you, monsieur. Can I do that?’

  ‘You can trust me to do my best for her. That’s all I can say.’

  ‘I sincerely hope so, monsieur. You will only be perpetrating yet another tragedy if you can’t protect her. If she discovered these things about Eduardo, I’m sure she would put an end to her life.’

  ‘One other point,’ said Larche, ‘did you ever see Eduardo and Father Miguel together here on Molino?’

  The Bishop looked surprised. ‘Dozens of times. The last was an inconsequential visit. We talked about Lorenzo’s brutality to the locals – that’s all. I advised Eduardo to talk to him. Miguel was as concerned as I was but Eduardo took his usual blinkered view of the man. Said he was doing a good job under bad conditions and that he had a lot of provocation. There really wasn’t any more to it than that; the conversation was most unsatisfactory.’

  Larche left Bishop Carlos feeling thoroughly compromised. On the one hand he had tried to be reassuring and on the other to be honest. The combination was not an easy one and a surge of disgust at his own lack of resolution gripped him as he walked through the herb-scented valley along the flinty track towards Sebastia. The moon was bright and there was a balmy, musky feel to the Mediterranean night. The conversation he had had with the Bishop went round his mind in circles; the whole affair was like a vast cobweb with Lorenzo at its centre, and Eduardo and Father Miguel, Blasco and Alison were already dried and desiccated corpses at the far corners. Others had survived but become enslaved to the spider.

  Trying to ease his nagging and oppressive thoughts, Larche looked down at the sea which seemed to be composed of sullen, liquid lead surging metallically on to the dark rocks. There were tiny dots of phosphorous and the smell of rotting weed. There could be no doubt that Bishop Carlos had behaved with considerable foolishness – but also some astuteness. It was unlikely that all this secrecy was just for Anita’s sake. The Tomas family’s Catholic connection was so strong and so well known that clearly the Church was anxious for a quick solution and not too much investigation. Despite his denials Bishop Carlos was clearly certain that Lorenzo was the killer; he had gone out of his way to encourage Larche to check him out carefully, although how the Bishop thought he could be hushed up if accused of murder Larche couldn’t imagine. Personally he was not at all sure that Lorenzo could provide him with a solution, but he was almost certain that Sebastia would – and that he should have gone there much, much earlier. As Larche walked on, however, he was certain of something else: he had not wanted to go to Sebastia.

  As he reached the village, Larche could hear the sound of slow, bluesy jazz coming from the open door of what seemed to be the only bar – a one-storey building with a few San Miguel logos and a faded sign that he couldn’t read. The cafe was in the middle of a small network of streets, and was built of grey, weathered stone. The surrounding dwellings were almost like caves, with narrow windows and flaking shutters, but even in the dark Larche could see that the little gardens were bright with bougainvillaea and pots of geraniums.

  There was a small shop, a church with a rugged tower, flying buttresses and a porticoed door, and further down one of the streets he could just glimpse the quayside. The masts of the fishing boats rose and fell on the swell, protected by the harbour wall. Larche paused, hesitant now that he had come to Sebastia at last, looking around him, hoping to find time suspended for a while. There were a few motor scooters parked in the run-down cobbled square which smelt of fish and tar and was full of untidily coiled netting, broken-up boxes, and anonymous scrap iron and old tyres. Larche assumed that the quayside and its jetties must be neater, more representative of Eduardo’s faith in Lorenzo’s efficient management. Maybe the square represented the old Sebastia, the timeless order of circular activity, of merging days and nights, of the slow and casual putting to sea and returning.

  With sudden decision, Larche turned and walked into the bar.

  Despite the lateness of the hour, the place was crowded and the cigarette smoke was as thick as the jazz was loud. There was a long wooden counter at one end and solid-looking tables and chairs scattered around the remainder of the long, dark room.

  Larche walked slowly over to the counter but no one looked up.

  ‘I’ll have a beer.’

  ‘Yes, señor.’

  He waited until the glass was brought over, gazing around him at the drinkers. There was no sign of Lorenzo.

  ‘Thank you.’ He gave the barman some pesetas. ‘I wonder if you can help me?’

  There was no response.

  ‘I’m looking for Lorenzo Solana.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Where can I find him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Who wants him?’ asked a woman’s voice and he wheeled round to see someone vaguely familiar who he couldn’t immediately place. She had been sitting unseen at one of the tables and was slightly – more than slightly – drunk.

  ‘The name’s Larche.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You are …’

  ‘Don’t you recognize me?’

  ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘My name is Maria. Maria Tomas.’

  Larche stared at her in some amazement. Then suddenly he did recognize her, scruffy jeans, dirty top and all. What was she doing here? Slumming?

  She read his thoughts with what appeared to be considerable amusement; she was certainly not in the least embarrassed. ‘Surprised to find me here?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘I enjoy coming. It’s refreshing.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I have friends. Fishermen. I enjoy listening to their stories – and they enjoy mine.’

  ‘Your stories?’

  ‘Tales of the rich and famous.’

  ‘I’m sure they’re most entertaining.’ Larche paused, not knowing what to say. ‘What would you … will you have a drink?’

  ‘Thank you. I’ll have a scot
ch.’

  While he was trying to attract the attention of the barman again she asked, ‘Are you leaving Molino, monsieur?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘Ah. So it’s not over?’

  ‘What’s not over?’

  ‘The investigation,’ she said, having some difficulty with the word.

  ‘It’s moving into another phase.’

  ‘The grey men who hired the assassin?’

  ‘If they did,’ he replied firmly.

  ‘You mean – if the assassin’s the assassin?’

  ‘Something like that.’ Larche relaxed slightly. It was rather refreshing to find one of the ever articulate Tomas family pissed out of her mind – or nearly out of her mind.

  ‘So what are you doing here?’ She lurched against him slightly and he smelt the musky perfume she was wearing. It was subtle but pervasive.

  ‘Tying up a few loose ends.’

  ‘That all?’

  ‘That’s all I’m telling you.’ He smiled at her, wondering if it was worth trying to talk to her now. Unlike Jacinto, Salvador, and Bishop Carlos she clearly had no intention of making a confession, nor would she have been capable of that, but Larche was equally certain she could be useful.

  ‘Will the security here ease up?’ she asked, stumbling over the words.

  ‘I’m sure it won’t. There’ll be round-the-clock protection for the family until there’s some kind of resolution.’

  ‘That could be a long time.’

  ‘Yes, and you shouldn’t be wandering about like this,’ Larche added with a mock admonishment that rather disgusted him. ‘I really mean that,’ he added more sincerely.

  Maria shrugged impatiently. ‘I feel trapped enough on this damned coast without seeing this island as a prison as well.’

  ‘It’s always been like that for your husband, hasn’t it?’

  ‘He told you all about it, did he? The poor little rich boys saga,’ she sneered rather more drunkenly.

  ‘Jacinto told me how claustrophobic the island was for him and his two brothers.’ Larche tried to maintain some kind of formality with her but it was no good and suddenly they both smiled at each other disarmingly, as if restraint was quite out of the question. Immediately he felt more relaxed and, for the first time in hours, much more equipped to cope with the situation.

  ‘But think of the money,’ she said.

  ‘He wasn’t worried about that.’

  ‘He is now. He’s worried that Eduardo may have changed his will.’

  ‘Why should he have done that?’ asked Larche in surprise but Maria only shrugged in a rather bleary way. ‘And Blasco?’ he asked. ‘What would he have done if he’d been left any money?’

  ‘He’ll have left it to that bloody community in Fuego. He wouldn’t leave it to anyone here and I’m sure you know why.’

  ‘I gather he loved Anita, but Eduardo stepped in.’

  ‘That’s right. Never forgave him.’ She drank her scotch in one gulp and asked for another which Larche rapidly bought for her. ‘So he brooded in his monastic cell, cooking up scandals and consorting with that old Machiavellian Miguel.’ She stumbled slightly over her words again.

  ‘They plotted against him?’

  They didn’t need to. Eduardo dug his own grave. Blasco and Miguel didn’t realize how quickly, although Miguel tried to warn him.’

  ‘Are you making an accusation?’

  ‘Against Lorenzo?’ She gave a peal of laughter. ‘He wouldn’t harm a fly.’

  ‘Then what are you trying to tell me?’

  She paused. ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘To see Lorenzo.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘Just for a chat.’

  ‘I’ll take you.’ She staggered slightly and clutched at the bar. ‘Lorenzo and I are in business. Always have been. Good long time now.’

  ‘Fishing?’

  She laughed. ‘The fishers of men. And women. We’ve got a nice little number going for us.’

  ‘Señora.’ Two men, old but purposeful, had come up while they were talking but neither Maria nor Larche had noticed.

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’ She smiled perfunctorily. ‘I want another scotch.’

  ‘You must come with us.’ The man was irritable, ignoring Larche, his eyes fixed on her in disapproval.

  ‘I’m busy.’

  ‘Immediately.’ There was complete authority in the old man’s tone – as if he was talking to a wayward and troublesome child who had already overstepped the boundaries of decorum.

  ‘Hold on,’ said Larche.

  ‘Don’t interfere, señor.’ They had taken her arms now, one apiece, and she was struggling feebly.

  ‘I’m talking to this lady.’ Larche tried to intervene but he knew he had no chance.

  ‘She’s going to bed.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Do you know who you’re handling? That’s Maria Tomas.’

  ‘We know that.’

  ‘You can’t manhandle her.’

  ‘It’s for her own protection, señor. Please do not interfere. This is not your business.’

  ‘Of course it is. I’m a police officer.’

  ‘She’s done nothing wrong.’

  ‘I didn’t say that.’ He was shouting now and a sudden silence fell on the room. The jazz was switched off, everyone stopped talking but there was no tension in the tobacco-hazed air.

  ‘Please, señor, don’t make things difficult.’

  ‘I wish to go on talking with her.’

  ‘That’s impossible.’

  ‘We had a long talk,’ said Maria happily. ‘I like men’s company. Specially here. It’s only the women who think I’m a rich whore. Well – maybe I am.’ She had stopped struggling and was leaning back luxuriously in the arms of the old men. ‘Happy days. What about another drink?’ She raised her voice and bawled, ‘The drinks are on me, boys. Drink them up and let’s have a bloody good fuck.’

  The old man raised his eyes. ‘You do not understand, señor.’

  ‘How big’s your prick, copper?’ laughed Maria.

  Larche sighed. ‘I do understand,’ he said. ‘But could you tell me where I can find Lorenzo?’

  As the old men led Maria away, a teenage boy edged his way forward, took Larche’s arm and pointed to a door at the end of a long, whitewashed, stone-flagged corridor. Slowly, he walked down towards it, his steps seeming to ring out all too loudly on the hard surface. He knocked and there was a moment’s pause until it was opened by a comfortable-looking middle-aged man with dark hair brushed back. He looked like his own father had some years before.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve come to see Lorenzo.’

  ‘Who are you?’

  ‘Marius Larche.’

  ‘Do you have an appointment?’

  ‘He’ll be expecting me,’ he replied evasively, wondering if that would work.

  ‘One minute.’

  He walked back through a bleak, very functional ante-room and knocked at another battered wooden door. Eventually this slowly opened and Lorenzo stood on the threshold, wearing shorts and smoking a Celtas. He was smiling. ‘Señor Larche, what a pleasure.’

  ‘I know it’s late but I just wanted a few words,’ he replied uneasily.

  ‘Come in.’

  Larche hurried self-consciously through into a large room whose surprisingly well-made furnishings included a double bed, a highly polished table, a couple of well-stocked bookcases and a drinks cabinet. The lighting was subdued and pleasantly intimate. Sitting on a long, low sofa was a young woman.

  ‘It’s good to see you.’

  At close quarters Larche was chiefly aware of the bags under Lorenzo’s eyes, his leathery skin, his wrinkled stomach. He was no more than an old lizard, probably dry and reptilian to the touch.

  Lorenzo’s eyes were on him questioningly. ‘Well, señor? Have you come here for a purpose?’

  ‘Just an unofficial chat.’

  ‘
You come at a very good time.’

  ‘Oh?’ Larche was suddenly on his guard; there was something smug in Lorenzo’s proprietorial manner.

  ‘Why not take a closer look at the lovely creature on the sofa? She was anxious to leave when she was told you were here. Just like her father – a little bashful, I’m afraid.’ There was an edge of menace to his voice now.

  Larche’s gaze hypnotically returned to the sofa. He realized that he was not looking at a young woman at all. Dressed in a loose blue skirt and matching top, wearing a blonde wig, with heavy mascara and a pale lipstick, was Salvador Tomas.

  There was a long, long silence during which Larche’s mind grappled with what he saw. His first reaction was one of considerable anger.

  ‘Why have you done this to him? It’s obscene.’

  ‘I’ve done nothing to him,’ replied Lorenzo quietly and without emotion. ‘He likes it this way.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Larche turned to Salvador but the boy’s eyes were expressionless, staring back at him without the arrogance or the defiance – or even the guilt – that he had expected to find.

  ‘You have to go,’ muttered Salvador.

  ‘I’m not going anywhere,’ snarled Larche. ‘You’ve got one hell of a lot of questions to answer.’

  Lorenzo looked sharply at Salvador who slowly rose to his feet and then walked out.

  ‘Wait …’ But he had gone and Larche was left fuming.

  ‘Listen.’ Lorenzo was placating. ‘I have things to say.’

  ‘I wanted to talk to the boy.’

  ‘You will find talking to me more profitable.’

  ‘I’ll be the judge of that.’ Larche was still filled with a cold anger that made him want to lash out, kick over a table, do something violent, particularly to Lorenzo.

  ‘Please sit down.’

  ‘Just get on with it.’

  In the end it was Lorenzo who sat down, the age blotches on his hands and arms making him oddly vulnerable.

  ‘They’re going to kill me.’ His voice was wooden.

  ‘They?’ asked Larche. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘How the hell do I know?’ he said evasively.

  ‘Because you’ve withheld information?’

  ‘There is something I have to tell you.’ Lorenzo looked away.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me before? Or tell Calvino?’ Larche increased the pressure, wondering to what extent Lorenzo was calculatingly leading him on.