by P J Brooke
Leila smiled and waved to the girl. ‘Hello, Jane,’ she called out. ‘Got another silly rhyme for you!
“My young friend Jane
Is leaving Spain.
We think that’s an awful pain.
But we’re both sure you’ll come again.”’
Jane stopped, giggled, waved and then ran inside.
Leila walked on quickly. As she crossed the road bridge, the sky suddenly darkened. Leila looked up at the mountains. Dark, pregnant-bellied clouds were drifting down lower and lower. A colder breeze blew. The tops of the mountains disappeared. Rain. Sullenly, persistently the rain fell. Leila stopped, turned, and walked quickly back. A car stopped at the ravine bridge.
‘Get in,’ a voice called.
Leila approached the car. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
She got into the car. It was exactly five in the afternoon.
On the same day, Saturday, at exactly five in the afternoon, Sub-Inspector Max Romero arrived at the house of Ahmed Mahfouz.
Chapter 2
A cinco de la tarde.
Eran las cinco en punto de la tarde.
At five in the afternoon.
It was exactly five in the afternoon.
Frederico García Lorca, La cogida y la muerte
(The Goring and the Death)
Thank God it’s Friday. Practically the whole weekend off, thought Max. He looked at his watch. It was time to leave. What to wear . . .? Meeting Ahmed tomorrow. Leila might be there. Okay, pack the light grey Paul Smith shirt, and the Pedro de Hierro charcoal jeans. He checked the mirror. Not bad. His mother’s Scottish blue eyes, and his father’s aquiline Spanish looks stared back at him. ‘Not the face of a cop,’ Davila had once said critically. Max regarded that as a compliment.
He picked up the briefing from his boss, Inspector Jefe Enrique Davila of el Grupo de Homicidios de Granada, from the table, and glanced at it again. ‘Inspectora Jefe Linda Concha and Inspector Martín Sánchez from the Anti-Terrorist Group, el Comisario General de Información, (CGI), have confirmed they are due to arrive at Granada Airport, Thursday, 31st July 2003 at 14.00 hours. Be on time, and dress smartly. Remember, the Prime Minister himself has stated the fight against terrorism is top priority and surveillance of Muslims must be stepped up.’
Max sighed. Could be worse. Madrid was sending Linda. It would be nice to see her again. She’d been a good tutor. Her presentation on the new terrorist threats had been good – perceptive and funny. And she’d joined him for a beer and tapas most lunchtimes. But this ‘increased surveillance of Muslims’ was really going to change his liaison role with la Brigada de Participación Ciudadano. It had taken months to develop good relationships with the different Muslim groups, and it could all go down the pan.
As he shut the door of his flat he glanced up at the Alhambra, and the Sierra Nevada mountains behind the fortress walls. He walked down the street, la Calderería Nueva, then along crumbling Calle Elvira. He crossed Gran Vía, dodging traffic, roadworks and tour groups. The police car park was past the fountains of la Plaza Trinidad, just behind the Faculty of Law and the old Botanic Gardens.
It wasn’t a good idea to walk so far in the heat. By the time he reached his old Peugeot he was really sweating. He got into the car: the seat was hot enough to fry an egg.
At least the new motorway cut the journey from Granada to Diva to less than an hour, and once out of Granada the air should freshen. Clear of the city, Max put on a CD by his mother’s group, the Maxwell Consort. ‘Time stands still, and gazes on her face,’ sang the soprano soloist. He immediately felt calmer. The mountains in the late afternoon sun were sentinels to another world: one where police procedures and violence had no part. The comment from his boss, ‘Are you sure you’re in the right job?’, still rankled. He had to be on his guard all the time in the police. The old guys dismissed the fast track graduate programme as liberal wankers who knew shit about real police work. Max’s sharp tongue hadn’t endeared him either.
Perhaps he would see Leila for a coffee again. She was a real beauty. Bright and funny as well. He wondered how her interviews were going. His family never talked about the Civil War, though the Romero clan had done well under Franco.
He passed the first houses in Diva and turned right, down the Río Sierra track towards his little summer cottage, el cortijo. He smiled as he remembered telling his Scottish friends that he, or rather, his grandmother, had bought a cortijo. They thought he had a mansion. No way. Just some old sheds slung together. Best ask Leila straight out whether she fancied a coffee in the evening. She must be dying to talk to someone about her thesis.
He parked the car outside the big metal gates of his cottage, unlocked the padlock, pushed the gates open, and breathed in deeply. There was a perfume from the summer lemons. As he walked under the trellis of jasmine, he breathed in even more deeply – it was like smelling a fine wine.
Max opened the front door, went to the fridge, and took out a San Miguel beer. He was just getting comfortable on his battered sofa when the phone rang.
‘Max, how are you?’
‘Fine, grandma. Just fine, abuela. How are the kids?’
‘Both well, but Encarnita is turning into a real little madam – and Leonardo should spend less time playing football, and more on his homework.’
‘So they’re growing up fast?’
‘Yes . . . but Isabel told Juan I was interfering with how she wanted to bring them up. And all because I said it was too late for Encarnación to stay up to watch a programme on television. I’m right, aren’t I, Max?’ Her voice broke. ‘I would never have let my children sit all evening in front of the television. I’m sure it’s not good for them.’
‘Abuela, I’m sure Isabel didn’t mean to be hurtful. How’s the rest of the family?’
‘Juan’s very moody. I don’t think he’s spoken to Isabel for days – though I can’t blame him. But could you have a drink with him, Max? He won’t talk to me about his problems, of course.’
‘Sure. I’ll give him a ring. See you Sunday.’
Max phoned Juan. Ten o’clock in el Café Paraíso. Just before ten, Max checked he had his torch, and then climbed up the goat track into town and on into the café. Juan was already there.
‘Beer, Max?’
‘Sí.How’s business?’
‘Huh. Could be better.’
‘Problems?’
‘The mill conversion in Recina – you know, the one that went really over budget – well, it came on the market just when the Brits stopped buying. So I still haven’t sold one of the damn flats, and the bank’s being a pain now.’
‘You’ll sell. It’s another rotten summer in Britain. Another cerveza, Juan?’
‘Why not? No point in spoiling Friday night.’
Max raised his glass. ‘Here’s to Barcelona. This season is going to be ours – I just know it.’
‘No way. Real Madrid will sweep the board. We’ve made some really good signings. You just wait and see.’
‘I’m not too sure. I doubt the Brits will fit in – not their style of play.’
More drinks, more football.
Juan looked at his watch, ‘Better go. Isabel and Paula are scrapping again. Isabel’s wanting to move into town. Difficult. It’d break Paula’s heart to lose the kids.’
‘Sí. And Paula couldn’t stay in that big house on her own anyway. I’m sure it will all blow over again. Chao, Juan. See you Sunday.’
As Max left, he noticed Sargento León from Diva’s Guardia Civil drinking alone in the corner. He smiled, and saluted him.
Saturday morning was hot and sticky. His neighbour, Alvaro, was already pulling up weeds when Max took his breakfast on to the terrace.
‘Hola, Max. Mucho calor. This is going to be a real pig of a day . . . look at those clouds. Need some rain though. How long you staying?’
‘Just the weekend.’
‘Your land’s a jungle. Mariana saw a tiger in it last week.’
‘Okay, okay.
Point taken. Never thought it would be so much work.’
‘Just get on with it, city boy, before it’s too hot.’
By one o’clock, Max had managed to clear the last major patch of weeds. He still had time to wash, get changed and drive up to the supermarket before it shut at two. Home again, he sat quietly under the old olive tree, waving his hands to keep the noisy flies away from his sandwich. The black clouds had come right down the valley. Rain would arrive soon. Max picked up his book – a new biography of Federico García Lorca. At the end of the third chapter, he glanced at his watch. 4.40 p.m. – time to go to Ahmed’s. As he walked up the track to his parked car, the rain began to fall.
Saturday, at exactly five in the afternoon, Max arrived at Ahmed Mahfouz’s house. Rain was falling heavily as he rang the bell. Ahmed opened the door.
‘Hola, Max. Good to see you. Wa’ alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuk. In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon his Messenger. Not too wet, I hope? Do you need a towel?
‘Wa’ alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuk. No, I’m fine, thanks.’
‘Let’s go to my study. It’s more comfortable there. Leila’s not back yet – looks like she’s not gone far. So she shouldn’t be long. Tea?’
‘Thanks.’
Max looked round the neat study, lined with books, classical and Arabic music CDs, photographs of Leila graduating, Leila on her mother’s knee, Leila on holiday. The photographs did not do her justice. He looked at the book lying on the table, Islam: Art and Architecture. He opened the pages at random: a photo of the Great Mosque of Cordoba. The alternating brick and cream stone columns always made him feel slightly dizzy.
‘Good photo,’ said Ahmed. ‘An oasis in stone, quite mystical.’
He placed the tray on the table, and poured the jasmine tea into small elegant glasses.
‘Yes,’ replied Max. ‘Here’s to the Golden Age of Andalusia, the most tolerant and artistic place in the world.’
‘I agree. So what’s it about this time?’
‘Well . . . I’m worried this war is going to put a real strain on inter-community relations. I was hoping you might have some ideas.’
‘This invasion of Iraq is a terrible mistake. No Muslim can support it. It’s only increasing support for the extremists. I was thinking . . . we need more popular education on Islam and the history of the Middle East. Perhaps an exhibition of modern Islamic culture would help, just to show we are not all fanatics. Maybe something on food and music.’
‘That could be useful. If you could work up some ideas, I’ll look into funding.’
‘I’ll talk to my colleagues . . . and Leila of course. I’ll try to get you an outline next week.’
‘Thanks.’
‘It has always been good to work with you, Max.’
‘That’s the easy thing I wanted to talk to you about.’
‘And the difficult thing?’
‘We think there might be some terrorist cells here in Andalusia. We’d be grateful if you reported anything suspicious to us.’
‘You mean act as a spy? You’re crazy. Look, you know I have no sympathy with terrorism, but I can’t go reporting every odd character I come across who happens to be a Muslim.’
‘We’re not asking you to do that. Just to report the real fanatics.’
‘But who are they? Every Muslim sympathizes with the Palestinians, and hates this war. But I’m not going to write a dossier on everyone I know. How could you even think of it?’
‘No. No. But Spain could be a target now.’
‘But terrorists aren’t going to tell me if they’re planning to blow something up, are they?’
‘Okay, okay. How’s Leila? How’s her thesis going?’
‘She’s fine. She was hoping to see you. I don’t know what could have happened to her. I’ll ask her to give you a ring when she gets back.’
‘Sure. It would be nice if she phoned.’
Max stood up. He looked at Ahmed’s lined, ascetic face. He liked him, and did not want to press him hard. But his superiors wanted information on terrorist sympathizers.
‘How do you think this invasion in Iraq will end?’ Max asked Ahmed.
‘It will be a disaster. The American, British and Spanish governments have made a terrible mistake . . . they just don’t realize it yet. There’ll be resistance, fanatics flooding into Iraq, and probably civil war. The Yanks won’t have the stomach to stay the course. And then, who knows?’
‘I really don’t understand why the British and Spanish governments are so keen to support the Yanks.’
‘Me neither. You’d have thought, given our histories, we’d have known better.’
‘Yes, but our leaders don’t. Not much understanding of history.’
‘More tea, Max?’
‘No thanks. I really have to go now.’
Max drove back to his cortijo. He knew many Muslims regarded him as a police spy. But simpatico. A nice guy. And someone who actually knew something about Islam. Pity about Leila. He grimaced as he passed the skips with rubbish strewn all around them. Bloody hippies. He must complain to the council. The rubbish was becoming a health hazard as well as an eyesore. Now that he owned a cortijo, he did not want the value of his property falling because of a rubbish tip on the way to his home.
Once inside, Max took out a beer. He had looked forward to having a pleasant evening with Leila. She would probably call when she got home. He finished his beer and read his book for a while. The heat was oppressive – he needed a shower. He was getting out of the shower when the phone rang.
Leila, he thought. That’s nice. ‘Hola.’
‘Sub-Inspector Max Romero?’ A woman’s voice. But not Leila’s.
‘Sí.’
‘Cabo Anita Guevarra. It’s urgent. We’ve found a body. It’s Teniente González’ day off, and we can’t get hold of him. Sargento León knew you were in Diva, and would very much like your assistance. I’ll be at the station.’
‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’
It took Max less than ten minutes to walk up the goat track to the Diva police station. Cabo Anita Guevarra was waiting for him at the door. Max glanced at her. She looked young enough to have come straight from a convent school. She was definitely pretty, very slim. Too slim . . . better to have something to grab. Shit, I’m beginning to sound like the other cops, thought Max.
‘Thanks for coming so quickly. I’ll drive you over, could be murder.’ Anita had a pleasant, low voice.
‘Do you have an ID for the body yet?’
‘Not sure, but Sargento León thinks you probably knew her.’
Oh God. Isabel? Mariana? Macarena? Dolores?
They drove in silence. There was a police car stationed at the side of the Jola road, just before the road bridge over the ravine. Cabo Guevarra drew up beside the green tape that cordoned off the road. Sargento Mario León came over to greet him, chest puffed up with importance.
‘Thanks for coming, Max. I think you might recognize the body.’
Max felt a flood of relief: at least it wasn’t family.
‘Where is she?’
‘Under the bridge. We’ll have to get down the ravine. But the path isn’t too bad.’
They clambered down. The banks, usually bone dry at this time of year, were slippery with mud. The water was still ankle deep at the bottom. They scrambled along the riverbed and under the road bridge. The body of a young woman lay in the mud, crudely covered with a few branches of oleander, white flowers still gleaming.
‘Recognize her?’
Oh sweet Jesus, he was never going to have that date with Leila. He reached for his inhaler and took a quick puff. Leila, Leila.
‘What happened?’
‘We don’t know. Broken neck, we think. Jaime, the goatherd, had to scramble down after his dog, and found the body. Not well hidden, is it?’
‘No. But then it might have
taken days for someone to look under the bridge. She’s Leila Mahfouz, the daughter of one of the British Muslims. God, I had tea with her father this afternoon. She was due home any minute . . . I’ll tell him if you like.’
‘Thanks. Definitely Muslim? Is that going to complicate things?’
‘Yes, could do. We’ll have to move fast. Muslims like to bury their dead within twenty-four hours.’
‘Didn’t know that. I’ll tell Forensics. Can’t be too politically correct these days. The duty juez de instrucción is arriving any minute.’
‘Who is it?’
‘Juez Falcón. He’s fine – lets us get on with it. I’ll tell him about the twenty-four hours. Thanks for the advice.’
Max bent over the body. ‘Look, her watch is broken, stopped at five exactly. Could have broken when she fell over the ravine.’
‘Maybe, but that’s an old trick. Kill her, change the time on her watch, break the watch, and the killer, of course, has an alibi for that time.’
Max took another quick puff of his inhaler as they climbed up the bank.
‘Okay, Max, we’ll have to wait here for the policía científica, Forensics and the judge to arrive . . . Anita, you got hold of the boss yet?’
‘Still no luck,’ replied Anita.
León turned back to Max. ‘Can’t understand why he’s not answering his mobile. He’ll be annoyed he’s missing the excitement. It’s our first Muslim. Look, Max, I know you have a lot of experience with Muslims, and you’re in Homicide. I’d be grateful if you could keep us straight on this one. We don’t want any more complaints.’
‘Mmm.’
‘I know you and González don’t get on too well. But we can’t be too politically correct these days, you know, and . . . well . . . the Teniente has had some problems recently, and . . . you know what he’s like, drowns his sorrows. He won’t admit it of course, but I’m sure he would really appreciate any help you can give.’
‘It’s not my patch, Mario.’
‘I know, but . . . you know how he is.’