by P J Brooke
‘It was still raining when we went to the supermarket where we stocked up, and then b—back up the mountain.’
The secretary knocked at the door. ‘Those chaps from the Centre are here, sir.’
‘Bugger,’ said González. ‘They’re early. Take him away. We’ll continue later.’
‘Only if he agrees,’ said Gabriel.
Hassan turned to Gabriel. ‘It’s fine. I know I’m a suspect, but as I keep saying I’ve nothing to hide.’
‘If you agree, that’s acceptable. But I am not happy with the tone and implications of many of the questions. With your permission, Teniente, I will speak to Dr Dharwish to let him know my doubts.’
‘If you must. We will speak to them all after you’ve spoken with your Don Javeed.’ González said, emphasizing the Don.
Gabriel and Hassan left together. When the cops were alone González exploded.
‘Bloody smart story. Bloody chess game. Alibi all the fucking time. But each other. Just give me ten minutes alone with that young shit and I’ll sort him out.’
‘But sir,’ said Guevarra, ‘he’s just a scared kid. We can check up on the alibi.’
‘Telling me how to do my job now, girlie? Watch yourself.’
González turned to León. ‘I’ll give the Judge a bell, and ask him to question the boy. León, you get the papers ready requesting another forty-eight hours.’
Max butted in. ‘Look, I don’t think you have sufficient grounds at this stage to hold him for another forty-eight hours. He has a decent alibi, and there is nothing to link him to the crime scene. I suggest you leave the request to the judge for the moment.’
González paused and scowled. ‘You’re probably right. Okay, but I tell you he did it.’
The air conditioning hardly worked. They were all sweating.
Gabriel, Javeed and four other men knocked and entered. It was Javeed who spoke.
‘I have all the documents here you asked for. Gabriel has complained to me about your questions. Note we are cooperating fully and voluntarily. But, believe me, if you overstep the mark I shall complain to the highest authorities.’
González said nothing. Javeed pulled out some neat plastic folders from his briefcase, and handed them to González who passed them over to Max.
‘We’ll keep these for a few days if you don’t mind,’ said Max, taking the folders.
‘We’re not going anywhere, so that’s okay.’
‘We’d like to ask you a few more questions,’ said Max, after glancing at the file.
‘Fine. Go ahead,’ replied Javeed.
‘Javeed Dharwish. British passport, I see.’
‘Yes. Originally Palestinian. But I lived for fifteen years or more in London where I still have a flat and consultancy business.’
‘Omar Rahmin? French passport.’
‘Oui. Parisian. I was born there, but my parents came from Algeria.’
‘Faslur Hashim? And you have a Spanish passport.’
‘I came over from Morocco twelve years ago, and was given Spanish citizenship two years ago.’
‘Rizwan Ahmet? A Belgian passport.’
‘Yes. My father was Algerian, and he married a Belgian girl, my mother, and stayed in Belgium where I was born.’
‘And finally, Hakim Lasnami with a German passport. Don’t tell me your dad also married a local girl?’
‘No, our family emigrated from Iraq. My father’s a doctor, and after taking some exams in Germany he was allowed to stay and practise medicine there.’
‘Quite a collection we have here,’ said González.
‘Yes,’ replied Javeed. ‘The Ibn Rush’d Centre is a European one. We intend to bring young Muslims from all over Europe, and help them become good European businessmen and leaders. We want to show that Muslims can be good Europeans, and also successful ones.’
‘Hmm,’ muttered González.
Max glanced at the Ibn Rush’d brochure, glossy with pictures of the mountains, the centre and the statue of Ibn Rush’d in Cordova. ‘Quite a collection of sponsors you have here.’
‘Yes. We did surprisingly well. Many of our successful Muslim businessmen have contributed, but also interfaith groups and others have agreed to sponsor us. I have here all the documentation on the purchase of the centre, planning permission for alterations, receipts for building work, the CVs of all our applicants, and a daily outline of the courses they follow. I keep a progress report, but that is confidential. I also have letters of support from the Spanish Ministry of Culture and of Foreign Affairs. The Management Centre at the University of Granada is also a co-sponsor, and we attend their lectures. And this is the application we sent to the EU for funding together with their positive response.’
‘Could you leave these with us. We will return them in a few days.’
‘Certainly. If you have any further questions I would be pleased to help. Can we take Hassan back with us?’
‘Okay. Take the lad for now. But he’ll be back.’
‘In which case we will leave. Any further questions? Any way we can be of assistance?’
Max replied, ‘I don’t think so. No, just one thing.’ He turned to Javeed. ‘How do you select candidates?’
‘We have a rigorous application form, three referees, one of whom has to be religious. The candidate presents an outline of his business proposals, and if possible two members of our Board of Management, plus myself of course, do an interview.’
‘Did you interview Hassan?’
‘Yes, in London. I knew him in London. He was on a placement with me and was also a volunteer for a charity I support, HosPal, which collects aid for a hospital in Gaza. I decided he would be a good administrative assistant for the centre. He also came highly recommended as a potential high-flyer, and his proposal of a quality software company writing in Urdu, Arabic and English appealed to me.’
‘By the way, who won the chess game?’
‘Chess game? Oh, Hassan did.’
‘His final move?’
‘Let me see now. I was attacking, and took his white knight, which left me open to check from his bishop, which eventually led me to losing my queen. It was a very good game.’
‘What time did you leave?’
‘There was very heavy rain. So we both left about six, Yasmin in Al Andaluz can confirm that. We stocked up in the supermarket. We must have left Diva a bit after seven. We filled up with gas so the station should be able to confirm the time. We wanted to get back before dark. Is that all?’
‘For now, yes.’
They all left, together with the lawyer.
González snorted. ‘Fuck it. The town would have been deserted with all that rain so the kid has the alibi of that smooth bastard, what’s his name? Don Javeed. Convenient, eh? Okay, I’ll check every home on the Jola road, somebody might have seen something.’
‘All looks above board to me. They do have alibis, if only each other,’ said Max, looking at his watch. ‘Sorry. Have to go now, but if you need any further help, write in officially to request it, and we’ll see if I can get time off. Let me take all that documentation, and I’ll get Granada and Madrid to check it. We’ll need to run the names through our computer files as well as other EU ones. And even ask the US if they have anything.’
‘That would be good. You’ve got some uses after all.’
On his way back to Granada, Max passed the Boabdil restaurant, built on the site where Boabdil, the last Moorish Sultan of Granada, wept as he had his final glimpse of his beloved Granada, only to be rebuked by his mother with the famous words: ‘You do well to weep like a woman for what you failed to defend like a man.’ The restaurant stood next to a cement factory.
If Boabdil could see it now, thought Max, looking at the mess of new housing and industrial estates crawling across the rich farmland of the Vega, he’d do more than weep.
In midsummer, the heat turns Granada into a ghost town. The pigeons would go to the coast if they could. But the traffic is lighter, and jou
rneys faster. Some consolation.
Max went straight to police headquarters, a dull, battered block in the San Jerónimo district. The barrio’s glory days were over. The streets were a mess of ugly university buildings, cheap shops and run-down offices, the fine mansions converted into budget hostels or student flats. But rising above it all, the still magnificent Renaissance churches of San Jerónimo and San Juan de Díos gleamed in the sun. Max slowly climbed the stairs, the clammy heat beginning to bother his asthma. He knocked on the door.
‘Come in,’ said Clara.
‘Hi, Clara. How you coping with this heat? Boss free?’
‘My, you look all hot and bothered. Have some water. I’ll see if he’s still here.’
‘Thanks. I hate this weather.’
Max cleared his dry throat, sipped the water and took a quick puff of his inhaler.
‘Yes, he’s free. Can see you now.’
‘Max, come in,’ Davila called. ‘Nice and cool in here. I keep the conditioning on full blast. Problems in Diva?’
‘Could be a tricky one, sir. British Muslim girl found dead at the bottom of a ravine. We’re pretty sure it’s murder. Teniente González is in charge. Judge Falcón wants me to help, seeing she’s both British and Muslim.’
‘González? Reputation for being very solid.’
Max swallowed. Best keep the lip buttoned. ‘If you say so, sir.’
Davila glanced sharply at Max. ‘He may be a bit old-fashioned. The Mayor of Diva thinks highly of him.’
‘I’ll remember that, sir.’
‘Yes, do. You should continue to help but he has to officially request it. If Falcón wants you then I’ll get the permission for you to assist approved quickly. Keep me fully informed of all developments. But make sure this doesn’t interfere with the briefing for the CGI meeting.’
‘There’s a complication. A potential suspect is a young British Muslim lad on some adventure training course above Capa. The Centre’s documentation seems rock solid. Probably nothing, sir, but I think we should check up on it all.’
‘That’s wise of you, Max. Don’t want to overlook anything. I’ll send it all off to the appropriate bodies.’
Max handed over the Centre’s documentation.
‘I’ll look into this. Give me a written note on the Diva case right away. Done the final draft of the briefing? It’s got to be first rate. It’s important we impress them. But make sure it’s bland. We don’t want them or us investigating this and that group. Might stir up the media. You know what they’re like.’
Max smiled. ‘Here’s the disk, sir. Needs some final polishing. You’ll have that first thing tomorrow morning.’
Inspector Jefe Davila had built his career on four golden rules: nothing in the media, keep any potential difficulties low key, never offend those in authority or with influence, and always maintain the appearance of a safe pair of hands. The rules had served him well.
Max returned to his flat, put on his noisy and inefficient air conditioning, stripped off his sweaty clothes, and ran the shower as cold as he could before standing under it for ten minutes. Even then the water was tepid rather than cold. But it helped.
After tidying up the report, and checking it was suitably bland, Max went to bed early, and lay naked on top of the sheets. He slept restlessly. In the early hours of the morning, the air conditioning packed in, and Max woke in a pool of sweat. He changed the sheet, but found it difficult to get back to sleep. Leila’s death was a real puzzle: no suspects except Hassan, who really didn’t look the part, and nothing to go on from Forensics. He awoke groggy and tired. A cold shower revived him.
Max drove slowly to the police station, and handed his final report in, as promised. Davila was in one of his petty, officious moods.
‘I’ll make the final corrections. Your grammar, Max, is still not as it should be. Too much foreign education. Can’t understand how you got through your entrance exams. Off to the airport tomorrow then. Remember we want all this to go well. Top priority in fact.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Max went to his office. Piles of unopened correspondence and files lay in his in-tray. Best get it cleared: it would be a busy few days. Must be getting popular with some Muslim groups: he’d go to ‘The Chants Mystiques des Femmes du Maghreb’, and the French film on the Sufis of Afghanistan if he could. Max looked at the files and groaned: reports, performance indicators, more reports, Spanish legislation, EU legislation. It would take all day.
Chapter 7
Dale limosna, mujer,
que no hay en la vida nada
Como la pena de ser
Ciego en Granada.
Give him alms, woman,
for there is nothing in life
So cruel as being blind
In Granada.
Francisco de Icaza, popular refrain
The next day Max arrived at the airport more than thirty minutes before the plane from Madrid was due to land; Davila had been losing sleep over this visit, so it was a belt and braces job.
Bang on schedule, Linda and a stranger came through Domestic Arrivals.
‘Max! How are you?’
‘Fine, Linda. I mean . . . fine, Inspectora Jefe Concha.’
‘No need to be so formal, Max.’ She turned to her companion. ‘May I present Inspector Martín Sánchez from CGI. He’s here to keep an eye on me. He thinks I have a tendency to overstep the rules.’
‘You two know each other then?’ asked Inspector Sánchez.
Max shook hands, ‘The Inspectora Jefe was lead tutor on my promotion course. Her lectures were very good.’
‘I’m sure they were,’ Martín replied. ‘The Inspectora Jefe likes to lecture.’
Max turned back to Linda. ‘It’s a long time since you were in Granada.’
‘Yes, on a school trip.’
Linda was looking good. Slim as ever. Blonde hair expensively cut. The shoes alone would have set most people back a week’s wages. Lively blue eyes quickly reappraised him. He was pleased he still passed the test.
Martín seemed as comfortable as a sausage on a barbecue.
‘Shall we go? I’ve booked you into the Alhambra Palace Hotel. It’s nice. Pure Moorish fantasy. And a great view over the city.’
The official car was waiting outside the airport terminal. They took the ring road towards the Sierra Nevada before turning off to the Alhambra, and through the grounds to the hotel, spotlit by the evening sun. Martín did not look too pleased.
‘Bit remote.’
‘Martín – it’s class.’
‘It’s quite a way from town. We’d have to get a taxi if we wanted to go anywhere.’
Max was bewildered: most people coming to Granada would be thrilled to be staying there.
‘We’ve got to consider security,’ Martín added. ‘With all these trees and everything we’d be sitting ducks.’
‘Martín, who the hell knows we’re here? Do you think terrorists have been following us?’
‘It’s no joke, Linda. Sub-Inspector Romero, can you get us a modern hotel in the town centre?’
‘Leave it with me,’ Max said. ‘I’ll make a few phone calls and see what I can do.’
He was back in a few minutes. ‘Okay. You’re in the Hotel Santa Paula, a five star on Gran Vía.’
‘Sorry about that. You can’t be too careful. Women only see the romantic side of things. I’m trained to be practical.’
Linda sniffed. This was not going well. They got back into the car, and drove through Plaza Nueva and along Gran Vía.
‘Here we are, the hotel.’
‘That’s better. Looks like there are some good bars down that street.’
So much for security, thought Max. ‘I’ll leave you to settle in. The restaurant is good. Everything is on us, so order what you like.’
‘That’s generous of you,’ said Martín.
‘The meeting tomorrow is at five. When do you want to be picked up? I can show you around Granada after your meeting w
ith the Mayor if you like.’
‘Well, I don’t know. I’ve got papers to work on. I’m not one for all that tourist stuff,’ said Martín.
‘Don’t be such a bore, Martín. The more we know about the city, the better. I think we would be free from about eleven.’
‘Eleven o’clock then?’ said Max.
‘Great.’ Linda flashed a smile. Martín grunted assent.
‘Have a good evening. See you tomorrow,’ said Max, saluting.
Max returned to the Albayzín in his own car, wondering how deep the obvious conflict between Linda and Martín was. He parked three blocks below his flat. Parking in the Albayzín was a nightmare. There was building work everywhere, and a faint smell of ancient drains, which didn’t appreciate the disturbance.
Next morning, Max reported to Davila.
‘I’ve had to correct your grammar again, Max. Your presentation is still a bit long, but it should do. I’ve asked Clara to email it to you. Just don’t make any anti-American jokes. What’s your impression of the . . . um . . . Madrid team so far?’
‘Inspectora Jefe Concha seems very positive. Inspector Sánchez is hard to please, and I don’t think they’re singing from the same hymn sheet at all. The politics is probably a lot more complicated than we thought.’
‘Hmm. I’m told she’s one of the PM’s girls. You know she’s General Concha’s daughter, don’t you? She didn’t get any favours though, and none of this positive discrimination crap either. Comisario Bonila told me that the Socialists are considering positive discrimination for Muslims. I’ll fight that one. So will the PM.’
‘More Muslims in the force here in Granada would be handy. Help us with our work.’
‘Maybe. But only on merit. The PM. thinks we’ve got too many Muslims in Spain as it is. So he’s recruiting all these Argentinians.’
‘You mean men like Navarro. Had to get out of Argentina before he got picked up for torturing some kids, wasn’t it?’
‘Max, I’ve told you before to keep your politics out of this office. Navarro was only defending his country. He’s a good cop.’
‘Shall I go now, sir?’
‘Yes. And watch that tongue of yours. It could get you into serious trouble. The meeting will be at 5 p.m. prompt. We don’t want them to think we take long siestas.’