Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  ‘True or not, do we have any grounds for asking Judge Falcón to question him, and keep him in for a further forty-eight hours?’

  León and González looked at each other again.

  ‘He had a very public dust-up with Leila on the Friday night. He was definitely in Diva around the time of death, and his only alibi is Javeed Dharwish, who swears that they were both in the Café Al Andaluz until after six o’clock and then went straight back to that centre of theirs. But there’s no corroboration for the time they say they were in the café, so he could have left the café, nipped along the Jola road . . . maybe to apologize after the row . . . met the girl while she was out for a walk . . . they have another fight and she ends up down the ravine with a broken neck.’

  ‘You mean you can’t come up with anything else? Wouldn’t persuade the judge, would it? Where’s the motive? Where’s the evidence he was at the scene of the crime? Did he call the girl to say he wanted to see her? Where’s the statement that suggests he could be capable of violence against a young woman? It doesn’t stack up.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘Look, I’ll try and make a deal with the lawyer. We’ll let the young man go right now in return for bland statements from him and us. We ask the judge to let us hang on to his passport. And he has to sign in regularly.’

  ‘But I know he’s hiding something,’ said González. ‘With more time, we should get somewhere.’

  ‘But tough questioning hasn’t produced any results, has it? And from what you say, it isn’t likely to either.’

  ‘Okay. But mark my words, it’ll be him.’

  ‘Maybe. Let’s review what we’ve got tomorrow morning. Davila said you want me to go through Leila’s computer. If it’s okay with you I’ll sign out for it, and take it with me back to Granada.’

  ‘I’ve tried to get into the computer, sir,’ said Guevarra. ‘No joy.’

  ‘The tech boys in Granada should be able to solve that one.’

  There was a knock at the door. The secretary entered. ‘The lawyer and the other gentlemen are back from Motril.’

  ‘Okay.’ Max looked at González. ‘I’ll deal with this one. It requires some diplomatic skills.’

  González snorted. Max left the room. He returned in fifteen minutes.

  ‘It’s a deal. The lawyer’s no fool, and he knows the score. But it took a lot of persuasion. There will be two press statements, one from us and one from them, pretty much saying the lad panicked, tried to run, and that the two police officers attempted to restrain him. He lashed out, they defended themselves, and in the scrum both Hassan and the officers suffered minor injuries But there was no malice intended on either side. The young man by the way does have a broken rib. So the hospital will keep him overnight for routine check-ups. There will be no charges in return for Hassan’s release on the terms as agreed. You’d better get your report in to Judge Falcón immediately. He’ll have to approve it.’

  González and León smiled at each other.

  ‘See you all tomorrow at ten.’

  ‘Sí. And thanks, Max,’ smirked González.

  Max just hoped he had done the right thing.

  The next morning at ten, they all assembled in the interview room. González made a point of being in charge. He didn’t want his lost authority of yesterday becoming the norm.

  ‘Okay. What have we got? The Muslim kid’s the guilty one, but there’s no proof. I’ve interviewed every house on the Jola road. The one person who thought he might have seen someone like Hassan Khan failed to identify the kid. Can’t find any other bugger who wasn’t at the beach or asleep. Some are away. One family left for England round about the time of the incident, but I doubt they saw anything. Phew. Still no mobile. It’s hot.’

  González paused, and mopped the sweat off his face with a dirty handkerchief.

  ‘Where was I? Yes, the girl in the Café Al Andaluz confirmed that snooty Arab’s story. And the petrol station confirmed their times. But, apart from that hippy guy the victim seems to have spent the Friday night with, there ain’t no one else in the frame. Me, I think there’s something sexual. Young Hassan didn’t get his rocks off, and lost his cool. León, you’ve been snooping around Capa. Anything?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. The locals have noticed the group. But they keep very much to themselves. There are all sorts of rumours of course. It’s a Spanish army camp, training secret agents of Middle Eastern origin to infiltrate the terrorists. Or they are a bunch of terrorists. Or orgies. All very colourful.’

  ‘Guevarra, you were looking into that doolally community?’

  ‘Not much, sir. I’ve talked around. There’s a lot of gossip about the girl. A couple of older women felt her father, Ahmed, was too soft with her. Gave her too much freedom. Got a whiff of a scandal – a hint she might have got off with one of the married men in the community. But there’s no definite evidence. And if you push too hard they clam up. They’re all very upset. I actually found most of them very sweet and gentle.’

  ‘Sweet and gentle? What sort of crap is that? Push this married man lead. Try befriending one of the women, and see if you can get anything.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But it may be difficult.’

  ‘Max, anything at the Granada end?’

  ‘Nothing yet. I’ve handed over all the documents from the guys in Capa, and they’re being checked.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  It soon became obvious González was going to enjoy the next question.

  ‘I have to ask you this one, Max. Did you screw the girl or did you attempt to?’

  ‘The answer to both is definitely no.’

  ‘Okay. This will all have to go on the record of course. Judge Falcón may want to question you.’

  ‘I have no objections that it’s known I went out with Leila a couple of times.’

  ‘Right. Anything from the interviews with Max’s family?’

  ‘I spoke with Don Juan Romero and his wife, Doña Isabel,’ said León. ‘Don Juan is a most respectable man. He had met the girl on various occasions when she came to interview his abuela. He fetched her from Diva a couple of times, and gave her lifts back. He met her again when Doña Paula invited her over for a meal. He answered the phone two or three times when she had phoned. Yes, and ran into her in a restaurant in Granada one lunchtime when Leila was there doing her research. There’s nothing whatsoever of interest from Doña Isabel. She was around sometimes when Leila was interviewing Doña Paula, but didn’t get involved in conversations and didn’t give lifts.’

  Max blinked. Juan had never mentioned a lunch in Granada.

  ‘Seems clean as a whistle,’ commented González. ‘But just check on that lunch.’

  ‘Anything from Doña Paula?’ said González turning to Guevarra.

  ‘I’ve a massive amount of information, sir. Nearly all of it related to Leila’s research. Leila had offered to look into the disappearance of Antonio Vargas, Doña Paula’s elder brother, in 1937. Doña Paula thinks there may be some connection between the research and her murder. I’ve got all the details on Antonio Vargas’ disappearance. Doña Paula says there are also tapes of conversations between herself and Leila on this and her memories of Diva in the Civil War.’

  ‘I don’t see how this could be relevant to the investigation. Everybody local already knows what happened here. What do you think, Max?’

  ‘I haven’t heard that Leila had found out anything new. Even if she had, it’s unlikely to be connected to her death. When I go through her materials, I’ll see if anything is there.’

  ‘Don’t waste too much time on it. Unlikely to be relevant.’

  ‘One other thing, sir,’ said Guevarra. ‘Leila had visited the website on ‘the Disappeared’, you know, those who just disappeared in the Civil War. Doña Paula says she is still hoping she might find out something through the web about her brother, Antonio.’

  ‘Again fail to see the relevance. My grandpa used tell me how he shot El Gato. That’s mi abuelo’s lucky hors
eshoe on the door outside. Had it with him when he shot the bastard.’

  Max interrupted. ‘If that’s all, I’d better be getting back to Granada. I’ll go through all the material, and let you know if there is anything of use.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll want written reports from you all. Judge Falcón needs regular reports for his Auto, his formal record of the case. And with all the press interest, we have to have everything really well documented. Oh, hang on . . . there’s one more thing I was chasing up. It’s the guy she was with the night before she died. I’ve been checking up on the hippies. They had a fiesta down at Felipe’s. Went on to the early hours of the morning. I’ll have to get that bastard’s licence revoked. Leila was there, then went with the hippies to El Fugón for a party. Sure to have been lots of drugs. So that’s a lead we’ll explore. Bound to be some Muslims using the Morocco connection to smuggle in drugs. Well, apparently she left with this bloke, Jim. Don’t know if he screwed her or not. He’s gone off on holiday somewhere.’

  González paused and guffawed. ‘Holiday! As if all their fucking life wasn’t one long holiday, on someone else’s money. Well, no one seems to know where this bloody Jim is. But I’m told he’ll be back shortly – key player at some fiesta or the other. We’ll take him in for questioning as soon as we have him.’

  ‘Make sure he doesn’t try to escape,’ said Max drily.

  González glowered at him. ‘Time you went.’

  As Max left the police station, he stopped and looked at the horseshoe nailed to the door.

  Chapter 12

  A la memoria de

  Federico García Lorca

  Y todos las victimas

  De la Guerra Civil

  1936–1939

  To the memory of

  Federico García Lorca

  and all the victims

  of the Civil War 1936–1939

  Memorial plaque, Fuente Grande; Ainadamar

  (The Fountain of Tears)

  The following day Max spellchecked his form, and walked upstairs to Davila’s office to hand it in.

  ‘Good, Max. So what happened in Diva?’

  Max summarized the events.

  ‘Very good, Max. That was handled well. I suppose this makes up for the late submission of your performance report.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘At times, Max, I’ve been worried about you – but you’ve come through this well. I think you’re finally getting the idea of teamwork. Always keep everything within the force, and deal with any problems through the . . . um . . . proper channels.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Give me a written report on the Diva incident. Make sure you file everything in duplicate. You may be right about what happened. But support González’ story.’

  ‘What are you going to do about González, sir?’

  ‘I’ll speak to—have a word with him. He has to be more careful in future. By the way, I had a phone call from him. Have to ask you this, Max. Did you or did you not . . . um . . . sleep with that girl?’

  ‘I did not, sir.’

  Davila’s eyes twinkled.

  Bloody González. He might as well have sent out an ‘alluser’ email. With cartoons. The lads are really going to have fun.

  ‘If it’s okay, sir, I’ll go through the murdered girl’s materials in my flat. I find it easier to work there.’

  ‘Okay. Just make sure we can get in touch.’

  Max saluted, and left. Praise the Lord. Max walked down the stairs to the basement of the police building. He handed Leila’s computer to one of the technical staff.

  ‘Can you get into this? It’s quite urgent.’

  ‘No problem. Give us half an hour.’

  His coffee finished, Max returned within the half-hour and collected Leila’s computer.

  He followed the little Albayzín bus below the Alhambra viewpoint, El Mirador de San Nicolás, down to the Cuesta de María de la Miel, and found a parking spot close to the chemist. The bougainvillea, purple and red, was still in flower, tumbling over the ancient walls of the houses. He sniffed the air, a mixture of sweet scented flowers and urine, a smell peculiar to the Albayzín. He climbed the narrow stairs slowly to the fourth floor, his flat. He put the bag with the computer, disks, tapes and exercise books on the tiled floor, unlocked the double lock, entered, deposited the bag on the desk, and went straight to the shuttered french doors. He opened the shutters. The Alhambra burst into view, the early evening sun lighting up the blotting paper pink walls. No Sierra Nevada behind it, too cloudy.

  He stepped outside on to his small terrace. The geraniums were wilting, in need of water.

  Max breathed quietly for a minute, then returned to his desk, set up the computer quickly, removed jacket and tie, and then paused. He remembered a quotation from John Ruskin, ‘Books are the souls of the dead, bound in calfskin.’ Going through Leila’s laptop felt like an invasion of privacy, a lack of respect for the dead. He went to the fridge, took out an open bottle of the Sierra Contraviesa white, poured the cold wine into a glass, sniffed appreciatively at the citrus aroma, took a sip, and returned to his desk and Leila’s computer. This had to be a private conversation.

  He started the computer, and then flicked through My Documents, scribbling the contents down on a notepad. Most were thesis-related: thesis notes, thesis chapters, thesis outline, thesis references, thesis supervisor. But there was also a folder marked Poems; another, Novel; and some personal files – finance, jobs, CV. Max turned to the emails. It looked like there were hundreds. He would have to go through every one; any clue would help. He felt sad. What an awful way to get to know Leila.

  There were a lot of emails to a Paul Drake, boyfriend probably; yes, definitely boyfriend. The emails started off long and detailed, almost a diary of daily events. But then she launched into her thesis. Boy, did she have the thesis syndrome. Poor sod: he was going to get every detail whether he liked it or not.

  Leila went to Granada regularly; the university librarian was very helpful. Most of the historians she wanted to speak to were on holiday, so she would have to wait until they got back. She liked Granada a lot. She had done a tour of Lorca’s last days with an English guide who turned out to be a real expert.

  Something I’ve never done, thought Max.

  Leila suggested that Paul came over to Spain, though her dad would not approve if they shared a bedroom. She was also having problems with some people in the local Muslim community. Dad had called her in to advise that her behaviour was causing comment. Leila regretted quarrelling with her father.

  ‘But I’m a free spirit and I’m not going to accept the petty, narrow views of some ignorant Muslims. There is nothing in the Qur’an to say women shouldn’t enjoy life.’

  Paul immediately became very sympathetic and sent an email back.

  ‘Absolutely, honey, absolutely. But I’ve never understood why you became a Muslim in the first place. I understand the family solidarity thing, but it’s not a good time to be Muslim. It could harm your career prospects.’

  That was a mistake. Leila’s reply was acid.

  ‘It was my decision to become a Muslim. I may have become interested in Islam because of my dad’s rediscovery of his faith and my mother’s death. But I need a spiritual life, and for me Islam is the correct path.’

  Paul made no response. Leila returned to her thesis descriptions. She had discovered the librarian of Diva’s little library.

  ‘Ricardo, the librarian in Diva, has a lot of information on Diva during the Civil War. People are still reluctant to talk about that period. Spanish governments ignore the mass graves all over Spain. But people, people who I’ve met, are still looking for relatives who ‘disappeared’. And Ricardo confirmed what I had heard from others; that there is a mass grave somewhere outside Diva. It’s beginning to be like a detective novel, trying to find out what happened here.’

  Max looked at the list of names and email addresses he had noted down. Most seemed to be connected to her
thesis: librarians in Granada and Diva; people who she had interviewed in Diva and Granada. The other names were probably members of the Muslim community and her boyfriend.

  Max stood up and stretched his legs. He went to the fridge, and took out a small bowl of olives. Enough for today: amazing how much time it takes to go through material on a computer. He needed a break; maybe some of the usual gang were in La Taberna.

  The next day, Max continued with the emails. There were emails to her thesis supervisor. Then a lot of emails to a Shona Monroe, clearly a close friend. These were more revealing.

  ‘I think Paul’s more of a conformist than I realized, and he’s probably worried a Muslim girl would do his career no good.’

  And they were gossipy.

  ‘After Friday prayers the men eat together in one room, and the women in another. I bet the men have interesting political discussions or deep theological disputes. With us women, it’s babies and recipes. Boring! I mentioned my thesis once, and was told that’s most interesting, but a bit controversial. Controversial! I ask you!’

  Yet again, Max warmed to Leila.

  There were descriptions of the various men she had met. She found handsome Spaniards very appealing. The librarian at the University of Granada was cute, as well as helpful. Hell, Max Romero was on her list!

  ‘He’s a nice cop – interested in my thesis. Did his degree at Glasgow Uni. What a small world! Been for a coffee with him twice. He put me in touch with his grandmother, Paula. It’s great to have someone in Diva who understands what I’m trying to do in my thesis . . . AND he’s really flirtatious, and that’s quite fun.’

  The next emails concerned Paula. ‘She’s fantastic. We really have a good laugh though some of the things she tells me about are so sad.’

  And then finally, there was something significant.

  ‘The cute cop is still interested. But I’m keen on someone else now. Tell you all about it later.’

  Well, thought Max sadly, I wouldn’t have got anywhere. He felt a stab of pain. Murder, even more than accidents, leaves a strong sense of a vacuum, of what might have been.