Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  ‘But you said his Spanish is good, so I’m unlikely to find out anything new.’

  ‘Maybe. But it’s a cultural thing. We might have missed something.’

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘Down in the cell. We had to let him go. But we’ve arrested him again on drug charges.’ González looked at his watch. ‘It’s a bit late now. You can interview him first thing tomorrow.’

  ‘I’d prefer to do it now so I can get back to Granada as soon as possible.’

  ‘Not possible. He’s asked for his lawyer to be present. So we arranged it for tomorrow morning.’

  Max flushed with anger. They were determined to keep him in Diva, come what may.

  ‘Okay. I hope he doesn’t have a broken rib,’ he said testily.

  ‘Now why would he have that?’ replied González calmly. ‘He hasn’t tried to escape, has he?’

  Max glowered at González, and left the office. He had the whole evening with nothing to do. He went to the bar, El Paraíso , and ordered a brandy and coffee.

  ‘Unlike you,’ commented the waiter. ‘Something wrong?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  Max looked at his watch. Should he visit Paula? Good idea. A visit now, and maybe she wouldn’t make such a fuss if he couldn’t get over on Sunday.

  Max drove along the Jola road. He slowed as he passed the ravine where Leila’s body had been found. He stopped the car and walked back to the low concrete parapet. The forensics guys had already had a good root round, so he would be unlikely to find anything – but a second look wouldn’t cost anything. He clambered down the bank and went under the bridge, looking around carefully. Nothing. As he scrambled back up, the evening sun glinted on something silver. Max stopped and leaned over to pick it up with a handkerchief. It was a sweet wrapper. Max dropped it in an evidence bag and stowed it in his pocket.

  When he arrived at Paula’s, he rang the bell, and waited. Nobody came. He rang again. Nobody. Most odd. Paula seldom went out. After the third ring, he heard footsteps. Paula opened the door.

  ‘Max! What a surprise! I wasn’t expecting you until Sunday.’

  ‘Can’t make it this Sunday. Police duties. As I was in Diva I thought I’d come round to see you. Hope you’re not going deaf, abuela. I rang three times.’

  ‘I was absorbed in my computer. Did you know – I can play music on it? It’s amazing. Max, I think I’ve made contact with someone who was with Antonio. Leila will be so thrilled. Oh!’ She dabbed her eyes with her apron. ‘I still think it could be her when the phone rings. Who killed her, Max, who killed her?’

  ‘I wish I knew, abuela. Still got nowhere. It’s a real mystery. I’ve been through her computer. There are a couple of things we’re chasing up. But nothing definite.’

  Max followed Paula into the kitchen. He offered to make the coffee, but Paula refused. She still believed men should have nothing to do inside a kitchen.

  ‘Querido, you’re looking tired,’ she said as she handed over his cafe con leche.

  ‘I’m fine. Too much work, that’s all. So what is it you’ve found?’

  ‘You remember that website Leila found for me, the one run by La Asociación para la Recuperación de la Memoria Histórica? Well, they have something called a Notice Board. People were putting up messages – does anyone know anything about my abuelo who disappeared in Toledo on such and such a date . . . that sort of thing. I thought I would do the same. So I put a notice on it. Does anyone have any information on Antonio Vargas, last seen in Diva, Andalusia, on 17th August 1937? He is believed to have gone to hide in a shepherd’s hut above Banjaron. But nothing more has ever been heard of him.’

  Paula paused, her hand shaking with excitement. ‘I didn’t expect a reply. Then today I heard from Beatrice, a lady in Ceret, in France. She said she is the daughter of a Spaniard, Manuel Paz, though most people used his nickname – El Gato.’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Her father escaped to France with his young brother during the Civil War. He married her mother, but couldn’t settle.’

  ‘Could he be Diva’s El Gato?’

  ‘It’s possible . . . can you imagine it?’

  ‘So what did she say?’

  ‘Her uncle is still alive – a bit younger than me.’

  ‘Can he help you?’

  ‘He told her that he and his brother had been hiding just outside Banjaron. She thinks he may have known Antonio.’

  ‘That’s amazing.’

  ‘Max – my heart’s on fire. I need to send a photo of Antonio. Have you heard about scanning? Could you do it for me? I’d ask Juan, but he gets grumpy whenever I mention what I’m doing. He’s got a lot of his abuelo in him. I’ve a lovely photo of Antonio – you know, the one with Lorca. And I’ve also got one of Antonio and me together.’

  ‘I can do that.’

  ‘Don’t tell Juan about any of this.’

  ‘Course not.’

  ‘It would have been so nice if Leila could have seen this. She would have been thrilled. What happened here was so real for her. As if we were family.’

  Max stood up, and put his arms round Paula, and gave her a big hug. ‘Of course, abuela. But don’t raise your hopes too much. After all these years . . . well.’

  ‘I know. But I feel I’m close to something.’

  The front door opened and shut. Juan appeared at the kitchen door.

  ‘Max! What a surprise! Didn’t expect you till Sunday.’

  ‘I know. Can’t make it Sunday. As I had to be in Diva, thought I’d come over. How are the kids?’

  ‘Fine. Well, not really. Usual scrapes and scraps. Isabel’s fine. They’re at the coast for a few days. I heard they had arrested someone over Leila’s death.’

  ‘Not really. The guy who might have been the last person to see her alive has turned up. I’m to interview him tomorrow, but I think there’s nothing on him. Oops. Shouldn’t have said that.’

  ‘That’s okay. You’ll stay for a meal? Be like old times, abuela. You, me and Max in the kitchen.’

  Juan looked around the old kitchen and smiled. The mark from Max’s football was still on the ceiling. ‘God . . . I remember the tales you used to tell us here. You could terrify us when we were little.’

  He smiled affectionately at Paula. ‘You got any of the nice cocido left? Poor old Max looks as if he hasn’t eaten properly for days.’

  Paula laughed. ‘Sit down, boys. Sorry about the cocido. But I’ve got your favourite white anchovies for you to nibble on. Then I’ll see what else I can find. There’s still some of your wild boar in the freezer. Juan, open a bottle of the best Rioja. I feel like a small glass myself.’

  Juan tried to steer the conversation to the latest news on the terrorists, but Max gave nothing away that wasn’t already in the papers. It was a happy evening, one of the best for quite a while. Paula fussed and mothered, convinced they weren’t being fed properly, probing to see if Max had invited that nice policewoman out yet. Disappointed that he hadn’t. Was that because he had another girl? Max tried to explain that he was too busy, but Paula wouldn’t believe that. Another bottle of wine appeared. Juan slowly became his old, animated self, full of opinions and bad jokes. Soon he and Max were skirmishing like old times, each trying to cut through the defences of the other, hoping to score the final thrust. As always it ended in a honourable draw. Finally Paula, in tears of laughter, called it to a halt.

  ‘Chicos, chicos. I’m exhausted. I have to go to bed. You two can carry on if you want.’

  Max looked at his watch. ‘Dios! Is it that late? No, I have to go. A lot to do tomorrow.’ He stood up, his legs a little wobbly.

  ‘I’ll get some strong black coffee,’ said Juan. ‘Still seeing that bird you went to the flamenco with the other night?’

  ‘Oh, that. No, came to nothing.’

  ‘If you want any advice, come to me.’

  ‘You’d be the last person I’d ask,’ said Max laughing, and punched Juan gently in the ribs. Soon they were
scuffling round the kitchen.

  ‘Boys, boys,’ yelled Paula from the landing. ‘Grow up. You’ll knock something over. Max, I’ll get you the envelope.’

  Juan raised an inquisitive eyebrow. ‘Nothing to do with this Antonio nonsense, I hope?’

  ‘No. Nothing like that. Just a little errand Max has promised to do for me in Granada.’

  ‘Yah, boo. Abuela’s little favourite,’ grinned Juan. ‘Here. Have a mint, Max. Clean your mouth.’ Juan reached into his pocket, and gave Max a mint, wrapped in a silver paper.

  ‘Gracias,’ said Max, and put it in his pocket. ‘Must go now.’

  A drop of rain fell in the night, not enough for the parched earth, but enough to create the illusion of a sparkling, fresh morning. The bougainvillea glistened with dew and the few raindrops. Max awoke with a slight headache. He took a paracetamol, and made some filter coffee. There was no bread in the cortijo, but he had some oatcakes and a jar of Paula’s home-made jam. He felt anxious to get back to Granada, so best start early. González was already in his office when he arrived.

  ‘Hola, Max. You’re early. The lawyer phoned. Won’t be here until noon. I’ve called a review meeting for five. Hope that’s okay with you?’

  So . . . a conspiracy to keep him away from Granada.

  ‘I’ll go and have some breakfast, then. If you need me I’ll be at Pepe’s having a coffee. Oh – do you have a scanner here?’

  ‘Sure. In the secretary’s office.’

  Max called in at the newsagent’s, full of magazines and porno DVDs, but with all the English papers, more even than in Granada, reflecting the flood of English incomers, looking for who knew what in Diva. Diva was not exactly a picture postcard village. Max looked at the headlines, and decided to buy the Indie. Bit didactic, but it took a firm antiwar stance. More than you could say for the Guardian. The Independent had a little piece on the terrorist plot in Granada. Even they were reporting the ‘official leaks’ as if they were proven facts.

  After a lengthy breakfast, Max returned to the police station. He scanned the two photos, saved them on the computer and emailed them to Paula. She had been a pretty girl. That done, he walked along the corridor to Anita Guevarra’s office, knocked and waited.

  ‘Come in,’ she called out in a low and pleasant voice. She smiled as Max entered. ‘You seem to be having lots of adventures. Is it all true, what the press are saying?’

  ‘We don’t know yet. Could be,’ was his non-committal reply.

  Anita had nothing new to report on the Leila case. ‘There seems to be a lot of jealousy among the women in the community, hints of this and that, but no real leads,’ she said.

  Max smiled at her as he left. Should he invite her out? No rumours of any boyfriend, so she might be available. Another time maybe.

  The lawyer arrived at twelve. He had come up from the coast. Max was surprised a scruff like Jim could afford him. Rich relatives somewhere in the background. He was proved right the minute Jim opened his mouth – public school, an expensive one. After two hours, Max was convinced Jim was as baffled about Leila’s death as he was. No, he hadn’t screwed her. Offered to, but she had refused. He had seen her around, and fancied her of course. What guy didn’t? That evening was the first time he had talked to her. She was easy to talk to, clearly needed cheering up, seemed a bit down at first, but then really livened up. They had talked about this and that: the war, her thesis, her dad, his music. Then the next day he had driven her back to Diva, dropped her off, saw friends at Figorrones, then went along the coast road to Almeria and on to the beaches at El Cabo del Gato to chill out. Just like that.

  Nice life, thought Max. Take off when you feel like it. Just disappear for days when you feel like it, stretch out in a cove and watch the waves break over the rocks. Beach almost to yourself, naked nymphs dancing in the waves. Lucky sod.

  ‘Any evidence to prove where you were?’ he finally asked.

  ‘Shedloads. As I told that charmingly polite police officer, González, from about three to five – I was with Nick and Emily in Figorrones and we had a few beers in the Bar Río Tinto. There’s a whole bar that can vouch for that. I stopped at the Cadiar petrol station to fill up at about seven – and I paid by credit card there. Then I drove down to Cabo, and stayed around there in the van. I managed to get the phone number of this chick from Barcelona. Always useful to have a floor to crash out on – and with luck even a bed.’

  ‘Did González check up on this?’

  ‘Yes. I gave him my friends’ details so he could get statements. Never heard any more about it.’

  ‘How did Leila’s mobile end up in your van?’

  ‘She must have dropped it. She slept the night in the van – alone – and then I gave her a lift back into Diva. It had fallen between the seat and the door so I never saw it. To be honest, given the state of the van I wouldn’t see anything in it.’

  ‘Hmm. Anything else you can remember about Leila?’

  ‘Not really. The only strange thing,’ Jim replied, ‘was she pointed out a hollow olive tree as I drove her back to Diva. Said that was where El Gato was shot in 1947. Something to do with her thesis, I think.’

  ‘El Gato?’

  Max pushed the drug link. Familiar tale. Jim would drive over now and again to Morocco, spend a week or two in the Rif Mountains, and then drive back. Okay . . . just small-time smuggling. And with a good lawyer, Jim would get away with a fine and an admonishment. Case closed.

  ‘Well, what do you think?’ said González when the Diva team reassembled at five.

  ‘Did you check up on his alibi?’ asked Max.

  ‘We did. Seems to be as he claims.’

  ‘Then probably nothing to do with him,’ snapped Max. ‘Probably didn’t even screw her.’

  They went through the evidence carefully.

  ‘Okay,’ concluded González. ‘Must be the Paki kid then. But we’ll press for drugs charges on the hippy. Get his daddy to pay the fine, and let him cool his heels in prison for a few days. Spoilt brat. If I had my way I’d make him do five years’ hard labour. Probably never worked in his fucking life.’

  ‘Was there anything on Leila’s mobile – the one found in his van?’

  ‘León went through it. He made a note of the numbers she had phoned. But nobody and nothing important.’

  It was exactly ten at night when Max got back to his flat in Granada. A sliver of pale moon hung over the Alhambra. It was exactly ten at night when the police dragged Hassan Khan into the cellblock. Moonlight filtered into his cell.

  Chapter 16

  Yo era.

  Yo fui.

  Pero no soy.

  Yo era . . .

  I was.

  I had been.

  But not I am.

  I was . . .

  Frederico García Lorca, Lunes, miercoles viernes

  (Monday, Wednesday, Friday)

  Hassan shivered. He felt the panic begin to crush him like a boa constrictor. The panic rose, subsided, rose, subsided. Sleep, above all sleep. For almost two days they had pounded him: voices harsh, relentless, accusing, merciless.

  ‘What are you planning? Where are you putting the bomb? Were you going to blow yourself up? Where did you meet your ETA contacts? Give me names.’

  The questions ebbed and flowed, but never ended. Whenever his eyelids began to shut they threw buckets of cold water over him. And the questions began again.

  Hassan remembered one man in particular: tall, swarthy, a pencil moustache, his big belly protruding over his belt. He reminded Hassan of a butcher back in Leeds. It was this man who kept referring to his mother.

  ‘Do you know where she is? I can help you contact her. Would you like me to contact her? All you need to do, Hassan, is tell me what was planned. Just whisper it to me if you want. Your friends will never know. You love your mother, don’t you? You can see her again soon if you just tell me what you were planning. You love your mother, don’t you? Soon she could be hugging you, just like she
did when you were a child. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  Hassan stammered, ‘I don’t know what you’re t—talking about. I really don’t know. There’s no b—bomb. Nothing is p—planned. I don’t know what you’re t—talking about. Why am I being p—punished?’

  The butcher’s tone would then change.

  ‘Your mother is nothing but a whore. She left for another man. She’s never made contact since because she doesn’t give a fuck about you. Just tell me what you were planning, then you can sleep.’

  Then back again to the questions. On and on went the questions. When they left the cell, the lights were turned on full, Bruce Springsteen’s ‘Born in the USA’, playing at full blast. Hassan eventually fell to the floor in sheer exhaustion. Then the butcher returned, kicking him on his cracked rib, laughing.

  ‘Nobody will know. Just some problems with its healing, that’s all.’

  A couple of times Hassan passed out with the pain. More cold water. And then again the questions, again and again.

  Eventually there was a pause. Nobody came. The lights were turned off. The music stopped. Nothing. The silence was as bad as the endless questions. He sat in the empty cell, waiting, fearful. Nothing happened. It was so quiet. He could hear the beating of his heart. The silence became more and more oppressive. The waves of silence echoed in his head. It was then that he began to panic again. Hour after hour he could feel the panic. The silence grew louder.

  ‘Allah be praised. Allah the merciful. What have I done to deserve this?’

  Hassan crawled to the corner of the room, and curled, foetus-like, into a ball. Finally they came. The butcher entered first, alone.

  ‘This is your last chance, Hassan. Tell me what was planned, and you can go and wash. You want to wash, don’t you? There’s a bed waiting. You want to sleep, don’t you? You can phone your mother. You want to speak to her, don’t you? Just tell me. Whisper it to the walls. Allah will understand.’

  Hassan cried, ‘I don’t know.’