Blood Wedding

by P J Brooke

  Cabo Guevarra laughed. ‘Well, you won’t be in the hills next week. So what’s the job you have for me, sir? Max?’

  ‘I want us to go over all the materials we have on the Mahfouz case again . . . thoroughly. Check all the statements, notes. See if we can spot any inconsistencies, chase up any loose ends. You’ll have to do any legwork.’

  ‘But we’ve been through everything pretty thoroughly.’

  ‘I know. But there’s no harm in doing it again. Teniente González tends to jump to conclusions. So he may have missed something.’

  ‘That’s true, sir . . . Max. He has his prejudices.’

  Max smiled. She was still a bit shy and stiff, but they should get on. ‘I also want you to chase up Leila’s research. I have a feeling there might be something there.’

  ‘But she was doing historical research. I can’t see the relevance of that.’

  ‘Yes, I know. But there might be something we’ve overlooked. We don’t have much to go on.’

  Max moved to reach for his can of beer. ‘Ouch,’ he gasped. ‘I never knew you used ribs so much.’

  ‘Here. Let me get it for you.’

  She handed him the beer. ‘You don’t look too well. I think I should go now.’ She put a cool hand on Max’s forehead. ‘Perhaps you should lie down.’

  ‘You’re right. Could you get me my painkillers? They’re by the bed. I’ll take a couple of those.’

  She returned with the bottle of pills. Max gulped down two.

  ‘Can I help you get into bed, sir?’

  You sure could, thought Max. ‘No. I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Is there anything you need? Food? Drink?’

  ‘No, my cousin Juan did a load of shopping.’

  She looked round the flat, and commented, ‘Very tidy for a single man. What time would you like me to come tomorrow?’

  ‘With all the roadworks, it’ll take you the best part of an hour to get in from Churriana. Let’s make it about ten.’

  She looked at him closely, and said, ‘I could stay longer now, sir, and see you’re okay, if you want.’

  ‘No. I’ll be fine. I just need to sleep now.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll go now, sir . . . Max.’

  She smiled sweetly, turned and left. She really had a nice swing of the hips. Max limped into his bed, made sure he had plenty of water by the bedside table, and curled up as best he could.

  He woke with a start the next morning. There was a noise in the kitchen. He got out of bed cautiously. Hell. He had sweated like a pig in the night – his pyjamas were soaked. He looked round for some weapon. That bloody Navarro might be after him. The only possible weapon was a glazed Moroccan jug. That would have to do. He quietly tiptoed towards the kitchen, opened the door, jug in hand.

  ‘María. Oh. It’s you.’

  María turned. ‘What are you doing with that jug?’

  ‘Just moving it to the . . . kitchen window sill.’

  ‘That’s not a sensible place. You’d be sure to break it there. My. You’re wringing with sweat. I’ll get you a towel and mop you down.’

  ‘No. Thanks. I’ll take a shower.’

  ‘Okay. Breakfast will be ready by the time you’ve finished.’

  Max slunk into the bathroom, Moroccan jug still in hand. As he stepped out of the shower he heard two women’s voices, Anita and María. He looked round for his clothes. Blast. They were in the bedroom, and he’d have to cross the living room to enter his bedroom. The two women were still in the living room, having a good natter. He’d hung his pyjamas on the nail of the bathroom door, but, still soaked with sweat, they were even wetter now from the steam of the shower. Blast. The big towels were in the drawer of the bedroom cupboard . . . and all he had was a small towel. He put his ear to the door. They were still jabbering away. Nothing for it, except the small towel. Max opened the bathroom door, and put his head round.

  ‘Excuse me, ladies. I have to get to my clothes in the bedroom. Could you turn round while I slip past you.’

  There was laughter. María replied, ‘We were just saying that as cops go, you’re not too ugly. I was telling Anita here that the seriously handsome one is your cousin, Juan. And he is so charming as well. But go on, we promise not to look.’

  They both turned away, giggling like a pair of schoolgirls. Max slipped past them, and shut the bedroom door firmly. There was more laughter.

  ‘That was a small towel you had, Max,’ said María.

  Max began to wonder if that bloody cousin of his had set him up. María was recently divorced, forty-something. Might have been okay if she hadn’t gone and dyed her hair blonde, and taken to putting on red lipstick. She also smoked, and Max had never gone out with a woman who smoked since the time he kissed a girl who tasted like an ashtray.

  Once dressed, he returned to the living room with as much dignity as possible. María had left. Guevarra was still standing.

  ‘Come and join me for a coffee and something to eat,’ said Max.

  ‘Just a coffee, thanks. Had breakfast not that long ago. María is a nice neighbour. You’re lucky to have someone like her around. We were laughing about Paula. She had phoned María again this morning, and before she knew it María was telling her all about her divorce.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Max tried to sound as neutral as possible. He looked at Anita, and noticed that she did not wear lipstick nor did she dye her hair. Perhaps she’d stopped smoking.

  After breakfast, Anita said, ‘Well, Max, where should we begin?’

  ‘Let’s classify what we’ve got. Once in order . . . I read it, you read it, and then we discuss it. That way we should miss nothing.’

  It took them all morning just to get everything in order. At two Anita stopped, looked at her watch, and said, ‘Mira . . . it’s two. Can I get you some lunch?’

  ‘That would be nice. It’s too hot to eat on the terrace. Juan did the shopping. I’m not sure what he bought.’

  ‘Let me look. Then I’ll rustle something up.’

  She returned in a minute. ‘That was some shop your cousin did. Looks as if he raided the delicatessen in El Corte Inglés. There are a lot of juices and healthy stuff, and some really good wine. How about white anchovies, tuna and salad and a glass of white wine?’

  Max smiled, one of his favourites – in spite of all his banter, Juan was really fond of him.

  After the meal the headache started: the wine hadn’t helped. Anita glanced at him, and must have noticed the pain etched in his face.

  ‘You’d better lie down. I’ll finish the classifying. What’s the password for your computer? I’ll set up a system for cross-referencing on it.’

  Max looked round the room: papers lying all over the floor.

  ‘Password – pilgrim204 – no capitals. We’d also better get some filing folders. If you go down to headquarters and ask for Cristina Boyas, she’ll be able to supply you with some. In fact, can you stock up with stationery in general? We could do with some coloured felt tips.’

  ‘Okay. I’ll do that. I need a breath of air. But you’d better write me a request of what we need.’

  Max did so, and handed the note to Anita. ‘I’ll sleep whilst you’re away.’

  It was comforting to know Anita was in his flat. She really was most attractive . . . and it looked like she’d stopped smoking. Max slept soundly. He awoke to find his fresh pyjamas sticky with sweat again. At this rate he’d run out of pyjamas. Better have another shower, and this time take a bathrobe. He looked at his watch. Jesus. Almost six o’clock. Then he remembered he only had two pairs of pyjamas. Max carefully tied his bathrobe.

  Anita was in the living room, back to him, on the floor putting papers into folders and carefully sticking labels on the folders.

  He coughed, and she turned.

  ‘Didn’t want to wake you, you were so sound asleep. You looked as peaceful as a baby. So I decided to just get on with this task while you slept. Almost finished.’

  ‘Thanks. I need another shower.’
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  ‘I have to go soon, Max. I’m meeting my sister after her class finishes. She has some crisis or other – boyfriend problems probably.’

  ‘Okay. But you must stay for a meal sometime. I’m quite a good cook.’

  ‘That would be nice. I’ve left some pasta for you. All you have to do is heat it up.’ Anita stood up, pulled her skirt down, and straightened her blouse.

  ‘Well thanks, Anita,’ said Max shyly. ‘It’s nice working with you.’

  ‘You too, sir . . . Max. Certainly a pleasant change from that pig, González.’

  Max laughed, ‘He’s a real swine in every sense of the word, isn’t he?’

  Anita smiled back at him, ‘Better go now. Same time tomorrow morning?’

  ‘Yes. Oh – there’s one thing you could do for me. I’ve run out of pyjamas. You couldn’t pick me up a pair, light cotton?’

  Anita eyed him carefully. ‘Medium, I’d say. I think blue would suit you.’

  ‘Okay. Blue it is.’

  Anita giggled. ‘If you have no pyjamas, better be careful – that María will be back to make your breakfast tomorrow morning.’

  Max watched her leave. It hadn’t taken her long to get over her shyness. The pasta she had made, chicken with a cream sauce, was delicious. He enjoyed a quiet evening, listening to a birthday present from his mother, a boxed set of Handel’s Oratorios. He remembered to put his bathrobe on before going to bed. It would be too hot to sleep under the sheet. He hoped María had not misinterpreted Paula’s advice that he liked being fussed over.

  When he awoke, Max noticed that someone had put a glass of fresh water by his bed. It was needed: his throat was parched. He wrapped his bathrobe carefully around him, and ventured out. María was in the kitchen, preparing his breakfast.

  ‘I checked up on you,’ she said. ‘My, you do sleep peacefully, like a baby. I thought you might be thirsty, so I put some water by the bed.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Max. Forget privacy – he clearly had been taken over.

  ‘I’m off to the coast tomorrow. I’ve spoken to Anita, such a nice girl, and she says she’ll get you breakfast from tomorrow when she comes at ten, and get you anything you need. She phoned me to remind you she’ll be late today. Getting the pyjamas,’ and with that she looked Max over. ‘I agree, I think blue would suit you.’

  Is nothing sacred? thought Max. ‘María, you’ve been wonderful. I couldn’t have managed without you,’ he lied.

  ‘Not a problem. I like to be a solution.’

  Anita arrived at eleven.

  ‘I had to look all over. I couldn’t find the right shade of blue. I showed them to María, and she said they were just right, the colour of your eyes.’ Anita looked at Max closely. ‘Do you want to try them on now? The shop assistant said they would change them if they are not right.’

  ‘No. No, they’re perfect,’ said Max taking them out of their wrapping. ‘I’m sure they’ll fit just right.’ Max hastened to change the subject. ‘Have we got everything in order now?’

  ‘Not quite. But shouldn’t take too long.’

  They classified everything, side by side. It took longer than they thought. They were interrupted by phone calls from both Bonila and Davila, stressing the importance that something should be found. Over the next two days, they went through everything, sitting at Max’s table. Anita built up a cross-referencing database. They listened to all the transcripts again. They discussed the tones of voices, the hesitations, any doubts. They listened together to Leila’s interview tapes. They read her emails. They read her poems, the bits and pieces of her novel. Max translated all the English into Spanish. They noted down everything that needed to be rechecked. They noted down everything they agreed might be dubious.

  ‘Well, where are we?’asked Max.

  Anita consulted her notes. ‘There’s no real alibi for Hassan Khan or Javeed Dharwish except each other. We should recheck with the waitress at Al Andaluz, and go over their times again. I’ve agreed to do that.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘You’ve said you’re unhappy with the chess game, and you will give more thought to it.’

  ‘Yes – I’ll ask Jorge’s opinion.’

  ‘Nobody followed up on that English family who left the day Leila died. We both agreed they could be involved or could have seen something. You’ll need to do that.’

  ‘Yes, but you need to get on to the land registry or the electricity board – find their Spanish bank and get UK contact details for them.’

  ‘I can do that next week.’

  ‘Fine . . . then I will phone them. What else?’

  ‘We know from her emails to Shona Monroe that Leila had fallen in love with some handsome, married man. I drew a blank with the hint of scandal concerning Leila and a married man in the local Muslim community, so it could still be one of them – or anybody for that matter. So I’d better pursue that one further.’

  ‘Okay. Sounds good.’

  ‘Um . . . sir . . . I noticed that nobody checked up on the lunch your cousin Juan had with Leila in Granada or indeed his statement on his whereabouts at the time of Leila’s death. We all seemed sure he’s not in the frame . . . sir . . . but . . .? And González did say we should check with the restaurant.’

  ‘Yes. I agree we should check everything.’

  ‘Your cousin did volunteer the information about that lunch with Leila. And it tallied with the statement we have from the librarian in Diva.’

  ‘Statement? Don’t remember that. Remind me.’

  Anita consulted her file. ‘Here it is. It’s León’s notes, so the grammar’s not great. León asks Ricardo, the Diva librarian, when did he last see Leila. Ricardo replies, ‘Let me see now. Didn’t see her again for some time after she interviewed me. Yes, I remember now. Thought it a bit odd at the time. I was in Granada, and gone to La Posada Duende for lunch, and who should I see there but Leila having lunch with Juan? So I went over, got an update from Leila on the thesis, and asked Juan to give my respects to Doña Paula.’

  ‘Hmm. Juan’s coming here for an evening meal. It would be nice if you could come as well. We could sort of ask him, informally, then,’ interrupted Max.

  ‘Thanks. That would be nice.’

  ‘What else?’

  ‘There’s Leila’s mobile which turned up in that hippy guy’s van.’

  ‘Jim Cavendish?’

  ‘Yes. León was meant to check out the numbers on it. I’d better go and dig up his report . . . if he’s done one.’

  ‘Could be important.’

  ‘I agree. I think González and León are so sure it’s Hassan Khan they’ve ignored other things.’

  ‘They certainly have. They’re in charge, but it could look bad for them if they’ve been inefficient. That only really leaves her thesis notes and thesis material. I’ll have to go through that, and you can then chase up anything I might come across. See the librarians again, things like that.’

  ‘There’s also Jim Cavendish. His Spanish is good, so I could try and talk to him again. He says Leila talked to him about her thesis so he might remember something.’

  ‘I should also track down Shona Monroe just in case Leila mentioned something else to her,’ said Max. ‘Nothing for it, I suppose, but for me to plough through her thesis stuff. At least it’s on an interesting topic.’

  ‘I can’t really help you on that, Max. But if you give me a list of queries then I could follow them up.’

  Max noticed Anita had relaxed sufficiently to call him Max without stammering over the sir first. They were getting on fine. But he decided not to tell Anita about the sweet wrapper, the one matching Juan’s mint. That was something he wanted to pursue on his own.

  Juan called to say he could come over on Friday, and Max invited him and Anita for an evening meal. He would cook, Anita would do the shopping and Juan would bring the wine.

  Max got up early on Friday to prepare the stock for the zarzuela. Anita arrived at nine in the evening, bang on time, wearing a lo
ng, simple white dress with a copper and lapis lazuli necklace around her throat. The white of the dress and the blue of the necklace set off the olive sheen of her skin and her jet-black hair. It was the first time Max had seen her out of her uniform. She looked stunning. There was a faint touch of lipstick. Pity, thought Max. But nobody’s perfect.

  ‘That’s a lovely necklace,’ said Max.

  ‘Yes, it was my mother’s. Dad had got it for her in Chile.’

  Juan arrived late as always. ‘I went up to La Bodega Valdivieso to get half a dozen of his best. These are really special.’ He opened the wine, sniffed appreciatively, poured three glasses, took his own and swirled it around gently, then took a sip.

  ‘Divine,’ he said. ‘Right temperature, right taste, right perfume, right everything. So, Max, what’s the surprise you’ve cooked up for us? This invalid dodge seems okay, especially if you can get someone so pretty to look after you.’

  Anita laughed. ‘We’ve been working really hard, and fortunately no need for much nursing – he’s recovering well. But he really likes it when someone makes his breakfast.’

  ‘He always did. I remember when we went camping. It was always me who had to make the coffee in the morning, and get the breakfast ready.’

  ‘I can’t imagine you both camping.’

  ‘We did it quite often. We even did Mulhacén from the Güejar side, and then across to Capa. That was some trip. Started off on a bright sunny day, and then got caught in a blizzard. Fortunately we had all the gear and we were on the path down . . . but the family went frantic. Paula got a helicopter out to look for us.’

  ‘That’s dangerous. Some tourists died last year up there.’

  ‘Yes. But they didn’t have the right gear. Mind you, Max here got so exhausted I ended up having to drag him down the mountain.’

  Anita and Juan chatted happily, nibbling the tapas of salted almonds, olives with coriander and fennel seeds, and marinated manchego cheese. Max stayed in the kitchen, preparing one of his specials. He kept having to call Anita for help. He found himself doing that even when he could have managed. Juan would be putting on the charm, and Anita seemed so innocent. Finally the meal was ready.