by P J Brooke
Max continued on his way. Should he report Navarro? Would it do any good? Yes, better file something in case anything happened. He entered the Taberna, quivering both from the exertion of his walk and from the threat.
‘Hola, Max. What the hell happened to you? You look like you need a brandy,’ said Felipe, the barman.
‘Oh, I just fell. Silly accident. But a brandy and a coffee would be nice.’
Max grabbed some of the papers, and sat at his favourite barrel. He’d overdone it, and was feeling tired out. Both Leila and the anti-terrorist arrests were old news now. Things were going badly in Iraq. There had been a demonstration in Madrid to bring the troops home. ‘Final Act in Palestine–Israeli Negotiations,’ reported one of the papers. ‘There’s never going to be a final act to that story,’ sighed Max. He got down slowly from the raised chair at the sherry barrel, returned the papers, paid, and hobbled out of the bar.
‘Take care of yourself,’ called out Felipe as he left.
Max crossed the road to the taxi rank: it would be too much to climb back up to his flat. Once in his flat he felt drained. Navarro was bad news – now he’d have to keep looking over his shoulder all the time. Granada had more than its fair share of problems: drugs, underage prostitution, corruption, people-trafficking, every scam in the book – but fortunately, unlike Glasgow, it had been spared the violence. And thank God for that. There was a lot to do tomorrow. It would be wise to rest for the remainder of the day.
The next day Anita didn’t arrive until after lunch. She had gone back to wearing her uniform . . . along with a diffident stiffness.
‘I managed to get nearly everything done, sir,’ she said.
Max felt like saying, ‘The name is Max, remember,’ but decided to let it pass.
‘Well done. Let’s begin with your report. Then we can move on to what I’ve discovered. But let’s have a coffee first.’
‘Oh. Sorry, sir . . . Max. Let me make it.’
They sat on the terrace.
‘Okay. What have you got?’
‘The bank was very reluctant at first. But here’s a telephone number for that British family.’
‘Great. I’ll phone them, and see if they know anything.’
‘I checked with Yasmín at the café, Al Andaluz, and she confirms all the times given us by Hassan and Javeed. But she did agree she wasn’t with them all the time. Had a siesta in the kitchen. She’s not sure for how long – could have been a couple of hours. When she left them they were playing chess, and when she went back in they were still playing chess. So both or just one of them could have slipped out, and she wouldn’t have known.’
‘Now that’s interesting.’
‘I didn’t manage to speak to Jim Cavendish. He’s away somewhere.’
‘Yes. Life is just one long holiday for him.’
‘I didn’t manage to speak to the Diva librarian again, but I can do that later.’
‘That’s okay. Almost certainly nothing there.’
‘I had a long conversation with one of my contacts in the Muslim community. After a lot of coaxing, she gave me the name of the married man who was meant to be keen on Leila.’
‘That’s really great work. And?’
‘Well, I did manage to speak to him. He was very embarrassed. But said Leila had flirted a bit with him, and that was all. Don’t know whether to believe him or not, so I’ll pursue this one further.’
‘Yes.’
‘And finally, sir, I managed to get that report out of León. You know . . . the one he did on Leila’s mobile. All he did was to list stuff still in the Log History, and the contacts in her address book. He said there was nothing out of the ordinary, so he didn’t follow anything up. Apparently González said that was fine.’
‘Christ . . . what a bunch of idiots. So they’ve missed anything she deleted. We need to get copies of her phone bills. Hope she’s not on Pay As You Go.’
‘Here’s the list, sir.’
Max took the list, and glanced at it. Phone calls to Paula and a María J; calls and texts . . . Dad, Juan, Ricardo, Sul G, Jujo, ANG . . .
‘Hmm. Not much there. Who’s this Sul G?’
‘Suleiman Grady. He’s the married man, sir . . . Max . . . I spoke to. The one who said Leila just flirted with him.’
‘Okay. We’ll have to lean on him. He’s definitely on our list now. The others . . . nothing really there. Have to check up on those we don’t recognize.’
‘Have done most of them, Max. María J, for example, is her hairdresser in Granada. The others . . . . I’ll give you the report when I’ve finished going through them all.’
‘Good. But is there anything else I could work on with the stuff you’ve got so far?’
‘There’s one other thing, sir.’
‘Oh. What’s that?’
‘She seems to have had a lot of contact with Juan.’
‘Let me see now. She could have been phoning to arrange when to go over to interview Paula.’
‘Might have been, sir. But I think it is something we have to chase up.’
‘Yes, of course. We mustn’t ignore anything, however trivial it might seem. I’ll speak to Juan.’
‘Are you sure that’s for the best, sir? I can do it.’
‘No, no, I’ll do that.’
‘As you say, sir.’
‘There may be a bit of a lead in Leila’s thesis notes.’
Max summarized his findings.
‘I’m sure it’s fascinating, sir. But I don’t really see its relevance.’
‘It could be crucial. Maybe she’s dug up an old scandal. I’ve noted down the archives where she was working. There aren’t many. I suggest we visit these, talk to the librarian or archivist, find out what files she was working on and go through them.’
‘But sir, we don’t know what we are looking for.’
‘That’s true. But anything relevant should hit us in the face.’
‘I’m not convinced, sir.’
The phone rang. Max went to his study to answer it. He returned a few minutes later, his face grave. ‘Bugger. That was Davila: he’s just had a call from González – Hassan Khan has disappeared.’
‘Disappeared?’
‘Yes. He told Zaida he was going out for a coffee, and never came back. That was yesterday morning. The police are treating it very seriously. They’ve put out an alert, saying he could be highly dangerous. They’ve phoned Linda, I mean Inspectora Jefe Concha. She’s saying he could be on a terrorist action, and if necessary he should be shot.’
‘Oh, my God. You don’t believe that?’
‘I don’t know. Davila wants to know if we found anything that might link him to Leila’s death.’
‘What did you say?’
‘I told him that the girl in the café, Al Andaluz, was asleep for part of the time when Hassan and Javeed claim they were in there.’
‘But that doesn’t mean they left the café.’
‘I know, but Davila is assuming one or both of them did. It would be handy for the department if Hassan did it.’
‘What should we do, Max?’
‘Do? I’m fucked if I know. Sorry, Anita. Just angry at the way everyone seems to want that kid to be guilty.’
‘That’s okay, Max. If you’re around González and León for any time words like that are par for the course. I think we should just carry on with our investigation until they pull us off the case.’
‘Yes. You’re right. What should we do?’
‘I’ll go back to Diva and find out what’s happening. I’ll do those interviews I missed. I’ll keep you informed of what’s going on.’
‘Okay. I’ll pursue this thesis line. And I’ll try and talk to Juan.’
Max saw Anita out. He stood at the top of the stairs and watched her walk down. On the last step from which she could see him, she turned and waved.
Max went back inside his flat. It seemed empty without Anita. He phoned the operator to get the number of the archives from the
Guardia Civil. He then phoned the archivist: the archives were only open 10 a.m. to 12 a.m. It was too late to go round today. Should he phone Juan now? No, best phone Paula first.
After giving a detailed description of the state of his health, and a blow-by-blow account of every visitor, Max finally managed to steer the conversation to what he wanted to know.
‘By the way, abuela, how did you and Leila arrange your meetings?’
‘Arrange our meetings? We did that after each time we met.’
‘But if for some reason one of you couldn’t make the meeting, what then?’
‘What a strange question! We would phone each other, of course.’
‘So you didn’t arrange things through Juan?’
‘Of course not. I’m not helpless. What’s all this about?’
‘Nothing really. Just curious.’
‘Curious? Are you sure that knock on the head hasn’t affected you? I may be old, but my mind hasn’t gone.’
‘I know that, abuela. Must go now.’ And Max put the phone down hurriedly.
Paula would phone back later to complain about his behaviour. He hoped she wouldn’t tell Juan. Max felt drained of all energy. He went to his terrace, and sat staring at the Alhambra hoping it would give him some insight. He just sat and stared. There was bound to be some simple, rational explanation. There were lots of reasons why Leila might phone Juan, there was nothing odd about going to a restaurant in Granada with Juan, and that sweet wrapper . . . dozens of people in Diva probably ate the same mints with the same paper. He stared and stared at the Alhambra, but answer came there none. Was there a connection he had overlooked? He must review the events calmly. Begin at the beginning, and note down everything. He went inside, and returned with a biro and notepad. A fresh notepad. Okay.
1. Juan had been out of sorts – money problems, he says. But could it have been for other reasons?
2. Juan was pale and unusually quiet at the barbecue the Sunday after Leila’s death. Could he have known about her death? Unlikely. But why that behaviour?
Max paused . . . yes . . . here was that odd incident with the laundry.
3. Juan put his best white shirt along with other clothes into the washing machine when he got back from Motril. Isabel confirmed that he never did his own washing. Why would he do that?
4. Juan never mentioned a lunch with Leila in Granada until interviewed by León. Why should he mention it? No law against having lunch with Leila. But then why volunteer that he had lunch with Leila? Ricardo, the librarian, had seen them. Maybe he thought that Ricardo would mention it, and if he didn’t volunteer that information he might look compromised?
5. The sweet wrapper? It’s an unusual wrapping. But a lot of people could have eaten one of those sweets, and then thrown the paper into the ravine. Could have been there for ages. Probably nothing to do with Leila. But then it could be.
What does all this add up to? Bugger all . . . probably. But then?
What to do? Max sat there, his shoulders hunched, a tight band across his chest. A puff of Ventolin. He hardly noticed the sunset over the Alhambra. He nodded off briefly, but then awoke with a start. The phone was ringing. He hobbled as quickly as he could to the phone.
‘Max. It’s Anita. They’ve found Hassan Khan. He’s dead, took a heavy dose of his medication and slit his wrists with a knife from Zaida’s kitchen.’
‘Oh Jesus. When and where?’
‘Found by walkers on the the path from Pampa to Diva lying under a mulberry tree. Just an hour or so ago.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘León said he had a photo of Leila in his hand. On the back of the photo he had written HKMA.’
‘What the hell does that mean?’
‘No idea. Looks like a suicide, Max. Gonzo’s in his element . . . proves Hassan killed Leila. He’s sent a report to Judge Falcón wanting him to agree that the weight of the evidence against Hassan is sufficiently strong to overcome any presumption of innocence. Oh, Max,’ and Anita started crying. ‘I’ll try and get over tomorrow. Have to go now. We’re all still working at the station. González needs me to read over a press statement he’s prepared to check the spelling and grammar. He’s triumphant. Max, are you there?’
‘Yes. I’m here, Anita. Trying to take it all in. Sorry . . . I’m still shocked. Well, at least he wasn’t a terrorist. It would be great if you could make it over tomorrow. I need to talk to González again.’
‘I’ll try and come tomorrow, Max. And take you back to Diva.’
‘Thanks. I’m missing you.’ It came out without him thinking.
‘I’m missing you too, Max. See you tomorrow.’
Max sat down. Hassan Khan, suicide? Could he really have killed Leila? Why the photo? It didn’t look good.
I should phone Ahmed, he thought. Before he could do so his phone rang. It was Davila.
‘Good news, Max. I mean . . . umm . . . sad news. González phoned. Hassan Khan has been found dead, suicide apparently, photo of Leila Mahfouz in his hand too. What a turn-up for the book. There’ll be a full investigation of course. But González reckons this confirms he killed the girl. Remorse and guilt. Good work, Max, showing he could have slipped out of the café for a couple of hours. I tend to agree. Be good news for the force. Keep that bastard from Murcia off our backs.’
‘Yes, sir. I heard.’
‘You have, have you? Well, what do you think?’
‘I wouldn’t want to jump to conclusions, sir. Hassan Khan had suffered a terrible trauma in our prison, remember, and he’s been mentally unbalanced since.’
‘Yes. But you wouldn’t commit suicide over that. Remorse and guilt seems more likely.’
‘Maybe sir, but there could be other reasons for his suicide, assuming it is suicide.’
‘Hmm. You’re an odd fish, Max. Everyone I’ve talked to is convinced he killed himself out of guilt for killing Leila. And you’re going out on a limb again.’
‘I’m just trying to keep an open mind, sir.’
‘We’re doing that as well.’
‘I’m sure you are, sir. But also what about Javeed Dharwish?’
‘Javeed Dharwish? What about him? As far as I know he’s back in London.’
‘No, not that, sir. He was in that café with Hassan. They are alibis for each other. He . . . or both of them . . . could just as easily have slipped out and killed Leila.’
‘Yes, but Dharwish hasn’t killed himself with a photo of Leila in his hand. A highly symbolic photo as well – looks like blood on her hands.’
‘I can’t really comment, sir. I haven’t seen the photo. But shouldn’t we check up on Javeed Dharwish first?’
‘Maybe you’re right. We should at least question him. But we need a quick result. When are you back in the office?’
‘Cabo Guevarra is giving me a run over to Diva tomorrow. I need to speak to Teniente González. I’m still a bit wobbly, so I thought I’d be back in the office for the start of next week.’
‘Well, don’t malinger too long.’
Max phoned Ahmed. There was no reply. He then phoned Anita.
There was no reply. The phone rang: it was Ahmed. He and Zaida had been to identify the body. It was definitely Hassan.
‘He slit his wrists, Max. The police say the only fingerprints on the knife are his, no sign of any struggle nor any other footprints around. Tragic.’
‘Will you bury him?’
‘Of course. He was sick, killed himself while of unsound mind. Allah the Compassionate would want him buried with a proper funeral. I won’t be able to do that today – the police have more forensics to do. So it will have to be tomorrow evening.’
Max wanted to ask whether he, Ahmed, thought Hassan had killed Leila, but this was not an appropriate moment.
‘I’ll try and be there for tomorrow.’
‘That’s kind of you. I heard you’ve had an accident. How are you?’
‘Slipped. Much better now.’
Max put the phone down slowly
. Okay. Suicide. But does that make Hassan guilty? Not a violent type. And he seemed really fond of Leila, so where’s the motive? Gonzo reckons he was unstable all along. So anything could have tipped him – a quarrel? A break-up?
The phone rang. It was Anita. ‘Max, I’ll be over tomorrow morning, about ten. Really busy just now, so I’ll fill you in then. Chao.’
Max went and got on with his list of outstanding tasks. He’d have to move fast. The pressure was on to declare Hassan guilty: case closed. He must get in touch with that British family and with Leila’s friend, and he had to talk to Juan. Max found the piece of paper with the phone number Anita had obtained from the bank. He dialled it: no reply. He had no phone number for Shona Monroe, Leila’s friend, but he did have an email address. She might be back from her trek in Nepal. He sent off a brief request to get in touch with him as soon as possible. Best not frighten her. So he added that it was something to do with her friend, Leila Mahfouz, and asked her for her phone number: could be a shock to receive an email saying your best friend has been murdered.
Juan? Max looked at his watch. It was time for lunch. He could go to El Duende, and see if he could find out some more about that lunch Juan had with Leila. The last time he’d been there was with dad: the divorce had just gone through, and dad was moving to Barcelona. It was a sad occasion. He’d promised to keep in touch, but the phone calls had got fewer and fewer, especially on Max’s part.
It would be nice to see the old git again. And Barcelona was always worth a visit.
Max hobbled into the restaurant and chose a quiet corner table. It hadn’t changed much: filled with bull-fighting mementoes – photos of bullfighters, stuffed heads of bulls, bull horns, a picador’s round hat, a pike pole, banderillas, the swords, and an ancient red cloak. Max smiled: grandpa and the old owner had been friends, both passionate about bullfighting. Grandpa used to bring him and Juan here as children after the bullfight in Granada. Max had never enjoyed la corrida – all the elaborate rituals, and then the uneven contest between the mortally wounded bull and the matador. But Juan loved it. Max got up from his table and went to look for his favourite photo, that of Manolete, el Triste, a bullfighter with a long thin face and large sad eyes, famous for replying, when asked why he never smiled, that bullfighting was too serious a business to smile. Manolete was gored to death.