by P J Brooke
Max was staring at the photo when the owner, a small, shrivelled man, came over.
‘Max, a long time. How are you? And Don Bernardo, your father? And Señor Juan?’
‘All fine, Pepito, all fine. Yes a long time, at least a year.’
‘I miss Señor Bernardo coming in. But Juan still comes by.’
‘How’s la corrida? Still going?’
‘Sí. But it’s not the same any more. There’s women in the ring. I ask you. But what happened to you? Look like you’ve been in the wars.’
‘Nothing much. Just slipped, that’s all.’
Pepito looked at the faded photo, and sighed. ‘Manolete, el Triste. One of the best. Spain doesn’t produce the likes of him anymore. It’s just entertainment now. But Manolete understood. It’s something profound, something spiritual. Man and one of the great forces of nature.’
‘So you’ve seen quite a bit of Juan here then?’
‘Oh, now and again.’
‘Was he here some weeks ago with a pretty dark-haired girl?’
‘Let me see now . . . I would have been on holiday then. But Gregorio would have been here. Why don’t you order, and I’ll call him over. I hope Don Juan isn’t . . . in any difficulty?’
‘No, Pepito, I’m just trying to do my cousin a favour.’
‘Of course, you can rely on our discretion. Your grandfather was a true gentleman.’
Max ordered a rabo de toro a la Sevillana, one of the specialities of the house. During the season it was made with the bull tails from the corrida in Granada. Gregorio came over. Yes, he did know Juan.
‘Can you remember the last time he was here?’ Max asked.
‘Yes, it was about three weeks ago,’ Gregorio replied. ‘Don Juan was with a very pretty dark-haired girl – dark, flashing eyes. You wouldn’t forget her in a hurry.’
‘Did you notice anything else?’
‘Not really . . . yes . . . somebody came up to them, an old friend I think, because I remember him kissing the girl on both cheeks.’
That would have been Ricardo, thought Max.
‘Had Don Juan and the girl been here before?’
‘Not that I remember. Now wait a minute . . . such a pretty girl . . . there was – how can I put it – a bit of gossip in the kitchen. Patricio said he had seen them at La Moraima.’
‘Could I speak to Patricio?’
‘He’s here now. I’ll get him.’
Gregorio returned a few minutes later with Patricio in tow. Yes, Patricio remembered the girl, a real beauty.
‘You’d seen them together before, I believe?’ asked Max.
‘Yes. I do the odd shift at La Moraima. I’d seen them eating there the week before.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. She’s not the sort of girl you forget.’
Max finished his meal, lost in thought. He ordered a brandy with his coffee, and then another. Juan had been less than honest. What is it the politicians now say . . . economical with the truth. It was an awkward situation. The police hoped to get the case closed: Hassan guilty of Leila’s murder, probably while mind disturbed. Max would be less than popular if he threw a spanner in the works. Was Juan involved? How? It couldn’t have been deliberate murder, no. But what if Juan had tried to cover up a fatal accident? There was probably a simple explanation.
Max got a taxi back to his flat. It would be wise to leave his talk with Juan until after Hassan’s funeral. There might be more information – something pointing towards Hassan. Max checked his email: there was a reply from Shona Monroe, just back from Nepal. She had left a telephone number. This was going to be difficult.
Max dialled and waited; a Scottish voice answered the phone, perhaps a slight west coast accent. Max explained as gently as he could: there was a gasp of horror, then tears at the end of the line. It took a good five minutes for Max to get round to the question he needed to ask.
‘Do you know anything about this man Leila had fallen in love with?’
‘No. Nothing, except he was very good-looking. Leila never fell for any man unless he was gorgeous. And yes, he was married. I warned her . . . Oh . . . oh . . . sorry.’
‘Just take your time.’
‘Thanks . . . can I ring you back . . . I have to . . .’
Five minutes later the phone rang again. ‘Sub-Inspector Romero?’
‘Yes, it’s me . . . can you remember anything else? Just take your time.’
‘We spoke very briefly on the phone before I set off. All I got was that she was really keen.’
‘Was he British, do you think?’
‘British? I just assumed he was Spanish – Leila had a thing about dark eyes. No, we talked as if he was Spanish.’
‘Did she say he was part of the Muslim community here?’
‘No.’
‘So Spanish?’
‘I couldn’t swear to it – it just seemed obvious he was, and nothing Leila said contradicted that.’
‘Anything else you remember that might be useful?’
‘No, nothing,’ and Shona started crying again. ‘Oh. Leila. Oh Leila. She was something special, you know.’
‘I know,’ Max replied.
Max then called the British family again. Still no reply. He tried again some hours later, but still no luck. He’d better rest: it would be a tiring day tomorrow. He slept fitfully. He dreamt of Juan dragging him back down to Capa in the snow, of Juan laughing when he fell out of the tree, of Juan the star centre forward in the school team, of the endless arguments with neither side willing to give ground, and then of Juan with el abuelo – fishing, walking, going to watch la corrida. What now?
Chapter 22
Decid a mis amigos
Que he muerto.
Tell my friends
That I’m dead.
Frederico García Lorca, Desde aquí (From Out Here)
Anita arrived promptly at 10.00. Max was tense after a bad night.
‘Max, how are you? You look really tired. Are you sure you should go?’
‘Yes, I must. I told Ahmed I would go to the funeral.’
‘Really?’
‘I’m just going as a friend of Ahmed’s . . . I didn’t ask permission.’
Anita helped him down to her car. His ribs were aching, and he had a headache. Anita looked at him. ‘I’ll drive slowly, and we can stop for coffee.’
Max said nothing until they were out of Granada and on the motorway to Diva.
‘So what’s new?’
‘Nothing really, sir . . . Max. It’s suicide.’
‘Any doubts?’
‘No. He took a near fatal dose of painkillers, then slit his wrists with a knife he took from Zaida’s kitchen. There’s no evidence of foul play.’
‘So how are Gonzo and the gang?’
‘Over the moon. Everyone’s phoning in to congratulate us.’
‘So what happens next?’
‘Well, the evidence for Hassan either deliberately killing Leila or covering up a fatal accident is only circumstantial. No confession, no eyewitness, no forensics. But with no one else in the frame, it looks like the case will be closed once Judge Falcón has made his report and submitted it to the Juez del Juicio, and the magistrates have agreed. And you, sir, anything new?’
Max carefully detailed his findings.
‘That’s really awkward. But maybe there’s nothing there. But Juan’s not come completely clean. If he was having an affair, then he probably wouldn’t want to admit it.’
‘I know. But what do I . . . we . . . do now?’
‘I suggest nothing, sir. We continue investigating until taken off the case. I can understand your concern. He’s your best friend and cousin.’
‘But they could have quarrelled, and then there could have been an accident.’
‘There’s no evidence for that. And the affair, if there was one, was probably over – Leila was going out with Hassan, remember.’
‘That’s true.’
‘We’ll stop
here, you don’t look great.’
They stopped at a roadside restaurant, went in and ordered two coffees. Max sat quietly, brooding over his coffee. Anita glanced at him, and then fell silent, respecting his need to think. She finally interrupted. ‘I think it’s best we wait, Max. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.’
‘Thanks, Anita, I’ve come to that conclusion. I think I’m becoming a cop after all – the honourable cop in me says I should confront Juan immediately; but the realist cop in me says he’s family, a good friend, probably nothing . . . so wait and see. We’ll hold back on Juan. Let’s go.’
They got back in the car, and drove to Diva. The pain had eased, and Max felt sufficiently calm to change the subject away from work.
‘How’s your sister getting on?’ he asked.
Anita laughed, ‘She falls in and out of love every day. I spend half my time hearing all about her broken heart, hugging her while she sobs, and then next time I phone she’s over the moon, just met Mr Right, and heaven is round the corner.’
Max laughed too. ‘Youth. You take it all so seriously.’
‘And you, sir. You’ve never been married?’
‘Me, married? Good heavens, no.’
‘Have you noticed how cops seem to marry other cops?’
‘Need someone to understand them, I suppose.’
They entered Diva, and drove straight to the police station. It was buzzing. González was in an expansive mood, his head shining with importance.
‘Max, how are you? Fell off a mountain or something, I believe.’
‘Something like that.’
‘You’ve been most helpful. The information that Hassan had plenty of time to slip out of the café is invaluable. The jigsaw’s all fitting into place.’
‘Maybe. Any news on Javeed Dharwish and the others?’
‘Oh, yes. Davila said you had suggested we should ask the British to question Javeed Dharwish.’
‘Any progress?’
‘No. Davila just rang. The local cops are on the case, but I don’t see what good that’s going to do.’
‘Well, he is Hassan’s alibi for the time of Leila’s death.’
‘Yes. But he’s not going to tell us the truth, is he?’
Max needed another coffee. ‘If you’ll excuse me now, sir. I—’
‘Of course. You’ve done well, Sub-Inspector. Got a result.’
Max bought a newspaper from a kiosk, and went to El Paraíso. Got a result, my arse, he thought. What about truth? The paper was full of the coming election. All the opinion polls showed it was too close to call. Any incident could tip the result either way. ‘Surely the voters weren’t dumb enough to let the PP back in?
Max took his mobile out of his pocket and phoned Ahmed.
‘Yes. I’m here in Diva. If you have time I’d like to come round for a talk . . . Now would be convenient. Perfect. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’
Max phoned a taxi and waited, looking up at the twin-towered church that had so nearly been burnt down during the Civil War.
It took less than ten minutes to get to Ahmed’s house. Max remembered the last time he was here – the death knock for Leila. And now another tragedy. Ahmed opened the door: he had aged.
‘Max, come in. I heard you had an accident. How are you? Mint tea?’
‘I’m fine now. Mint tea would be nice.’
Max was ushered into the study. Nothing had changed: the same photos on the wall, the same book on the little table. Everything needed a good dusting. Ahmed returned with the two mint teas.
‘How are you keeping, Ahmed?’
‘People have been very kind. Your abuela, Doña Paula, sent me a letter. She was very fond of Leila.’
‘Yes.’
‘And I’ve been busy with the campaign. It helps to keep my mind occupied.’
‘That’s good.’
‘So . . . Max . . . how can I help you?’
‘If it’s okay with you, I would like to go to Hassan Khan’s funeral.’
‘I’d welcome that. It’s this evening at eight. There won’t be many there. Some think I shouldn’t be giving a full funeral at all.’
‘Thanks. The other thing is . . . the police are convinced Hassan killed Leila. If you feel up to it, I’d really like to talk to you about that.’
‘Yes. You know I’ll do anything I can to help.’
‘Thanks. So do you think Hassan could have been responsible for Leila death?’
Ahmed rubbed the back of his hand across his eyes. ‘It’s all too convenient. But it doesn’t feel right. I just don’t see why he would have killed Leila.’
‘They had a quarrel?’
‘Yes. But that’s not a motive.’
‘I agree. He doesn’t seem capable of murder, but then who knows. Can you think of anything he said which might shed some light?’
‘Not really. He stayed with Zaida. We used to talk about him. He was very withdrawn, hardly said a word. He was on medication, and that left him lethargic and low. But now and again he would say some strange things.’ Ahmed frowned. ‘It’s best you ask Zaida about that. Djins, revenge, messages from Allah, violent images . . . strange things. And then he would talk to himself, “Whisper it to the wall, Hassan. Whisper it.” Followed by “Hassan Khan MA.” He was ill, you know.’
‘But nothing about Leila?’
‘Nothing.’
‘Any idea why he had that photo of Leila when he killed himself?’
‘No. None. Except that he was very fond of Leila.’
‘I know it’s dangerous to read anything into the things someone in a delusional state says, but they usually come from somewhere.’
‘Yes. But it can be from anywhere – an article in a magazine, a gesture, a childhood memory. And after what happened to him, I’m not surprised. Delusions can give you a feeling of power. So yes, there were threats . . . but don’t read anything into them.’
‘What sort of threats?’
‘Oh, the enemies of Muhammad, Peace and Blessings be upon Him, will suffer for what they have done . . . that sort of thing.’
‘What would you like me to do, Ahmed?’
‘Do? In what sense?’
‘Over Leila’s death. The consensus seems to be that Hassan will be found responsible in some way for Leila’s death . . . possibly just concealing a fatal accident. But then the case would be closed, and there would be no further investigation unless some new evidence came to light.’
‘I see what you mean.’ Ahmed paused. ‘I would like to know the truth. Nothing can bring Leila back. I’m not looking for revenge. I can forgive. Allah the Compassionate has taught me that. But yes, I would like to know the truth.’
Max stood up and embraced Ahmed.
‘I’ll do what I can. I’d better go now. Have to phone for a taxi.’
‘I’m going into town. Let me give you a lift.’
‘That is kind.’
They drove slowly into town.
‘I have to go to the bank and get some bread . . . can you drop me at the lights?’ said Max.
Ahmed stopped at the traffic lights, and as Max was getting out, he said, ‘There’s one other thing I remember Zaida said. Hassan kept repeating something like, “The Americans, the greatest djins of all, must be hurt.” Means nothing, I’m sure.’
Max felt exhausted. He probably shouldn’t have come. The funeral wasn’t until this evening, and there was not much he could do. He should go and rest in his little cortijo, and close his eyes to all the weeding that needed doing. He went to the bank, bought some bread, and walked round to the taxi rank, by the church. It was a bumpy ride down the valley. It was looking parched and grey. All the wild flowers had gone; the rubbish strewn along the dry riverbank was now very obvious. Max got out at his padlocked gates, and turned awkwardly back to the taxi driver.
‘Can you help me with these, please?’
‘Sure, Max. Heard you’d had an accident.’
The alberca was filthy, a quarter full
with slimy green water. He’d have to get it cleaned out and filled with fresh water. The trees and plants needed watering. The oranges had long gone, apart from the few left rotting on the bare earth. He walked down the terraces to el cortijo. The little flower garden had been taken over by weeds already, some at least a metre high. He’d have to pay someone to look after the land. Another expense.
He pushed aside the blue, wooden beaded fly curtain, unlocked the door, and entered. He hadn’t been back for weeks, and it showed: fine country dust had got over everything. He’d have to ring round and get a cleaning lady. It was stuffy inside: he opened all the windows to let in some fresh air. But it was one of those still, hot days, more likely to let in flies than fresh air. But at least there was the view of Sierra Contraviesa from his kitchen window. Fortunately there was some cold water in the fridge: he needed something to drink and then a nap before the funeral. Insects buzzed around the bedroom, but he slept.
The alarm woke him at seven prompt. He took a shower, ironed his clean white shirt, called a taxi, and walked up to the top terrace. The heavy green metal gates were too stiff for him to shut, so he closed them as best he could. Thefts were still fairly rare in this part of rural Spain, so he should be okay. The taxi tooted.
He walked along the dirt track to where the taxi was waiting, and then another bumpy ride to the mosque. He was early, and if he went inside there might be an angry confrontation. Max hung around outside the mosque, trying to look inconspicuous. A few men arrived, glanced at him curiously, and then entered. They were followed by a group of women who also looked at him with curiosity. Nobody said a word to him. When it was nearly eight Max slipped in quietly.
It was a short, simple ceremony. Nobody knew Hassan well. Everybody thought he probably had committed suicide, so the service was subdued. Four men stepped forward and lifted the coffin on to their shoulders. Max thought of the bride’s lament in Blood Wedding,
Ay-y-y four gallant boys
carry death on high.
Max followed the coffin up the hill, past the ancient round church – the site of so many faiths, going back to pre-Phoenician times. Ahmed said a prayer as the body in its white shroud entered the earth. Hassan was buried close to Leila’s plain headstone. At the end of prayers Ahmed turned to Leila’s grave, and said in a low voice, ‘Let him rest in peace near the grave of my daughter.’