by P J Brooke
‘What do we do, Max?’ asked Anita.
‘We check up a few things this afternoon I’ll go to the land registry to see if I can find anything on González’ land.’
‘I can walk to the Jola bridge so we get an accurate timing. I want to pick up a few things from my flat.’
‘That would be good. Remember to walk slowly. He was drunk at the time.’
‘No problem with that. In this heat there’s no choice.’
At five they left. Before Max opened the gates, he gave Anita a lingering kiss. Max got into his car. Anita grimaced, and began to walk.
‘I’ll phone you later,’ Max called as he waved goodbye. He drove straight to the town hall, managed to find a parking space in one of the side streets, and went down the stairs to the land registry. He requested to see el cadastro, the land ownership map, and then asked the filing clerk to bring him la escritura, the title deeds of González’ plot. He skimmed back through the various owners – Gonzo, Gonzo’s dad, Gonzo’s grandfather . . . Capitán Vicente González . . . and then to . . .? Yes. Manuel Paz. It had belonged to El Gato. He looked at the date of change of ownership: 1947. There was a small note in the margin: ‘Due to the lack of claimants by any of the deceased’s family, this land has been given to Capitán Vicente González in recognition of his services to the state.’ Max looked at the official stamp and signature – it was that of the grandfather of a rightwing notary family in the town.
That can’t be legal, he thought. I bet they didn’t put any notices in el BOE, the Official State Bulletin, or make any effort to contact El Gato’s next of kin.
He returned la escritura to the filing clerk, and left. Best not be seen by González – the police building was not far from the town hall. He got in his car, and drove out to el Camping, ordered a beer, and sat on the terrace. He needed time to think. He was on his second beer when his mobile rang.
‘Max, it’s Anita. I walked slowly. He definitely could have been on the bridge. Any luck your end?’
Max explained about the title deeds.
‘It’s beginning to look like him,’ said Anita.
‘Anita,’ said Max, ‘I think I have to go right to the top on this one. I’ll go straight to Bonila, and give him a report. I won’t mention you. I also think it’s best if we don’t see each other until it’s over.’
‘Oh,’ said Anita, ‘I was looking forward to seeing you tonight.’
‘Best not, love. I don’t trust González.’
‘Okay. If you think it best.’
‘I’ll give you a ring as soon as I’m in Granada. Big hug.’
‘Big hug to you, Max.’
Max looked at his watch. Best drive over to Granada now. The drive down to Granada was relatively traffic-free. He drove round to the Albayzín car park, left his car in his allotted space, and walked down to his flat. He made himself a quick tuna salad, phoned Anita, watched some TV and went to bed early. He slept badly. How would Bonila react? He really should go to his boss, Davila, first, but Davila would certainly hum and haw, say leave it with me and do nothing.
The next morning Max went to his office, and rang Bonila’s secretary to ask for an appointment. Surprisingly Bonila was free in half an hour.
‘Come in,’ Bonila called out when Max knocked on his door. ‘Max . . . good to see you. What can I do for you?’
Max explained, his voice faltering at times. Bonila sat upright in his chair, his face stony.
Max concluded, ‘I think the circumstantial evidence is very strong, sir. But I was unsure how I should continue.’
‘Continue?’ said Bonila. ‘Continue on what?’
‘On the case, sir.’
‘What case? I see no case. The case was archived, and closed satisfactorily.’
‘But this new evidence, sir?’
‘I see no evidence. I see a lot of unfounded suppositions, some wild speculation, and the impugning of a good officer’s reputation. It could cost you your job, you know. I think you’ve let a little bit of fame affect your judgement. I’m most disappointed in you, Max. I’ve had my doubts about your reliability, and this nonsense confirms my doubts. Moreover, you have gone behind the back of your commanding officer. You know the rules. You should have reported to him first. However, given your recent good record, I’ll pretend that this conversation never happened. Do you understand me?’
‘But, sir—’
‘Romero, any attempt to pursue this further will be treated with the utmost seriousness. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Max. He saluted, and left the office. He needed to phone Anita. When he spoke to her, he felt like crying, but managed to hold back any tears.
‘I feared this would happen,’ said Anita. ‘After all, it is the cops. There’s nothing in it for them.’
‘There is such a thing as justice,’ said Max.
‘Justice,’ laughed Anita sardonically. ‘That’s only for crime novels. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘When can I see you again, Max?’
‘Not just now, but soon. I’m missing you.’
‘Me too, Max. A big hug.’
‘Gracias, Anita. I need it.’
Max went back inside the police station, sat at his desk, and furiously began to fill in all the forms he had left lying on his desk. He went through the motions of being a policeman for the rest of the week. But all his actions were robotic, without feeling. He phoned Anita every evening, and sometimes they talked for over an hour. He thought of phoning Jorge, but decided it was time he grew up and solved this one for himself. He had to work Saturday, so he was unable to leave for Diva until Sunday morning. Before setting off, he phoned Ahmed. He hadn’t seen Ahmed since the terrorist attack. They arranged to meet early on Sunday evening.
Chapter 31
Podrán matar al gallo que anuncia el alba,
Pero no pueden impedir que cada día el alba surja de nuevo.
They could kill the cockerel that announces the dawn
But they cannot stop the sun from rising every day.
Inscription on a memorial to Manuel Gómez Poyato,
executed outside Granada on 5th September 1936
The Sunday family meal went well. Paula and Isabel were still getting on. And Juan was still being faithful to Isabel. Max doubted it would last – Juan had a roving eye. But Isabel had learnt to live with that. Jane was over for lunch again.
At the end of the meal, Max said, ‘I promised Ahmed I would call round and see him.’
‘That’s useful,’ said Paula. ‘We promised Jane’s mother we’d run her home. Leonardo . . . you help Isabel with the dishes. It’s time you helped out. Boys have got to learn to cope in kitchens.’
‘Can I come with you?’ said Encarnación.
‘I could do with a run in the car myself. Why don’t we all go? Encarnita and I can have an ice cream while you see Ahmed,’ said Paula.
‘Okay,’ said Max. ‘Bit harsh on Leonardo.’
‘We’ll bring him back some ice cream.’
Max dropped Jane off at her house, left Paula and Encarnita at la Heladería, before stopping at Ahmed’s.
They embraced cordially.
‘Max. Good to see you. I saw you and your cousin Juan on the television . . . Are you well?’
‘Yes, thank you . . . and I read your article about the shootings. It was very perceptive.’
‘It’s all to do with politics, isn’t it? Religion has become a part of the political struggle. Without a just political solution we’ll see a lot more deaths, and Israel and America will keep bombing even more innocent civilians. What’s the word they use – yes, collateral damage.’
‘I agree. I don’t see an end in sight.’
They talked about world events, the elections in Spain. Max told Ahmed about his last conversation with Javeed.
‘So we still don’t know who killed Leila then.’ Ahmed bowed his head, and let the tears trickle down hi
s cheeks. ‘Allah . . . I’ve thought about Juan, Max. I’d be grateful if you drew a veil over Juan’s relationship with Leila. It would only harm his family. It’s over now. However, I would like to see Juan when he has a few minutes.’
‘I’m sure he’d be pleased to talk to you.’
‘I would like a memorial dedicated to Leila. She loved history, but her great passion was to be a novelist. Perhaps you and I could think of some way we might be able to encourage young Muslim writers. We don’t have enough of them in the West.’
‘Perhaps Juan could help you set up a scholarship of some sort.’
‘I think Leila would have liked that.’
‘We’ll do something really good. Ahmed, you asked me to try and find the truth. I think I may have found it.’
Max then told Ahmed about all the evidence against González. Ahmed listened silently, his head bowed. When Max finished, Ahmed said, ‘And what are you going to do with all that evidence, Max?’
Max then explained about his report to Bonila, and Bonila’s response.
‘The problem is . . . I don’t think what I’ve got would stand up in a court of law. I’m not even sure an investigating judge would let it get that far.’
‘I see,’ said Ahmed. ‘That is a problem. But perhaps Allah’s justice is already working.’
‘Allah’s justice?’
‘Yes. It was in the paper on Friday. The autononous regional government, La Junta de Andalucia, is sending an official from Seville to investigate illegal building and illegal building permits in Diva, and has frozen all building permits until they get the situation under control.’
‘Gosh.’
‘Did you not say that Teniente González was expecting permission to sell his land with building consent? And was convinced he’d get it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then Allah, I’m sure, will find a way to stop that. Allah’s justice is wiser and more fitting than that of us mortals.’
Max paused, ‘Perhaps I can be of some little assistance to Allah. I have a friend in La Junta, in the planning department. We were at Glasgow together for a while when he was doing a Master’s in Planning. Let me give him a ring, and perhaps we may be able to come up with some justice.’
‘Allah’s ways are a mystery to man. But He always favours justice. So I am sure He will find a way.’
Max went outside and phoned his friend. After ten minutes he returned, a broad smile on his face.
‘Allah’s ways are indeed a mystery. But I’m sure justice will now be done. A surprise – it is my friend who is coming to Diva to sort out the scandals. We are meeting for lunch in Granada on Wednesday. My friend is a good man. He will take a particular interest in any planned rezoning of Teniente González’ land. Also, I will ask Paula to contact Beatrice, el Gato’s daughter. There is a good chance that she will be able to claim her father’s lands.’
‘That would be very fair,’ replied Ahmed. ‘Max, I was going up to visit the graves. It’s cooler now. I’d be honoured if you could accompany me.’
‘Certainly,’ said Max.
Together they climbed up to the back of town, past the little round church, the scene of so many religious conflicts, to the small plot of land with the two new graves, marked only by plain headstones.
‘I will go and pray,’ said Ahmed. He went to the graves, and bent his head in prayer.
Max breathed in deeply, and turned to watch the rays of the evening sun illuminate the stark beauty of the parched hillside, the silvery green olive trees contrasting with the golden brown earth. He turned back to the graves, and walked to stand beside Ahmed. Max didn’t feel it was right for him to pray. Together, he and Ahmed walked back down in silence. At the bottom Ahmed turned to Max. ‘Thank you, Max. I appreciate it. Ultimately, Max, La galib ily Alah, There is no victor but God. Inshallah.’
‘Inshallah, Ahmed.’
They embraced and parted. Max phoned Anita – she would come over this evening to el cortijo. Max fetched Paula and Encarnita from la Heladería.
As they drove home, Encarnita suddenly said, ‘Tito Max, do you remember that play we saw?’
‘Blood Wedding?’
‘Yes. Do you remember that lady singing over the baby?
“Sleep little rose,
The horse is weeping.”’
‘Yes?’
‘But horses don’t cry, do they?’
‘No,’ said Max. ‘It’s poetry, using words to express emotions.’
‘But if it’s not true, why say it?’
‘Ah. That’s because our lives are stories, and we act as if those stories are true. But the truth means different things to different people. So we never know which story is true. And some stories are better than others.’
‘But how do you know which one is better, Tito Max? Which one?’
‘The one which deep down inside you feel is right.’
THE END
Acknowledgements
We would like to thank our friends and relations who kindly agreed to act as a peer review group, and provided us with insights and advice, particularly Margaret Brooke, a wise and perceptive reader of detective fiction who read the first complete draft, and told us that we had pinned the murder on the wrong person. We did another draft. We spent happy hours discussing the plot with Chin and Lin Li, Chris Greensmith and Shonah McKechnie. Many thanks for all the suggestions. Very special thanks to Shonah, who had saved that crucial April 2007 draft when we managed to overwrite all our own copies of it. Jan Fairley, a former Director of the Edinburgh Book Festival, and Ewan Wilson of Waterstone’s bookshop in Glasgow confirmed our hope that our manuscript was of publishable quality.
Many thanks to Krystyna Green of Constable & Robinson, who picked out the book from a pile of unsolicited manuscripts, and to Jacqueline Anne Taylor of the Language Clinic, Granada, for her painstaking final checks of the manuscript, which have both added accurate local colour and spared our blushes by weeding out mistakes. Any remaining errors are, of course, our responsibility.
We would also like to thank Val McDermid and Frederic Lindsay for a fun and instructive Arvon Foundation course at Moniack Mhor; Elizabeth Reeder, a truly inspiring teacher, and the members of her Strathclyde University Creative Writing Groups who put up with some awful earlier versions; and also Louise Welsh, Zoë Strachan and the members of the Glasgow University Creative Writing Group for early inspiration, and convincing Phil he could actually write fiction.
We are grateful to members of the Policia Nacional in Granada and the Guardia Civil in Orgiva for their advice and information on the operations of the Spanish police, and to Paco Martinez, a future judge, for his advice on Spanish judicial procedures. Our fictional police here bear very little resemblance to the real forces, which would never have employed Max Romero in the first place.