The Butcher Beyond

by Sally Spencer

  López nodded. ‘Oh yes, Your Excellency. I think we understand each other very well indeed.’

  Jessica Medwin had intended to shop with Miriam Thoroughgood that afternoon, but the other woman’s comments at lunch had left a bad taste in her mouth, and so she told her ‘so-called’ best friend that she had a headache, and would go straight home. She hadn’t. The shopping expedition had gone ahead, but without the poisonous Miriam by her side, and by the end of the afternoon – having been extremely frivolous and spent much more than she’d intended to – Jessica was feeling much better.

  She arrived home at five to six. She called down the hallway to the maid that she would just love a gin and tonic, then went through to the lounge and switched the television on.

  The Six O’Clock News was just starting. There was trouble over the question of civil rights for negroes in the southern states of the USA again. The Beatles had travelled up to Liverpool, their home town, for the premiere of their film A Hard Day’s Night. The Prime Minister, addressing a businessmen’s lunch in Manchester, had promised that the country could look forward to the future with a new and glowing confidence.

  There was a knock on the door, and the maid entered the lounge. She placed the tray she was carrying on the small table next to Jessica’s chair, then said, ‘Will there be anythin’ else, ma’am?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Jessica said. ‘In fact, I won’t be needing you again until supper time, so why don’t you put your feet up for a couple of hours?’

  The maid gave a small bob. ‘Thank you, ma’am.’

  When she’d left the room, Jessica picked up her drink. The glass felt deliciously cold against the palm of her hand, and she was already anticipating the soothing effect of the gin.

  So bugger Miriam Thoroughgood!

  The bulletin had moved on to coverage of the day’s cricket at Lords. England had had an outstanding innings, and as Jessica watched the fielders chasing the ball she thought that it was a pity Peter would probably have missed it.

  The newsreader’s face filled the screen again.

  ‘Spanish police are investigating the death of a man presumed to be English,’ he said, in a suitably solemn tone.

  How could anybody be presumed to be English? Jessica wondered idly. Either you were or you weren’t.

  ‘The man fell to his death from the balcony of his hotel room in a Costa Blanca resort,’ the newsreader continued. ‘The local authorities suspect that foul play was involved.’

  A picture of the dead man was flashed up on the screen. He had a bald head, and an unnaturally pained expression in his lifeless eyes.

  ‘Anyone recognizing the man is asked to contact Scotland Yard,’ the voice-over continued. ‘The number to ring is Whitehall One Two, One Two.’

  Jessica didn’t hear this last part. Her ears were filled, instead, with the sound of a scream.

  It took her several seconds to realize that she was the one who was screaming.

  Nine

  The meal together was turning out to be a great success, Woodend thought. The location helped – a cosy restaurant with a sea view. And it certainly did no harm – from the point of view of service – to be dining with a man whom both the owner and the waiters treated like a visiting film star. But it was the company, more than anything, which was making the evening so enjoyable.

  He’d already known he got on well with Paco, but he’d had slight misgivings about meeting Ruiz’s wife. She could have been loud. She could have been opinionated. She could have been a drunk! The whole evening, in other words, could have become extremely uncomfortable.

  He realized he had nothing to worry about the moment he met Cindy Ruiz. She was no more than a few years younger than her husband, yet though she had made little attempt to disguise the lines that age had brought, she somehow managed to maintain the air of the fresh-faced research student she had been when Ruiz first met her. Her features had character written all over them. She was attentive when listening, witty and interesting when talking. And – best of all – Joan was getting on with her like a house on fire and had not looked so relaxed for months.

  Talk had drifted – perhaps almost inevitably – on to the subject of the Civil War and its aftermath.

  ‘So they actually arrested Paco for no other reason than that he’d been on the losing side?’ Joan asked incredulously.

  ‘That’s right,’ Cindy agreed.

  ‘You must have had a terrible time while he was in prison.’

  ‘It wasn’t easy,’ Cindy admitted, ‘but it was even worse when they let him out.’

  It was just the sort of dig at her husband that a Whitebridge woman might have made – ‘At least when the bugger was banged up, he wasn’t gettin’ under my feet around the house all the time’ – and Joan laughed as she would have done back home. Then, with growing horror, she sensed that Cindy had not been trying to be funny at all.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ she said.

  Cindy smiled, understandingly. ‘It’s my fault. I wasn’t expressing myself clearly. When I said they let him out of prison, I didn’t mean you to get the impression that it was so he could come home to me.’

  ‘It wasn’t?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Cindy glanced across the table at Paco. ‘You don’t mind if I talk about it, do you?’

  Ruiz shrugged. ‘Why should I mind? It was a long time ago.’

  But he wasn’t being entirely honest there, Woodend thought. It might have been a long time in years, but from the shudder which he had only partly managed to disguise with his shrug, it was clear that it was as fresh in his mind as if it had all happened only yesterday.

  ‘General Franco had the idea of building a monument to the fallen of the Civil War, you see,’ Cindy told Joan. ‘The site he selected for it was a granite mountain forty miles from Madrid.’

  ‘What a strange place to choose,’ Joan mused.

  ‘Strange?’

  ‘Such a long way away from everythin’. Most of our war memorials are in the local churchyards, where people can get to see them easily.’

  Cindy laughed. ‘You mustn’t think of the Valley of the Fallen as the kind of memorial you might see in England or America,’ she said. ‘The basilica, where Franco will eventually be buried, is nearly three hundred yards long and has a seventy-yard-high dome – all of it blasted out of solid rock.’

  ‘Good heavens!’ Joan exclaimed.

  ‘But even that seems modest in comparison to the cross which stands outside the entrance,’ Cindy continued.

  ‘That must really be big, then,’ Joan said.

  ‘Huge! Its a hundred and seventy-five yards high, and its arms are so wide that two double-decker buses could pass each other on them.’

  ‘If anyone could work out how to get the buses up there, in the first place,’ Paco said, in what Woodend thought was an attempt to lighten the mood.

  But Cindy was not to be deflected. ‘Can you imagine how expensive it was to build?’ she asked. ‘How many resources were poured into it? And remember, this was at a time when the Spanish people were so poor, as a result of the war, that they were almost starving.’

  Paco Ruiz smiled. ‘Stop being so outraged and get on with the story, Cindy,’ he said.

  ‘Obviously, such a gargantuan project would require huge amounts of labour,’ Cindy Ruiz continued. ‘But fortunately for Franco and his cronies, such labour was readily available. And not just cheap, but free.’

  ‘Free?’

  ‘That’s right. The gaols were crammed to bursting point with political prisoners. Why not make them earn their keep, somebody suggested. In other words, Joan, why not use those prisoners as slave labour? And my Paco was one of those slaves!’

  ‘How terrible!’ Joan said.

  ‘Oh, I was one of the lucky ones,’ Paco Ruiz said in a self-denigratory tone. ‘I worked in the valley for less than a year.’

  ‘That was only because one of those huge blocks of granite they were building the cross with slipped �
� and crushed your leg!’ Cindy said, her outrage returning.

  ‘I was still lucky,’ Paco said. ‘I escaped with no more than a limp, which some days hardly bothers me at all. We will never know how many of my comrades actually died during the construction of that monstrosity.’

  ‘How can you still live here, after all that’s happened to you?’ Joan wondered.

  ‘I love my country,’ Paco Ruiz said sincerely. ‘I would feel more of a prisoner outside it than I would in any gaol. Besides, Franco is not Spain, and Spain – however much the Caudillo tries – will never be rebuilt in the image that he desires. However hard he can make our lives at the moment – however much we have to struggle against him – one day he will be gone. And I predict that ten years after his death, it will be as if he had never existed.’ He paused, and looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Enough talking about politics and past history. Let’s order some more wine, and then I can offend your delicate English sensibilities by proving to you that a bullfighter is every bit as much of an artist as a ballet dancer.’

  ‘Is he indeed?’ Woodend asked innocently. ‘An’ how many handbags does a bullfighter normally own?’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ Paco Ruiz said.

  ‘Well, up North, where I come from, most men think all ballet dancers are nancy boys,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Charlie!’ Joan said sharply.

  ‘Not that I subscribe to that particular view in any way myself,’ Woodend added, with mock haste.

  ‘He doesn’t,’ Joan said hotly. ‘He really doesn’t. He may come across as bein’ about as tactful as a sledgehammer, but he’s the most tolerant an’ understandin’ man I know.’ Then she saw that the Ruizes were laughing – that they hadn’t taken her Charlie’s statement seriously in the first place – and she continued, ‘Yes, he’s very tolerant an’ understandin’. In fact, now I think about it, it’s his only redeemin’ feature.’

  The laughter continued, the talk flowed as easily as the wine, and they would probably still have been there at the table when the restaurant finally closed its doors for the night, had it not been for the arrival of the woman.

  She was middle-aged and slightly harassed-looking. Woodend recognized her immediately as the Consul’s secretary, and noted that she seemed very relieved to have found him.

  ‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Mr Woodend,’ she said, confirming his initial impression. ‘Mr Featherington Gore says that it’s very important he talk to you.’

  ‘When? In the mornin’?’

  ‘Now! Immediately! He was most insistent.’

  ‘Did he say what it was about?’

  ‘No. I’m only a secretary. Mr Featherington Gore hardly notices I exist until he wants something done. And he certainly never tells me anything important. But I’m not as stupid as he seems to think I am, and I imagine that what he wants to see you about is the murder that happened yesterday.’

  Woodend glanced quickly around the table. Cindy had an expression of interest on her face, Joan one of resignation. Paco Ruiz merely looked envious.

  ‘It can’t be a legal certainty until the next of kin has seen it, but we think we’ve identified the body,’ Featherington Gore said.

  We’ve identified the body, Woodend noted.

  People like Featherington Gore always used ‘we’ve’ when something had been achieved. It was only when things went wrong that they slipped into ‘you’ve’ or ‘they’ve’.

  ‘So you’ve identified him,’ Woodend said. ‘I still don’t see why that’s any reason I should have been dragged away from a perfectly delightful dinner with my friends.’

  Featherington Gore frowned. ‘My secretary said that the people you were dining with were Spanish.’

  ‘They were. Well, one of ’em, at least.’

  ‘Are they on the Embassy list?’

  ‘An’ what’s that, when it’s at home?’

  The Consul sighed at his ignorance. ‘It’s a list of the people who are deemed to be acceptable to invite to Embassy functions – the Queen’s Birthday and similar events.’

  ‘In that case, I’d be rather more than surprised if they were on it,’ Woodend said.

  Featherington Gore’s frown deepened. ‘If I were you, I’d be very careful about the company you keep while you’re in Spain.’

  ‘I’m doin’ my best – but it’s not always easy.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Well, you’re my consul, aren’t you, so whatever my personal feelin’s on the matter, I felt pretty much obliged to come an’ see you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m not following you,’ Featherington Gore said.

  No, you wouldn’t, Woodend thought.

  ‘You said you wanted to talk about the dead man,’ he reminded Featherington Gore.

  ‘Ah yes. His name is Peter Medwin. He’s the Northern Region Manager of the National Coal Board.’

  Woodend whistled softly. ‘Quite an important feller, in his own way, then,’ he said.

  ‘Very important. He was what you might call a captain of industry. And from what I’ve been hearing, he seems to have had some influence within government circles.’

  ‘Aye,’ Woodend agreed. ‘As a boss in one of the biggest employers in the country, he probably would have had.’

  ‘Which, of course, puts an entirely different complexion on the matter of his death.’

  ‘You’re sayin’ that now you know who he was – an’ how much pull he had with the government – it’s finally become worth findin’ out who killed him?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Since he was a British citizen, it was always important to find out who killed him,’ Featherington Gore responded, but without much conviction. ‘However, now his identity is known, it has become necessary for Her Majesty’s Government to become involved in an official capacity.’

  ‘Official capacity,’ Woodend repeated. ‘Hang on, just exactly where is all this leadin’?’

  ‘As I understand it, the Foreign Office has been in contact with both the Spanish Ministry of Justice and with your chief constable in … in …’

  ‘In Lancashire,’ Woodend supplied, since it was plain from his floundering that Featherington Gore lived in blissful ignorance of any geography which existed north of London.

  ‘Exactly! In Lancashire,’ the Consul agreed. ‘And as a result of these consultations, it has been decided that the investigation into Mr Medwin’s death will be a joint operation.’

  ‘What!’ Woodend exploded.

  ‘Captain López will, of course, be in command of the Spanish side of things. And while I will admit that you would not be my first choice for the job, you are, apparently, the only high-ranking British officer within a thousand miles of Benicelda, and so are to represent British interests.’

  ‘You seriously expect me to work with that snake López?’ Woodend asked, astounded.

  ‘That is correct.’

  ‘There are people I’d trust with the family silver, but he’s not one of them,’ Woodend said. ‘Bloody hell, now I come to consider the matter, I’d think twice before I handed my plastic picnic set over to his care.’

  ‘The matter is not open to debate,’ Featherington Gore said coldly.

  ‘Is it not?’

  ‘No. It has been decided at the highest levels of both our governments that you will work with Captain López on the investigation – and work with Captain López you will.’

  ‘An’ when’s this ill-matched joint effort of ours supposed to kick off?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Given the serious nature of the inquiry, it will, of course, commence immediately.’

  ‘Right, I’d better get up to the Guardia Civil barracks as soon as possible,’ Woodend said. ‘You couldn’t lend me your push-bike, could you?’

  ‘This is no time for frivolity,’ Featherington Gore said haughtily. He waited for Woodend’s apology, and when it became apparent that none would be forthcoming he continued, ‘A Guardia Civil vehicle and driver have been placed at your dispo
sal. They are waiting for you at the back door.’

  ‘The back door,’ Woodend repeated thoughtfully. ‘Well, it’s certainly nice to know just how important I’ve suddenly become.’

  Ten

  Captain López strode agitatedly up and down his office, occasionally stopping to take a generous – though necessary – swig from the excessively large glass of brandy which sat on his desk.

  ‘It’s all gone wrong,’ he told himself in a voice which was not quite a moan. ‘It’s all turned to shit.’

  It hadn’t looked that way earlier in the day. After his discussion with the Alcalde – after the warning he had been given by the Alcalde – he had carefully mapped out a course of action which he thought would satisfy nearly everyone.

  His first step would have been to order his men to question possible witnesses to the crime – though he would have made it plain that they should not find too many of these witnesses, nor question them for too long. Having thus established at least the appearance of a normal investigation, he would have written up his first report for Madrid, a report which he’d already decided would be as imaginative as Don Quixote – and probably almost as long. It would have been followed by a second report, then a third and fourth, each one a little thinner and a little less optimistic. His final report – submitted around the time Durán became Provincial Governor – would have been as slim as a slice of jamón serrano, and the implicit assumption it contained would have been that there was now very little possibility of making an arrest.

  The Captain-General, he’d calculated, would have been displeased, but not overly so. The new Governor, on the other hand, would have been both delighted with the outcome, and no doubt very willing to reward the man who had caused it to come about.

  It had taken a single dispatch from Madrid to bring this carefully constructed plan tumbling down.

  ‘This is a delicate matter with international implications,’ the dispatch had said. ‘In order to resolve the problem, you must give Chief Inspector Woodend your fullest co-operation. It is vital that the British Foreign Office be satisfied that we are doing all we can to bring the perpetrator of the crime to justice. His Excellency, the Minister of the Interior, will be gravely displeased with any other outcome.’