‘Why should I?’ the Captain asked.
‘Because we need to talk.’
‘We can talk as much as you wish. My constable does not understand any English.’
‘Maybe not. But he’d probably learn more than you’d care to have him learn from the tone of our conversation.’
López ran the index finger of his right hand through his moustache. There were times when he looked just like a matinee idol.
‘Is that a threat you have just made?’ he rasped. ‘Because I am good at making threats, too. Probably much better than you are.’
Woodend sighed. ‘It’s no threat. We just need to be able to have a frank discussion.’
López thought about it for a moment, then signalled to the constable that he should leave the room. ‘Let us begin this “frank discussion” of yours, then,’ he suggested.
‘I’d appreciate it if you didn’t interrupt my interrogation the next time we have someone in for questioning,’ Woodend said, keeping his voice as level as he could.
‘Your interrogation?’ López responded. ‘This is my country and my police station.’
‘I understand that, but we’re supposed to be workin’ on this case together,’ Woodend said, using an amount of tact and diplomacy which would have left Rutter and Paniatowski open-mouthed with amazement. ‘I was gettin’ somewhere with my questionin’ of Mitchell. I know I was.’
‘I disagree,’ López replied.
‘An’ do you think you were gettin’ somewhere?’
‘Perhaps not. But I will.’
It was hopeless, Woodend thought. Totally bloody hopeless.
‘Have you contacted the FBI yet?’ he asked.
López shook his head. ‘No. I have not contacted them. Why should I have done that?’
‘Because there’s a distinct possibility they might be able to give us some information on Mitchell.’
‘Perhaps Mitchell is not his real name,’ López suggested. ‘Perhaps, if he has a criminal record, it is under another name entirely.’
‘Why should you assume he’s usin’ an alias?’ Woodend wondered. ‘Because of his passport? Is it a fake, like Medwin’s was?’
‘I do not know. It has not yet been established. His passport is being examined by our experts.’
‘Then how is it that within an hour or so of Medwin’s death, you already knew that his passport was a forgery?’
‘It was a very clumsy attempt at forgery. I knew immediately that it was not genuine.’
‘So you’re sayin’ that if Mitchell’s passport is a fake, it’s a better fake than Medwin’s was?’
‘Yes.’
‘What about the passports the others are usin’ – the German, the Frenchman an’ the two Englishmen. Are they real?’
‘They, too, are being examined.’
‘So Medwin, who – accordin’ to you – may well have been the brains behind this criminal enterprise of theirs, was the only member of the gang to have a passport which was an obvious fake?’
‘So it would appear.’
‘But that doesn’t make any sense.’
López shrugged. ‘What can I tell you? You are a detective, I am just a local policeman. I can only deal with the facts which are given to me.’
Bollocks! Woodend thought. ‘How long will these examinations by your experts take?’
López shrugged again. ‘Who can say?’
‘Well, for a start, you should be able to – because you’re supposed to be in charge of the bloody investigation.’
‘Must I remind you again, Mr Woodend, that you are not in England?’ López asked.
‘At the very least, you could send Mitchell’s description to the FBI,’ Woodend pointed out.
‘Telexing and phone calls abroad are very expensive, and this is still a poor country.’
‘But it’s what you might have to do anyway – if Mitchell’s passport turns out to be a fake.’
‘We will leap that ditch when – and if – we encounter it.’
Woodend had worked with some bobbies in the past who were not particularly bright. In fact, he’d worked with some very stupid ones. But López – whatever other faults he might have – wasn’t stupid. So just what game was he playing with all his bloody obstructive tactics?
Thirteen
As Paco Ruiz’s little Seat 600 valiantly struggled up the steep slope which led to the Alcalde’s villa, Ruiz himself was reminded of those long-ago days when, as a young policeman, he had occasionally been landed with the duty of providing security at society weddings.
Some of the weddings had been less of a love match than a financial alliance. Old money married old money, and thus augmented the family fortune, rather than depleted it. Not that such mercenary considerations showed themselves on the surface. Far from it. The nuptials had had a stiff dignity about them which could be traced back through four hundred years of courtly behaviour, and Paco – fresh from the country – had hardly been able to avoid laughing at such ritual and posturing.
But it had been at the other kind of weddings – the ones of the nouveaux riches – where he had found it hardest to keep a straight face. Everything about them had to cost a great deal – simply to show that the family could afford it. There were so many carriages that the guests virtually had one each. There were so many flowers that the air was almost clogged with their perfume. And the wedding cakes! The wedding cakes – the product of many hours of labour by a large team of skilled confectioners – were so brash and hideous that Paco had had to restrain himself from jumping on to them as if he were acting in a slapstick comedy film.
It was the Alcalde’s villa which had brought back the memories of those long-gone weddings. Its setting was undoubtedly magnificent. Sitting on his front terrace, the Mayor could look down on the town and the sea, while if he chose to move to the back of the house he was presented with an uninterrupted view of the mountains. But the villa itself completely let the scenery down. It was pink, sprawling and over-ornate, and if it had been just a little smaller – and covered with marzipan – it would have looked quite at home on one of those lavish wedding tables he had provided security for as a young man.
The guard on the gate – wearing a suit rather than a uniform, but undoubtedly armed – waved him into the courtyard. A second man, dressed in a slightly smarter suit and wearing a better class of hair oil, had reached the car before he’d even had time to climb out.
‘Ruiz?’ the second man asked.
Not Don Francisco, Paco noted. Not even Señor Ruiz. His place in the order of things was being established right from the start.
‘Yes, I am Paco Ruiz,’ he said.
‘You are punctual. That’s good. His Excellency the Alcalde does not like to be kept waiting.’
‘I imagine he has many demands on his time,’ said Paco, playing the diplomat with his tongue firmly in one cheek.
‘Don Antonio is, indeed, a very busy man,’ the flunky said. ‘You must follow me.’
He led Ruiz into the west wing of the villa and down a corridor. Durán was sitting at his desk, his corpulent body looking almost as if it were imprisoned in his chair.
‘You asked to see me,’ Durán said.
‘Yes, Your Excellency.’
‘We have not met before, have we?’
‘No, Your Excellency.’
‘But that is not to say that I know nothing about you.’
‘I imagine Your Excellency is kept well informed of everything that goes on in his town.’
Durán nodded, and the three or four chins he had developed wobbled almost hypnotically. Leaning forward as far as his corpulence would allow, he consulted one of the documents which lay on the desk before him.
‘Before the Generalissimo rose up and saved our beloved Spain from the Communists and the atheists who wished to destroy it for ever, you were a policeman in Madrid,’ he said.
‘That is correct.’
‘But then you allied yourself to the wrong side in our st
ruggle for national survival?’
‘Yes.’
It was no betrayal of his past to agree with that, Paco told himself. He had unquestionably been on the wrong side, because whichever side loses always is the wrong side.
‘You were imprisoned for a time, then given the opportunity to work on the construction of the magnificent monument to our glorious dead in the Valley of the Fallen.’
Put that way, it sounded like a privilege, Paco thought.
‘That is correct,’ he said again.
‘Eventually, in 1943, you were released – and sent to Vichy France.’
Vichy! The part of France which the Germans had allowed the French collaborators to run as a puppet state for them, while their jackboots trampled on the rest of the defeated country. Vichy! Where the air had been filled with the stink of defeat, humiliation and corruption.
‘Why did you go to Vichy France?’ Durán demanded.
Why was I ordered to go? Paco thought. Or why did I agree to go?
I was ordered to go because the government wanted to know what had happened to all the gold that had been stored in the Spanish treasury before the Civil War. And I agreed to go because I needed to find out who was killing all my old comrades who were living in exile there. But if I’d known then that my mission would be indirectly responsible for saving Franco’s life, I’d have cut my own head off rather than go.
Aloud, all he said was, ‘The mission was sanctioned by the Caudillo himself. I cannot talk about it, even to you, Your Excellency.’
Durán nodded again. ‘Whatever your mission was, it must have been successful,’ he said, ‘because once you returned to Spain, you were set at liberty. And where does that leave you now? You have been forgiven – to some extent at least – for your past transgressions. But you are still not trusted enough – even after all this time – to be embraced by the Movement. You do not have an official position, nor are you ever likely to have one. So what do you do?’
‘I—’
‘I will tell you what you do,’ the Alcalde said, cutting him off. ‘You do whatever you can! You use the skills you learned as a policeman in a purely private capacity. You track down thieves who the authorities cannot be bothered to track down themselves. You trace missing persons, though, of course, you immediately drop those investigations if you discover that the person you are tracing has gone missing for reasons of state.’
For reasons of state! Paco repeated silently to himself. That was an interesting way of saying that they had been spirited away by the secret police.
‘Yes, I immediately drop those investigations,’ he agreed.
‘It is a fairly miserable way to make a living, is it not?’
But at least my hands are clean, Paco thought. At least they are not stained by either blood or dirty money, as the hands of all those in the government are.
‘It is a fairly miserable living,’ he admitted, ‘but it is still a living of sorts, Your Excellency.’
‘So now we come to the point of your visit,’ the Alcalde said. ‘Why did you want to see me?’
Paco steeled himself. He had a suspicion which was based on López’s apparent reluctance to pursue the murder investigation with vigour, and in order to confirm that suspicion, he was going to have to risk telling one huge lie.
‘The Englishman who was killed,’ he said.
‘What about him?’
‘I talked to him just a few hours before he died.’
‘Why? What was your reason?’
‘It was pure chance. I happened to be sitting at the table next to his in a bar. I heard him speak, and thought it might be a good opportunity to practise my English. So I struck up a conversation.’
Durán sneered. ‘You mean you realized he was a foreigner, and decided that if you could perform some small, demeaning service for him, he might give you a little money,’ he said.
Paco tried to remember if he’d ever killed a fat man at close quarters. He didn’t think he had. Given the shortages and deprivations during the war, there hadn’t been many fat men around to kill. Still, he could imagine what it would be like to plunge a knife into Durán’s huge gut – the sound it would make, the way all the layers of blubber would close in around the blade.
‘I said, you realized he was a foreigner and decided that, if you could perform some small, demeaning service for him, he might give you a little money,’ Durán repeated.
‘There was that as well,’ Paco agreed, picturing Durán looking like a stuck pig as he gasped for air.
‘There had better be some point to this dismal little tale of yours,’ the Mayor said threateningly.
‘There is,’ Paco assured him. ‘The Englishman said that he knew you. He said you were one of the reasons he was in Spain.’
‘That is ridiculous.’
Paco said nothing. The Alcalde stared at him.
‘I said that is ridiculous,’ Durán barked.
Paco shrugged. ‘Perhaps you are right, Your Excellency.’
‘Perhaps?’
‘Undoubtedly you are right. But I can do no more than tell you what the Englishman said.’
Another silence followed, even longer than the last one, then the Alcalde said, ‘Did he … er … did he say any more about me?’
Paco wondered just how much further he could push things – how much more play there was left in his lie.
‘Well?’ Durán demanded.
‘He … er … imparted no more actual information, but I got the distinct impression that he held some kind of grudge against you.’
The Alcalde’s piggy eyes narrowed suspiciously. ‘Why are you telling me this?’
‘You are my alcalde. It is my duty.’
‘Duty! What do you know about duty? The truth is that you imagine that doing me a favour – however inconsequential that favour may be – could be one small step towards your final rehabilitation. Isn’t that right?’
Paco bowed his head. ‘Your Excellency sees right through me.’
‘Why now? Why should you suddenly start to ingratiate yourself after all this time?’
‘I’m getting old,’ Paco said, doing his best to sound thoroughly ashamed. ‘I’m getting old and it would be nice to think that when I can no longer work, I can at least look forward to a small government pension.’
His suspicion allayed, the Alcalde relaxed a little. ‘This man Holloway was obviously deranged,’ he suggested.
‘I am no doctor, as you know. But that is certainly the opinion I would give to anyone who asked me what I thought of him.’
The Alcalde nodded. ‘Even though you were motivated mainly by self-interest, you have performed a service of sorts. I will instruct one of my people in the town hall to pay you a small fee.’
‘That is most generous of you, Your Excellency.’
Durán waved his hand magisterially. ‘You may go now. But don’t forget, the man Holloway was obviously deranged.’
‘He was as mad as a hatter,’ Paco agreed.
Fourteen
It was only twelve miles from the house that Peter Medwin had shared with his wife to the one in which his brother Reginald lived, yet from the change in the landscape it was almost as if they had crossed a continent.
Peter’s house was large and detached, with a view of the golf course and the rolling countryside beyond it. Reginald’s home was a grimy pit village, in which streets of squat terraced houses clung desperately to steep hillsides and the cobbled streets proved themselves booby traps for old ladies’ ankles.
The man who answered the door was perhaps a couple of years older than the murder victim, but was about the same height, the same build and had the same shiny bald head.
‘Mr Medwin?’ Rutter asked. ‘Mr Reginald Medwin?’
‘That’s right.’
‘We’re detectives from Whitebridge. I’m DI Rutter and this is DS Paniatowski. We’re investigating your brother’s death.’
‘I talked to Jessica on the phone not twenty minutes pas
t, so I was expectin’ you,’ Medwin said. ‘I suppose you’d better come inside.’
He led them into the front parlour which, despite the smallness of the house, was probably reserved for christenings, weddings – and funerals. It was a neat, cheerful place. The brass ornaments around the fireplace were all polished to a dazzling shine. The windows gleamed, despite the dust in the air outside. The walls looked as if they were stripped and re-papered every second year – whether they needed it or not.
Medwin invited the two detectives to sit down. ‘I’d offer you a cup of tea,’ he said, ‘only the missus is out shoppin’, you see, an’ I’m not entirely sure where she keeps everythin’.’
‘Don’t worry about it, Mr Medwin, we’ve only just had a cup,’ Monika Paniatowski lied.
Medwin did not sit down himself. Instead, he remained standing, with his backside to the empty fireplace.
‘How can I help you?’ he asked.
‘We’d like to know everything that you can tell us about your brother,’ Rutter said.
Medwin looked confused. ‘I don’t rightly know where I should start,’ he confessed.
‘Just say whatever comes into your mind first,’ Paniatowski advised.
Medwin nodded gratefully. ‘He were always different, our Pete,’ he said. ‘There seemed to be a lot more goin’ on in that head of his than there was in the heads of the rest of us – though, to be honest with you, none of us had any idea quite what it was.’
‘So he was secretive?’ Rutter asked.
‘Private, more than secretive,’ Medwin told him. ‘I mean, he never told any of us that he wanted to win a scholarship to the grammar school, but he didn’t exactly hide it from us, either. Still, I’d never have known just how much it mattered to him if I hadn’t caught him in tears the day our dad got the letter to say he hadn’t been accepted.’
‘He was very upset, was he?’ asked Rutter, who was a grammar-school boy himself.
For a moment it looked as if Medwin didn’t understand him. Then the miner said, ‘I wouldn’t call it “upset”. He wasn’t cryin’ like a girl, if that’s what you’re thinkin’.’
‘I’m sorry, I thought you said—’
The Butcher Beyond Page 10