The Butcher Beyond

by Sally Spencer

  The old man looked reassured. ‘We raised a militia to fight at the front,’ he continued. ‘I did not go myself – even then, I was too old for fighting – but many of our young men did. When Antonio Durán disappeared, we thought that was what he had done, too. We said to ourselves that war had finally made a man of him, and that if he ever returned alive, we would give him the hero’s welcome that he deserved. How little we knew.’

  ‘He hadn’t gone to join the Republican militia?’

  ‘Just the opposite. We did not see him again until March 1939, when he entered the town at the head of a fascist militia. He summoned us all to the town hall square. I can see him there even now, standing at the top of the steps, as proud as a peacock. Franco’s army would reach the town soon, he told us. But until it did, he would be in control, and his decrees would have the force of law. I wanted to scream that he was a traitor to the Republic. I wanted to pull him off those steps and beat him within an inch of his life. And I was not alone in that. Yet I did nothing – and neither did anybody else.’

  ‘There was nothing you could do,’ Paco said sympathetically.

  ‘True,’ the old man agreed. ‘There was nothing we could do. He knew our struggle was over, and so did we. Those units of the Republican Army which had not already surrendered had fled. Franco had won. He is still winning.’

  ‘So you think that Durán made his money by plundering the town?’ Paco asked.

  The old man cackled again.

  ‘There was nothing to plunder,’ he said. ‘We had been through nearly three years of war. Anything of value we had ever owned had been sold or melted down to support the war effort.’

  ‘Then where do you think he …?’

  ‘He must have marched through other towns before he got here – towns which, perhaps, had more that was worth looting. I think that he and his militiamen stole from them.’

  A new group of visitors walked past the café. The women, as the old man had already pointed out, were exposing more flesh than even a Spanish prostitute would be willing to put on public display. The men accompanying them were wearing shorts that no one but a maricón – and then only in the safety of a secret, forbidden homosexual club – would ever dare to show himself in.

  It was a strange and exotic world which was now being revealed to the Spanish people, Paco thought – and it must be even stranger for the old man than it was for him.

  ‘But for the tourists, you might have gone to your grave without even seeing a foreigner,’ he said.

  ‘You are wrong there,’ the old man told him. ‘Even without these new arrivals, I would still have seen the others.’

  ‘The others?’ Paco repeated. ‘What others?’

  ‘The ones who came before.’

  ‘I’m not sure I know what you’re talking about.’

  The old man sighed, as if he had just realized that he was talking to an imbecile.

  ‘The men with guns,’ he said, speaking so slowly and carefully that even his dull-witted drinking companion should be able to understand. ‘The ones who arrived in the town in March 1939, shortly after Antonio Durán had taken over.’

  Seventeen

  The Miners’ Welfare and Social Club was located on the edge of the village, framed by a slag heap on one side and the pit winding gear on the other. When Rutter and Paniatowski arrived, it was already full of pit men swilling back pints of best bitter in a futile effort to wash the taste of thick black coal dust from their throats.

  The bar steward saw the two police officers the moment they entered the door, and made a bee-line for them.

  ‘This is a members-only club,’ he said in a voice which indicated that he felt under no obligation to be welcoming to strangers. ‘An’ even if it wasn’t, we still wouldn’t serve ladies in the bar.’

  Paniatowski smiled sweetly at him. ‘Lucky for me I’m not a lady then, isn’t it?’ she asked, producing her warrant card.

  The steward instinctively glanced up at the clock on the wall. ‘We’re well within our rights to be servin’ alcohol at this time of day,’ he said, having satisfied himself that – on this occasion at least – they really were.

  ‘We’re not here looking for trouble,’ Rutter assured him. ‘We just want to talk to one of your members – a man called Jim Stoddard.’

  The bar steward hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘He’s over there – at the far end of the bar.’

  Rutter and Paniatowski strode over to where the miner was standing. ‘Could we have a quick word, Mr Stoddard?’ Rutter asked.

  Stoddard turned slowly round towards them. His face was not old, Paniatowski thought, but it was certainly battered. His nose was slightly off kilter, as it had once been broken. A broad blue scar ran above his right eyebrow. And though his skin was pink from a recent vigorous scrubbing, there was still a hint of the all-pervasive dust in his wrinkles.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he asked.

  ‘We’re police officers,’ Rutter said.

  ‘Well, I know that,’ Stoddard said. ‘It’s stamped all over you. An’ even if it wasn’t, my hearing’s not quite so gone that I couldn’t hear you talkin’ to the bar steward. So what do you want? To ask me about Pete Medwin?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  Stoddard nodded thoughtfully. ‘A great loss,’ he said, and there was an intensity to his voice which gave new meaning to the old platitude.

  ‘You used to be his best friend, didn’t you?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘I still am his best friend – or, at least, I was until he got himself killed,’ Stoddard said, with unexpected ferocity. ‘Whatever led you to think that I wouldn’t be?’

  ‘Well, I suppose …’ Rutter began.

  ‘Did you think that I’d have had to say goodbye to our friendship when he went up in the world? That once he’d started wearin’ a suit an’ tie to work, he’d forget all his old mates?’

  ‘No, not that exactly—’ Rutter continued, digging himself further into the hole.

  ‘Of course that’s what we thought,’ Paniatowski interrupted. ‘Why wouldn’t we? There’s not one man in a hundred who can resist the temptation to turn his back on his roots once he’s started to get on in life. If Pete Medwin was different, why don’t you tell us about it?’

  An admiring smile spread across Stoddard’s lips. ‘You speak your mind, don’t you, lass,’ he said.

  ‘I’ve found it’s the best way to get other people to speak theirs,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘Why don’t you tell me about the Pete Medwin you knew?’

  ‘Success did change him,’ Stoddard said. ‘Of course it did. But he didn’t forget his roots. He could be a tough boss, but he was always a fair one – because he remembered what it was like to work down the pit. An’ once we’d left work behind us, he was the same with me as he’d always been. Even when he was promoted to Regional Manager, he still made the time to come back to the village an’ have a drink with his old muckers.’

  ‘So you were as close to him as a brother?’

  ‘Closer, in some ways.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can tell us something about him that even his brother Reginald doesn’t seem to know.’

  A wary look came into Stoddard’s eyes. ‘An’ what might that be, exactly?’ he asked.

  ‘We want to know about the missing years,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘The missin’ years?’

  Paniatowski smiled. ‘Come on, Mr Stoddard! You know what we’re talking about.’

  ‘Pete went away in 1935—’

  ‘1936,’ Paniatowski corrected him.

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ Stoddard said.

  And Paniatowski knew that the slip had been deliberate.

  ‘He went off to seek his fame and fortune in London, didn’t he?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘That’s what they say,’ Stoddard replied.

  ‘But what do you say, Mr Stoddard?’ Paniatowski wondered. ‘What does his best mate say?’

  ‘The same as everybody else.’

/>   Paniatowski looked disappointed. ‘Then he can’t have been much of a best mate,’ she said regretfully.

  ‘If Pete didn’t want to tell anybody about what he did in them years, what right have I to?’ Stoddard asked, stung.

  ‘He’s dead,’ Paniatowski reminded him.

  ‘Not to me!’ Stoddard told her. ‘He’ll never be dead to me.’

  ‘I think I’m beginning to get the picture now,’ Paniatowski said thoughtfully. ‘You’re covering up for him.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re trying to save his reputation. You don’t want anyone to know about the truly shameful things he did while he was away.’

  ‘You little bitch!’ Stoddard exploded.

  Rutter stepped between them, and squared up to Stoddard. ‘Outside!’ he said angrily.

  ‘That won’t be necessary, Bob,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘He doesn’t talk to you like that – not while I’m here,’ Rutter told her.

  ‘I shouldn’t have talked to her like that whether you were here or not,’ Stoddard said. ‘If you want me to step outside so you can beat the shit out of me, then I’ll go willingly enough. But before I do, I want to apologize to this lass, here.’ He had to stand on tiptoes to look over Rutter’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, miss. That was unforgivable.’

  ‘Apology accepted,’ Paniatowski said, easing Rutter out of the space between them. ‘And I should apologize, too. I should never have gone out of my way to provoke you like that. But I thought that provoking you was the only way I was going to get at the truth.’

  Stoddard nodded thoughtfully. ‘Aye, perhaps you’re right,’ he agreed. ‘Pete didn’t do anythin’ wrong, you know. Anythin’ dishonourable. It wasn’t in his nature. But he still had his way to make in the world when he got back here, an’ he knew that certain of the things he’d done can count against a man. That’s why he kept quiet about them.’

  ‘But he did tell you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then tell us.’

  ‘I can’t. He didn’t swear me to secrecy or owt like that – there was no need for oaths between us. But he expected me not to tell anybody. I still can’t, without his permission –’ Stoddard gulped – ‘an’ I’m never goin’ to get that now, am I?’

  Paniatowski sighed. ‘People can get murdered anywhere – but they usually don’t,’ she said.

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘Unless it’s a random killing – and this one wasn’t – there has to be a reason why someone gets murdered in a particular place and at a particular time. Now it doesn’t make sense that Pete should have been killed on the Costa Blanca – unless he’d had some previous connection with either the place itself or with some of the people who were there at the same time he was. And if we’re ever going to find his killer, we have to know what that connection was.’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ Stoddard said regretfully.

  ‘Maybe you can, if I can find a way to help you help me.’

  ‘I’m listenin’.’

  ‘My drink’s vodka,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘In a minute or two, I’m going to make a statement. It won’t be a long one. In fact, it will only be …’ she counted it out on her fingers, ‘… it will only be thirteen words. Now after I’ve made that statement, there’s one of two things you can do. If I’m wrong, just say nothing. If I’m right, I’d like you to buy me a drink. All right?’

  ‘Maybe,’ Stoddard said dubiously.

  Paniatowski took a breath. ‘Of course, we already know that Pete Medwin went to Spain in 1936,’ she said.

  For a moment, Stoddard did not move so much as a muscle. Then he turned and faced the barman. ‘I know you don’t normally serve any foreign muck in here, Sid,’ he said, ‘but there’s no chance you’ve got a bottle of vodka stashed away somewhere, is there?’

  Eighteen

  The fisherman had been watching Paco Ruiz ever since he had emerged from between the shacks and begun to make his way across the beach. Now, as the ex-policeman drew level with him, he put down the net he had been mending and rose slowly to his feet.

  ‘You are Ramón Jiménez?’ Paco asked.

  ‘I am.’

  ‘When I was told you were the one I should talk to, I did not recognize the name. But we have met before, haven’t we?’

  The fisherman nodded. ‘You helped my cousin. Another man laid claim to his boat. This man had documents which said that it was his. You proved that those documents were false, and my cousin kept his boat. You did not take payment for the work you had done.’

  Paco grinned. ‘How could I? Your cousin had been denied the use of his boat for many weeks. He didn’t have any money to pay me with.’

  ‘And now you want something in return for your kindness?’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Then if it is in my power to give you what you need, you shall have it. What do you require?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ Paco said. ‘Just a little information. I want to know about something which happened in the spring of 1939.’

  ‘Happened where?’

  ‘On the beach. Do you know what I’m talking about?’

  The fisherman nodded again. ‘There is only one thing which happened on this beach in the spring of 1939 which could possibly be of interest to you,’ he said.

  The collapse of the Republic had long been expected, yet it was still a shock when it finally came. On a single day – the 26th of March – General Yagüe took thirty thousand prisoners and two thousand square kilometres of territory in the south. The next day the resistance around Madrid all but melted away and General Espinosa de los Monteros entered the city.

  On the coast, the situation was equally chaotic. The fascists who had been in hiding for nearly three years now openly paraded on the streets of Valencia and Alicante, and fifty thousand Republican soldiers rushed down to the sea in the desperate hope of finding a boat which would provide them with an escape route from Franco’s legendary vengeance.

  ‘There were perhaps forty-five of them,’ Ramón Jiménez said. ‘Possibly even fifty. They were hiding in the hills outside the town – in an olive grove just behind where the Alcalde’s villa stands now. They were waiting for the ship they had been promised would arrive.’

  ‘You’re sure there were that many of them?’

  ‘Yes, I saw them with my own eyes.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘When I went up to the hills myself.’

  ‘Why did you go?’

  ‘I took them food. We could not truly spare it – we were starving ourselves – but they had fought for us, even though they were not our countrymen, and now it was only right that we should give them all the help we could.’

  ‘Were they all foreigners?’

  ‘Yes, though some of them spoke good Spanish.’

  ‘Tell me about the night the ship they were waiting for eventually arrived offshore.’

  ‘It was a terrible, terrible night.’

  The fascist militia which had taken over the town did not scare the men coming down from the hills. Why should it? The militia had only been able to seize control because there was no one left to resist it. It hadn’t seen the fighting they had. It hadn’t battled against a large, well-equipped enemy, using only rudimentary weapons – and won! If the militia tried to stop them, the militia would lose.

  They knew it would have been a different story if they had had to wait another day. In one more day, the full might of the victorious army would descend on the area, and if they were still there, it would flatten them without even breaking step.

  But they wouldn’t be there! The ship was already waiting for them, out in the darkness. The fishing boats were on the beach, ready to ferry them out to it. It required only one last small effort – after so many great ones – and they would be safe.

  They covered their route with a military precision which none of them would have been able to conceive of three years
earlier. They used cover where it was available, and moved quickly when it was not. They were carrying very little – only their canteens, their weapons, and the four small packing cases which had been entrusted to their care by the dying government in Valencia.

  They left the open country and crossed the road which ran parallel to the beach. To the right they could see the town itself, illuminated by a thousand oil lamps, and – to some of them at least – it looked like a fairytale castle. Ahead of them were the fishermen’s shacks, where they knew they would find friends.

  They could hear the sound of the water lapping against the shore. It was almost over. The crusade which had turned into a nightmare – the voyage of discovery on which they had waded through rivers of blood – was almost at an end. They wanted to go – and it broke their hearts to leave.

  They reached the shacks – and found them in darkness.

  ‘Where is everybody?’ Medwin asked nervously.

  ‘Perhaps they thought it wiser to be somewhere else tonight,’ Ham-’n’-Eggs said.

  ‘But a few of them should have stayed, if only the ones who are going to take us out to the ship,’ Medwin countered.

  ‘They’re probably waiting for us down by their boats,’ Moses said.

  Yes, Medwin agreed – more from hope than from than conviction – they probably were.

  ‘You weren’t waiting down by the boats, were you?’ Paco asked.

  ‘No,’ Ramón Jiménez replied. ‘We were not. As soon as darkness had fallen, the fascist militia appeared. They told us they were taking us to the town. They said that if we resisted, we would be shot.’

  ‘And there was no way you could have warned the brigadistas?’

  ‘No way at all. That was why it had been planned as it had – so that the brigadistas would have no idea of what was waiting for them.’

  They were getting closer to the sea. They travelled in a column – as they had so often done in the past – with scouts at the front and a rearguard behind. At the centre of the column were the eight men whose turn it was to carry the four packing cases between them.