‘I am ashamed of my countrymen sometimes,’ Paco said. ‘Spain produced El Cid and Hernán Cortés. Even Franco, I am told, was a brave man when he was fighting the Moors in North Africa. But our golden days are gone, and all we have now is men like Major Trujillo.’
‘I choose not to let you speak to your consul,’ Trujillo said hotly.
‘Of course you do, lad,’ Woodend said sympathetically. ‘You keep on saying that often enough, and you might just about be able to look at yourself in your shaving mirror tomorrow morning.’
‘I will offer you a deal,’ Trujillo said, looking for a way to save face. ‘I will allow you to speak to your consul, and the next time we talk, you will tell me everything you know.’
‘Of course,’ Woodend said.
‘We have nothing to hide,’ Paco Ruiz added.
Crane, Beresford and Paniatowski were already at their table in the Drum and Monkey when Meadows entered.
‘You seem a little stiff, Kate,’ Paniatowski said, as she walked across the room.
‘I think I’ve overdone it on the exercise front, boss,’ Meadows said, lowering herself gently into her chair.
‘I’m surprised you found the time to exercise,’ Paniatowski said. ‘How was your meeting with the forensic accountant? Did he manage to come up with anything useful?’
Meadows nodded, and outlined what she had learned from Sowerby about the creative bookkeeping.
‘The gold has to be real,’ she said, as she drew to a conclusion, ‘because a huge amount of money has been going into that firm, and there’s no other way that Javier Martinez could possibly have got his hands on it. And it’s not so much a case of him using the gold to build up the business, as it is of using the business to launder the money.’
‘Whatever happened to his ideals?’ Crane wondered. ‘Whatever changed him from an idealistic communist into a crook who was willing to trample on anyone who got in his way?’
‘That’d be the gold, again,’ Meadows said. ‘He wouldn’t be the first person who’s been turned by thoughts of wealth. Bob Dylan said, “When you’ve got nothin’, you’ve got nothin’ to lose,” but when you’ve got something, you suddenly start to want much more. And I should know.’
‘What does that mean?’ Beresford asked.
‘Nothing,’ Meadows said, flushing slightly. ‘It’s just the kind of stupid thing you say at the end of a long and tiring day.’
It wasn’t the sort of thing he’d say at the end of a long, tiring day, Beresford thought, but from the look on Meadows’ face it was obvious she wanted him to let the matter drop, and – with uncharacteristic diplomacy – he did.
‘But he had the gold when he returned to his village after the war,’ Crane said, unconvinced. ‘If he was so rich, why did he even bother to go back?’
‘Because he was still hoping to return to his old life,’ Meadows said. ‘And it was only after he realized that could never happen – after he had killed the three soldiers – that the gold started to be important.’
Life was full of ironies, Paniatowski thought. It would have been much easier for Javier Martinez to have escaped from Val de Montaña on his own, but he had chosen instead to increase his own personal risk immeasurably, by taking his young son with him.
What an act of love that had been.
And yet once they were in England, he had seemed totally incapable of expressing that love.
Poor Robert.
But perhaps, as loath as she was to think it, poor Javier, too.
‘Now that you’re convinced the gold exists, are you happy if we drop the theory that Javier was killed by someone local, who had a grievance against him, Sergeant Meadows?’ Beresford asked.
‘Yes,’ Meadows said. ‘That would be just too much of a coincidence. From the very start, this whole thing has been about the gold.’
‘Does everybody accept that?’ Paniatowski asked, and when Crane and Beresford nodded, she continued, ‘So we’re back to one killer and one motive,’ and there were more nods.
‘There’s still one thing that’s puzzling me,’ Crane said.
‘And what’s that?’ Paniatowski asked.
‘Elena had been watching the house on Tufton Court for nearly a day and a half …’
‘A day and a half, did you say?’ Meadows interrupted. ‘I don’t know anything about this.’
‘One of my bright young lads has uncovered the fact that Elena was standing in a copse of trees on Ashton Avenue, watching the entrance to Tufton Court on Tuesday afternoon – which is when she got off the train – and all day Wednesday, which as far as we know, is the day she died,’ Beresford said.
‘DC Crane’s still not explained what was puzzling him,’ Paniatowski pointed out. ‘Go ahead, Jack.’
‘The killer has been following her all the way, so he’ll certainly have followed her to the copse of trees,’ Crane said. ‘Right?’
‘Right,’ the others agreed.
‘Now according to our theory, the point at which he really decided he had to kill her was when he saw her go home with Rosa. Is that right, too?’
‘Yes, it is.’
‘So we get to Wednesday morning. Elena is back in the copse. She’s being watched from across the road by Mrs Potts, but she probably doesn’t know that, and neither does the killer. And the other thing the killer doesn’t know is whether or not Elena will get tired of standing there, and set off for Martinez’s house – which, from his point of view, would be a disaster.’
‘We’re with you so far,’ Paniatowski said.
‘Now, it would be easy enough for him to kill her in the copse,’ Jack Crane continued, ‘but once she steps out on to the road, where there are people walking about, and cars constantly driving past, he’d be bound to be spotted. So here’s what’s bothering me – why did he wait until Wednesday night – after she’d left the copse – to kill her? Why didn’t he do it on Wednesday morning?’
And from the blank faces around the table, it was clear that no one knew the answer to that.
It was eight in the evening – the hour at which the consul habitually took cocktails with the latest deputy that London had foisted on him – when the phone rang in Martin Cheavers’ office.
‘I’d better take this,’ said Cheavers, who had started his own personal cocktail hour some considerable time earlier.
The phone call took a little over three minutes, during which time, his deputy counted, he used the word ‘Charlie’ seven times.
‘That was Charlie Woodend,’ Cheavers said, when he put down the phone. ‘It seems that he and Paco Ruiz have got themselves into a bit of trouble in Burgos Province. Apparently, they’ve both been accused of spying, and got banged up at some army base.’
‘And will you be making representations to the government about it?’ Harrington Benson asked.
‘No, I’ll be flying up to the arsehole of nowhere first thing in the morning, and demanding that the soldiers stop playing silly buggers and release our chap immediately,’ Cheavers said.
Harrington Benson smiled uncertainly. ‘You’re joking, aren’t you, sir?’ he asked.
‘I most certainly am not,’ Cheavers said emphatically.
His assistant’s tentative smile turned to a worried frown.
‘London won’t like that,’ he said. ‘We’ve been instructed that, in this current climate of uncertainty, we should keep our profiles very low – and that certainly doesn’t include taking on the army.’
‘I don’t recall seeing any cable to that effect,’ Cheavers said.
Harrington Benson looked slightly embarrassed. ‘Er … no,’ he agreed. ‘It will be arriving tomorrow.’
The little shit probably had an uncle in the FO, Cheavers thought. That explained a lot.
‘No doubt we will be getting such a cable, but that doesn’t matter one way or the other,’ he said. ‘We owe a debt to Charlie and Paco, and I intend to see that debt discharged.’
‘How are we in debt to them?’ Harringto
n Benson wondered.
Cheavers hesitated for a second, before deciding that if his assistant did have a direct line to the Foreign Office, then using him as a conduit would be much pleasanter than talking to the stuffed shirts in Whitehall himself.
‘A few months ago, we had a visit from a member of a European royal family,’ he said.
‘It was Prince Juan Carlos,’ Harrington Benson said. ‘Now that is something I’ve read in the files.’
It was typical of the snobbish young turd to know that, but not to have taken the trouble to find out about Charlie Woodend, Cheavers thought.
‘It could have been Prince Juan Carlos – or King Juan Carlos as he is now – but it could just as easily have been some other royal, from some other country, who asked me not to keep a record of his visit,’ Cheavers said, knowing he didn’t really sound convincing – and not giving a damn. ‘At any rate, this visiting royal struck up a brief friendship with one of the more attractive girls in our typing pool.’
‘A brief friendship? You mean …’
‘I mean what I say – a brief friendship. I’m sure it was all perfectly innocent. However, some unscrupulous photographer with a criminal bent managed to take some pictures of them together.’
‘They weren’t actually …?’ Harrington Benson began.
‘No, they weren’t, though it has to be admitted that the pictures were open to misinterpretation. At any rate, had those photographs been published, they could have caused considerable embarrassment, both for us and for the Span … for the government of the country from which the young prince hailed. The blackmailers knew that, and the price they put on the photographs was so substantial that even though it was imperative we got our hands on them as soon as possible, the Foreign Office went into a dither about where the money was to come from. And it was while they were dithering – and thus giving the photographer time to explore other markets – that I hired Charlie and Paco.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Charlie Woodend brought me the photographs – and the negatives – two days later.’
‘Had they paid any ransom?’
‘They said not. The only thing they asked for was their fee – which was a very modest one.’
‘So how did they do it?’
‘They didn’t say, and I didn’t ask. But given that Charlie is in his sixties and Paco is in his seventies, it seems unlikely that they used strong-arm tactics. My guess would be that they relied on their brains and their cunning,’ Cheavers looked Harrington Benson straight in the eyes, ‘which is something we should all – and some more than others – learn from. And that, young Benson, is why I don’t give a toss what the Foreign Office says, and why I will do my damnedest to get Charlie out of the pokey.’
TWENTY-ONE
It was eight o’clock on a cold Castilian morning, and the empty plain around the army camp was still covered with a skein of frost.
Inside the camp, Major Trujillo leaned back in his chair and studied the man sitting across the desk from him.
Martin Cheavers’ hair spilled over his collar, which made it too long for a man of any age, and looked particularly ridiculous for a man in his late fifties. His bloodshot eyes lacked seriousness, his teeth were too neat and regular, and his chin was weak. He was a typically decadent northern European – probably a homosexual – and after his debacle with Woodend and Ruiz the day before, Trujillo was determined to show this man who was boss.
‘You are the British vice consul for the Costa Blanca. Is that correct?’ he asked.
‘It’s correct,’ Martin Cheavers agreed.
‘But this is not the Costa Blanca,’ the major said. ‘You are aware of that, are you not?’
‘Too bloody right I’m aware of it,’ Cheavers said. ‘And if you’d caught your first plane at five-thirty this morning, and changed flights twice since then, you’d be aware of it, too.’
‘What I mean is, you are not accredited here,’ Major Trujillo said.
‘Strictly speaking, you’re right, but Charlie Woodend lives on the Costa Blanca, and hence is my responsibility. Besides, I’ve grown very fond of Spain and the Spanish Army – which I think has done a marvellous job – and I wouldn’t like to see anyone get into trouble.’
‘Are you threatening me?’ Trujillo asked, in the sort of growl which would have the conscripts whom he normally had to deal with shaking in their cheap army boots.
But Cheavers did not look frightened – merely shocked. ‘Threatening you?’ he said. ‘Of course not. I’m merely here to give you some advice.’
‘I do not need your advice,’ Trujillo countered. ‘This Woodend came to Arco de Cañas with another man, a known troublemaker and former rebel. They were asking questions about the backgrounds of army officers. We consider that to be spying.’
It would help if he knew exactly what Charlie had really been doing in the town, Cheavers thought. But he didn’t know – and so he was just going to have to bluff his way through.
‘He’s a private detective, so perhaps he wasn’t so much spying as working on a case,’ he suggested.
Was that the best this Englishman could do? Trujillo wondered. If so, it was pathetic.
‘Are you suggesting that he was working for the wife of an army officer, collecting evidence of adultery – which is how most private detectives outside Spain seem to earn their living?’ he asked with a sneer.
‘Well, it’s a possibility, isn’t it?’ Cheavers asked weakly.
‘No, it is not. There is no adultery in Spain, and even if there were, there is no divorce. A man may get an annulment of his marriage if he can prove that he did not understand his vows at the time he had made them, but a woman … well, even if her husband was having an affair, she would gain nothing but humiliation from learning about it.’
‘Oh,’ Cheavers said, looking crestfallen.
‘If you have nothing more to say on the matter, this interview is over,’ Trujillo told him.
‘I do have one more question,’ Cheavers said. ‘Are you a gambler, Major Trujillo?’
‘Why do you ask that?’
‘Because you are gambling at the moment. It’s possible that in a few days, or a few weeks, the army will be in control of this country – and a damn good thing if it is, in my opinion.’
‘Yes, Spain has always put its faith in its brave soldiers,’ Trujillo said complacently.
‘But we don’t always get what we wish for, unfortunately, and I have access to sources at the centre of your government which say that there is little chance of the army taking the reins.’
The meeting was suddenly turning out much better than he could ever have hoped, Trujillo thought. This popinjay in suede boots who was sitting opposite him had all but admitted that he was employing spies, and if he could just be persuaded to reveal a few of their names, then the promotion of a certain major in the military police was assured.
‘Tell me about these sources,’ he said casually.
‘They are men who want the best for their country but also the best for themselves – and who see being friendly with the British government as the best way of achieving both ends,’ Cheavers said.
‘I’m not sure I know quite what you mean,’ Trujillo said cunningly. ‘Could you perhaps give me a few examples?’
‘All right,’ Cheavers agreed. ‘There are important men in this country who wish to see their sons enrolled in one of the finer English schools, like Eton or Harrow. There are men with pregnant mistresses, who have taken the British Embassy’s advice on which abortion clinics they should use, and have asked us to make the necessary arrangements. There are men who have business interests in England, and are concerned that …’
‘Enough!’ Trujillo said.
These men were not spies, Trujillo thought, they were merely seeking a little enchufe, which was the Spanish way. And besides, they were already sounding too powerful for a mere major to ever think of accusing them of anything.
‘What we have learned
from these men is that your young king has plans to turn this country into a liberal democracy,’ Cheavers said.
‘It will never happen,’ Trujillo said.
But yet, if that was what these important men thought …
‘And one of the first things a liberal democracy inevitably does to prove its credentials is to turn the spotlight on past abuses, like, for example, the illegal detention of foreign nationals.’
Trujillo relaxed. This was – it was clear to him now – nothing more than a bluff.
‘No one will make much of a fuss over this Woodend,’ Trujillo sneered. ‘He is nothing but a retired policeman.’
‘Now that’s where I think you’re misreading the situation,’ Cheavers said. ‘The British government thinks very highly of Sir Charles …’
Warning lights were beginning to flash in Trujillo’s head.
‘Sir Charles!’ he repeated.
‘Oh dear, I should never have said that,’ Cheavers said, putting his hand to his mouth. ‘His knighthood is not due to be announced until the New Year’s Honours List.’
Trujillo decided to ignore the warning lights.
‘They would never give a knighthood – or any other honour – to someone like Charlie Woodend,’ he said. ‘The man wears an old tweed jacket which my dog would reject as a bed.’
‘One of Woodend’s last cases as a policeman was the investigation of a child prostitute ring,’ Cheavers said. ‘Several of the clients of that ring were politicians. Woodend arrested the men running the ring, and also some of their clients – but he kept the politicians’ names out of it.’
Trujillo nodded. Of course that was what he had done – that was what any policeman anywhere would have done in his situation.
‘The politicians are very grateful to him for that, but also – since he still holds evidence which could send them to gaol – a little frightened of him. So the knighthood is both by nature of a reward and a bribe. Now if you put him on trial for spying in Spain, he will find some way to reveal those names, because he is a spiteful man who, if he is going down, wishes to drag everyone else with him.’
‘Why should I be concerned about that?’ Trujillo wondered.
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