Lucas navigated his way slowly over a cobbled promenade that ran along the edge of the docks. On the opposite side lay a variety of open workshops catering to the needs of the shipbuilders, including men making large coils of mooring ropes, stitching large sheets of canvas into sails, and coopers making stacks of barrels for provisions, as well as cheap hotels and taverns for the sailors constantly streaming into this port.
It was at one of these taverns where Lucas decided to begin his search. A wood sign hung above the door, squeaking as it swung in the wind. It was badly eroded from the salty air. “Horses of Cortez,” it said, a reference to the many horses Cortez had lost at sea while trying to reach the beaches of Guatemala in a storm over a century ago.
Lucas went inside to find a gaggle of sailors and dockworkers packed into the tiny tavern. The mood was subdued and friendly, and the sweaty, sunburned men who were drinking hardly noticed Lucas’ presence. This was a place where strangers from all over the world came to imbibe. It was quite different from Lucas’ experience in the tavern in Salobreña, where a visitor from outside the pueblo was a rare sight.
Lucas talked to the barman, who made it clear he would not serve the boy. Lucas explained what he was looking for and was directed toward an old man sitting in the corner. The man was drinking alone and from the way he gazed out the bevelled-glass window, he wished to remain that way. He was thin, with a razor-sharp nose, small chin, and a wide mouth with thin lips. He had grown his very fine hair long and it was stuffed into a wool hat. He rubbed his chin with long, bony and trembling fingers.
Lucas approached him cautiously.
“Don Pedro?”
The man looked at him, saying nothing.
“The barman told me you might be able to help me. He says you’re known around here for being the one to haul things back and forth to Salobreña.”
“Yes,” the man mumbled. “Been doing it my whole life.”
He turned his body to face Lucas, softening his expression. Lucas understood that the man was trying to show he was here to please, and was warming up to give his sales pitch.
“I make two trips to Salobreña a week. I can haul anything. I have a two-axle wagon, can hold twenty barrels, twenty-five for a bit extra. I’m an expert at hauling fruit and vegetables. I know all the routes so it doesn’t bump too much. Your crop won’t get ruined. I can promise that.” Don Pedro leaned over the table. “And I don’t ask questions. For most jobs, I prefer not to know what I’m hauling.”
The man was making Lucas very nervous, but somehow it felt exciting as well. He’d never done anything like this for Armada. He wanted to get it right.
“What about people? Do you haul those too?”
Don Pedro smiled. “Of course. Will they need to remain hidden?”
“Actually,” Lucas said. He felt he was stumbling, knowing that he was about to disappoint this man by revealing he wasn’t going to hire him. “I was hoping you could tell me about a job you did about twenty years ago. For a Pablo Ortega.”
Don Pedro did seem disappointed, and sat back in his chair. He drank from his nearly-empty mug of ale and gazed out the window again, making it clear he wanted Lucas to leave.
“Please. This is important. There was a murder in Salobreña. My jefe is with the Holy Brotherhood. And he’s trying to figure out—”
“The Brotherhood?” Don Pedro spat out a bit of air between his pursed lips. “I have nothing to do with those bastards.”
“It’s just…there might be an innocent man who will be hanged…and we just want to find out…”
“My boy, I don’t remember anything from twenty years ago. You know how many trips I’ve done since then? Besides, I run into those Brothers all the time and they always squeeze me for bribes. It’s robbery, I tell you. Robbery!”
Don Pedro slammed his fist on the table, getting the attention of the entire tavern for a moment.
“I’m not about to help those criminals do anything, and I’m not about to help you! Now go away.”
Lucas felt like he was five years old again. He hated feeling so young. If he only were a bit older, then men like this would take him more seriously. As it was, he would have to work harder to get what he wanted. How he wished that Armada were here. The old man was always so confident in such situations. But Lucas was here on his own; he’d have to figure this out. And by his estimation, there was only one thing that would get this man to talk.
Lucas grabbed the coin purse from his pocket, but he couldn’t just slip it to the man. He needed to make a show of it. Lucas wanted to impress upon Don Pedro that he was serious, that he meant business, and that money was the least of Lucas’ worries. He’d seen Armada do this dozens of times. Why wouldn’t it work for him?
Lucas turned the coin purse over and let the money clang loudly on the table. Don Pedro’s eyes went wide, and he glanced around at the other bar patrons, who all glared at their table now.
“I’m willing to pay,” Lucas said.
“What are you doing, you stupid boy? Put that away!” Don Pedro said in a hushed whisper. He quickly gathered up the coins and shoved them back into the purse, then pushed the purse toward Lucas’ hands.
“Do you not realise that you are in a den of thieves here? Each one of these men would happily pull a dagger across your throat for just one of these coins!”
Lucas refused to be moved. He was tired of being scolded and lectured and told what to do. And he wasn’t about to take it from this man.
“It’s yours if you tell me what I want to know.”
For the first time, Don Pedro looked flustered. He obviously wanted the money, but was wary of the attention they were attracting. Lucas considered it a victory. He had thrown the man off, and confused him. There was a sense of power in that. How far could he take this?
“Come with me,” Don Pedro said. He rose from the table and grabbed Lucas by the collar, pulling him toward the door.
Lucas stumbled along behind Don Pedro as he pulled the boy into a small alley that ran toward the back of the tavern. Here, they were surrounded by high stone walls where they couldn’t be seen by anyone on the promenade. Lucas was hit by the nauseating stench of rotting meat and old ale, mixed with the mouldy smell of the pile of fisherman’s netting, turned black and slimy with age, where he now stood.
None of this seemed to affect Don Pedro, who now glared at Lucas.
“What are we doing here?” Lucas asked.
“I’m saving your life, that’s what we are doing here,” Don Pedro said. “Have you never been to the docks before? You never transact business like that in full view of everyone. Nobody should ever know how much money you have on your person. You hear me, boy? Never!”
Someone was scolding Lucas again and he didn’t like it. He could handle himself if this man tried anything. He didn’t need this kind of treatment. He stepped toward Don Pedro with a defiant expression.
“Do you want my business or not?” Lucas held out the coin purse again. “There are twenty reales in there. Enough to get drunk in this tavern for three days straight. And all you have to do is answer my question.”
Don Pedro considered Lucas’ offer, then snatched the coin purse away from him, squirreling it away in his pocket as he kept a keen eye on the promenade. From what Lucas could see, no one was noticing them standing there.
“I’ve only ever done one job for Pablo Ortega. He hired me to pick up some woman and bring her here to the docks.”
“Cristina Lopez,” Lucas said.
“Yes.”
“So where did you drop her off? Did she actually get on a ship?”
“She never came to Motril.”
“What?”
“I went to Salobreña to pick her up. Ortega told me she’d decided to stay and that my services weren’t needed. He paid me anyway, making me promise not to say anything. Of course, he paid me considerably less than twenty reales, which is the only reason I’m telling you now. It’s the only time in my life I’ve been paid
twice not to work,” Don Pedro said.
Lucas, aghast, hadn’t expected this.
“Is that all you wanted to know?”
“Um…yes…thank you…” Lucas said.
“Well,” Don Pedro said, in a much better mood. “If there is ever anything else you want to know, you know where to find me.” He patted Lucas’ shoulder and went back into the tavern.
Lucas, now alone in the alleyway, considered this new information. Cristina Lopez had never come to Motril. So, where was she? She could have run off on her own, somewhere Pablo Ortega couldn’t follow her. It would make sense then for Ortega to pay off Don Pedro. For Ortega needed everyone to believe Cristina had left the country in order to take over her lands, according to what Armada said. As long as she was still in Spain, his ownership of them, and the source of his wealth and power, were at risk. She could return at any time, file a lawsuit, and that would be that.
But it meant finding Cristina Lopez would now be all but impossible. If she’d run off in a way that not even Pablo Ortega knew, what hope did Lucas have of finding her? The only thing he could think of was finding someone in Salobreña who might have known her at the time. At least well enough to have an idea of where she might have gone.
There were footsteps behind Lucas, who looked up to find two of the patrons from inside the tavern approaching him in the alleyway. It was clear from their faces that they were not there to talk. One man put his hand on something tucked into his belt, something that was in the shape of a dagger handle.
“Wait, wait,” Lucas said, backing away. The men were approaching from the entrance to the promenade, which left Lucas little option but to run further up the alley to the back of the tavern. He turned and ran, and could hear that the two men behind him were not taking chase.
Lucas rounded the corner into the back of the tavern and now saw why the men were not hurrying. The alley led to the back of the tavern, which was surrounded on all sides by high stone walls. Back here, the stench of rotting meat was even more powerful, as dead pig carcasses had been piled up just outside the door, alongside a pile of broken-up wine barrels being used as firewood.
Lucas tried to scramble his way up the stone walls, but it was useless. His pursuers rounded the corner, smiling and holding their daggers in the open now. For here, they were safe. There was little chance of any witnesses.
“The money, boy. Give me the money,” one of the men growled.
“I don’t have it. I don’t have it.”
“You’re a liar,” the man said as he and his companion set upon Lucas.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As Armada made his way across the delta, he was struck by how much it had changed since he’d arrived. A week ago, he would have struggled to stay oriented on the countless twisting lanes that sliced their way between the cane fields. For they all looked very similar, lined on both sides by thick forests of cane stalks that towered over his head, their leaves so dense one could barely see a few steps into the forest.
But Armada found it quite easy to navigate now. Gone were the lush, green forests, replaced by barren, featureless swaths of empty land that now lay carpeted in a thick layer of dried leaves and other debris. The sun shone hot on his head and shoulders, and the wind dried his eyes and roared past his ears. Armada was quite far from the shoreline, but he could easily see El Peñon now, its hulking mass now the only prominent feature on this flat lifeless landscape.
It didn’t take Armada long to find his way to the cortijo. It now stood all alone in an empty landscape, vulnerable and unhidden. It meant that Armada couldn’t mask his approach as he had done before. He wouldn’t have a chance to watch the house, to get a sense of who was there and why. Anyone in that house would be able to see and hear him coming from quite a long way off. He had been warmly received the first time, but since then he’d arrested the family’s patriarch and charged him with murder. Armada had no way of knowing how betrayed they might feel.
But there was no other way.
Armada continued across the field until he arrived at Jose’s cortijo. Every step had been nerve-wracking, and a harquebus shot would not have surprised him. But he reached the cortijo without incident and strode to the front patio area, where a lone Jose sat on the edge of the table, staring off in the direction of the tip of El Peñon over the horizon, just beyond the ocean. He was again drinking that horrid brandy from before and didn’t react as Armada approached.
“I would leave if I were you,” he said without turning around.
“There are questions that need answers.”
“I don’t really care about your questions. Besides, you’re not the constable on this case anymore.”
“I’m still a constable,” Armada said. “And it’s still illegal to lie to me. Case or no case.”
Jose hopped off the table, glanced at Armada, then walked into the small locked room in the back. He returned a moment later with a harquebus, his finger hovering over the trigger. Armada had little doubt that the weapon had been cleaned and loaded and was now ready to fire. Jose was not the type for empty threats. Both men knew what was at stake.
“Right now, all I care about is getting my family back. The one you took away. At least that Frenchie constable was smart enough to realise I was innocent. My wife won’t be so easy to convince. And if I lose my family over you…”
Jose’s finger squeezed the trigger, but he stopped before the weapon fired. There was little Armada could do but hope that Jose could control himself.
“You’re right, Jose. I did take your family away, which is why I’m here now. I want to get to the truth of what happened. That way the right person can be charged with the crime. And if it wasn’t you, then tell me everything you know. Help me prove it wasn’t you.”
“I can’t trust you, Armada. Not after this. You better just get going.”
“Don’t do it for your sake. Do it for Miguel. Because that is who Bresson is looking for right now. And if he finds him, Miguel will hang. First thing tomorrow morning. Whether he is guilty or not.”
Jose’s conviction seemed to waiver at the mention of Miguel.
“Didn’t you tell him Miguel was innocent? You have proof, don’t you?”
“Yes, but Bresson has been ordered to arrest Miguel, which is exactly what he will do because he is not one to question orders the way I do.”
“That’s not my problem!”
“It is if you know something that could save him.”
Jose lowered the weapon. “I didn’t see anything. I told you. I got there after it happened.”
“Then tell me about the night you dug the canals. Why did you stop just before reaching the spring?”
“I told you. Conscience.”
Armada grinned, but it was a grin to hide frustration, a cap of sorts to hold in the anger that would boil inside him every time he heard a lie.
“I’m sorry Jose, but you’re not that stupid,” Armada said. “You are a farmer. You must think about your crops a year in advance. When to plough, when to plant, when to harvest. You watch the weather. You know the soil like your own skin. Everything you do in relation to your work is planned out well in advance. And now you’re telling me the digging of the canals was not? You can understand why that is hard to accept.”
“Yes, well, I didn’t plan that one out. It wasn’t even my idea. I didn’t want to do it.”
“Whose idea was it?”
“Amparo’s.”
The pieces of the case in Armada’s mind began to shift. That couldn’t be right.
“It was Amparo’s idea to divert the spring water into your field?”
“He’d been hounding me to do it for years,” Jose said.
“Why? He has no stake in your field, does he?”
“No. He only gets the wage I pay him, same as Enrique, same as everyone who has ever worked for me.”
“Then why was he so keen on it?”
“Work, I figured. If my field fails, he loses his job.”
Jose sighed and sat back on the table, laying the harquebus down next to him. He picked up his brandy and took a sip.
“I thought I could turn it around,” Jose said. “But every year, I ended up with a little bit less. Taxes go up. Then a drought. Then another drought. Then one year the seeds are no good. So you need a little loan to get by. Then another. And one day you wake up and realise this work you have devoted your life to…well…it’s all become a sinking ship. When they started talking about a drought this year…that was it.”
Another piece that Armada thought he had slotted into the puzzle once more did not fit.
“Tell me, how long have you been in financial difficulties like this?”
“A few years, más o menos.”
“How have you been getting by?”
“Luck, really. And it helps to have a large family to help you through the lean times.”
Armada needed a moment to think and began to pace, his hand outstretched as if he were holding a glass of sherry, which he desperately wished he had. He needed to re-evaluate everything. For if Jose were in such dire straits, how could he afford to pay Amparo his blackmail money? He could hardly afford to feed his own family, and with a failing crop…it didn’t make any sense. The evidence of money he saw in the house Amparo and Madalena shared was far more than Jose could ever afford to give him.
This led to one question: what if Jose wasn’t the person whom Amparo was blackmailing? This removed Jose’s motivation to kill Amparo.
A harsh truth now stared Armada in the face—Jose was innocent. And Amparo’s killer was still out there.
“What do you know about Amparo and Madalena’s finances? Were they getting by on what Amparo made?”
Jose smiled. “More than that, Armada, and you know it. He was getting money from somewhere. He didn’t buy that bed just from what I’ve paid him.”
“Any idea where it could have come from?”
“No,” Jose said, not looking at Armada.
Was it a lie? It was hard for Armada to tell. Jose’s body was still relaxed, leaning against the stone wall, the harquebus butt now on the ground, his meaty fingers wrapped around the top of the barrel as if it were a walking stick. There was no awkwardness, no shifting his weight about, no eyes darting round. Just a sorrowful gaze toward the horizon.
A Murder Most Spanish Page 17