The Butcher Beyond (12 page)

‘I've seen the Yank before,' the Chief Inspector admitted. ‘He was on the church square on the night of the murder. But the other four are complete strangers to me.'

‘Then allow me to enlighten you,' López said, the supercilious smile still lingering. ‘The fat man next to the American is a German by the name of Schneider. The one with the small moustache is a Frenchman called Dupont. The last two are both English. The tall one with grey hair is Sutcliffe, the shorter one with the thin face is Roberts.'

‘An' they're here because they're the ones who had the meetin' on the night Medwin was murdered?'

‘Partly. But there is much more to it than that.'

You're really goin' to make me work hard for whatever titbits of information you feed me, aren't you, you cocky young bugger? Woodend thought.

But aloud, all he said was, ‘Would you care to be a little more explicit?'

‘Of course,' López agreed. ‘Despite the fact they are from different countries, they seem to have a great deal in common.'

Woodend waited for López to say more, and when it became obvious the Spaniard was not about to, he sighed heavily and said, ‘For example?'

‘They are all roughly of the same age.'

‘I can see that for myself.'

‘They all arrived here within the last three days.'

‘A lot of people must have done that.'

‘They are all travelling alone.'

‘Yes, that is unusual.'

‘And though they were all at first staying in different hotels, last night Schneider, Sutcliffe, Roberts and Dupont all moved out of their own hotels and into the one at which Mitchell had been staying.'

‘So what does that prove?'

‘That they were all in it together.'

‘In
what
, together?'

‘I have no idea,' López admitted. ‘But I have always found interrogation an excellent way of finding out what I do not already know.'

Close to, Mitchell looked rough, Woodend decided. He must once have been a vigorous, healthy man – the sort who thought nothing of a thirty-mile hike – but now he seemed to be almost melting away as he sat there.

‘Tell us about Mr Medwin,' Woodend said.

‘Who?' the American asked. The tone was just about perfect, but the rapid blinking of his eyes gave him away.

‘Medwin,' Woodend repeated. ‘The man who was killed.'

‘I thought his name was Holloway.'

‘How long have you known him?'

‘I didn't know him at all, in any real sense of the word. I met him – briefly – on the night he died.'

‘Where did you meet him?'

‘In a bar somewhere.'

‘Was that before or after your meeting on the church square?'

‘We never met on the church square.'

‘Of course you did. You didn't look at each other, but you slipped a note into his hand as you walked past him.'

‘No, I didn't.'

‘I saw you with my own eyes, for God's sake!'

‘You're mistaken.'

‘Tell me about the meeting you're willing to
admit
that you had with him.'

‘Like I said, we met in a bar.'

‘Just the two of you?'

‘No, there were some other guys there.'

‘The same “guys” who are in the room next door?'

‘Maybe.'

‘Maybe?'

Mitchell coughed. It was a heavy cough – one which, from the pained expression on his face, seemed to be tearing his insides up.

‘To … to tell you the truth, I can't remember,' he gasped. ‘I was pretty drunk at the time.'

No, you weren't, Woodend thought. The state your body's in, it couldn't
tolerate
being ‘pretty drunk'.

‘You can't remember who any of the other men were, yet you remember Medwin was there,' Woodend said. ‘Why do you think that is?'

‘Who knows what tricks the brain plays on you when you've drowned it in booze? Maybe I remember him because he got himself killed shortly after we'd split up?'

‘What brought you all together in the first place?' Woodend wondered.

‘Pure chance. We were all strangers in a strange place. It seemed kinda natural for us to decide to have a drink together.'

‘Why did the others all move into the same hotel as you? Was it for mutual protection?'

‘Mutual protection? From what?'

‘From whoever killed Medwin.'

‘What has his murder got to do with any of us?'

‘I don't know,' Woodend admitted.

‘On the question of hotels, I remember now that we talked about them when we met in the bar that night. The other guys said they were not happy with their hotels, and I said that mine was pretty good. I didn't know that they'd checked into mine, but I can certainly understand why they might have done.'

‘So you remember discussing hotels?'

‘Yeah.'

‘But you don't remember the names and faces of the people you were discussing hotels with?'

‘I plead the Fifth,' Mitchell said. ‘The Fifth of bourbon.' He laughed at his own joke, and the laugh quickly turned into another attack of coughing. ‘Or maybe it was the Fifth of Spanish brandy,' he continued, when he could speak again. ‘I really don't remember.'

‘When was the last time you were in Spain?' Woodend asked.

‘I've never been to Spain before.'

‘Yet the waiter from the bar where you were drinking is willing to swear that you were speaking to each other in Spanish.'

‘He's mistaken.'

‘It seems that a lot of people are mistaken. I'm mistaken about the note I saw you pass to Medwin, the waiter from the bar's mistaken about the language you spoke, and probably—'

‘People do make mistakes. Nobody's perfect.'

Mitchell was finding it all an effort, Woodend thought. And not just a
mental
effort. All his brain power should have been focused on the interrogation, but it couldn't be – because he was using a large part of it to combat the
physical
pain he was experiencing.

‘Medwin was an old friend of yours, an' now he's dead,' the Chief Inspector said. ‘Don't you want to help us catch his murderer?'

‘I've said nothing at all to lead you to believe he was
any
kind of friend.' Mitchell winced as he fought back a fresh onslaught of pain. ‘And as for his killer, we'll …'

‘Yes?'

‘Nothing.'

‘You were just about to say that you'll deal with the killer yourselves, weren't you?'

‘Of course not.'

‘You may think you
know
who the killer is,' Woodend said. ‘And perhaps you do. But can you ever be sure? Say you did take justice into your own hands, an' killed the wrong man. You'd never even know it, would you? An' all the time, the real murderer would be laughin' up his sleeve at you, Mr Mitchell. Laughin' at you – and laughin' at the memory of your friend. You don't want that. Nobody would. So why don't you help us? We're the professionals. We'll make certain the right man is brought to book.'

He was getting somewhere! Woodend thought. True, he was groping in the dark. True, too, he was making big assumptions, and leaping across wide speculative gaps.
But he was still getting somewhere.
The look of indecision on Mitchell's face was all the proof of that he needed.

And then, just as it looked as if real progress was about to be made, Captain López chose to break the spell.

‘Shall I tell you what I think, Mr Mitchell?' the Guardia Civil Captain asked aggressively.

Mitchell shrugged. And in that shrug there was clear evidence of relief; relief that something had happened to make him back away from a course of action he hadn't wanted to take – but had suspected that he well might; relief that López had saved him from himself!

‘I couldn't care less whether you tell me what you think or whether you don't,' he told the Captain.

‘I think that the six of you were all part of a gang, here to commit a serious crime,' López said. ‘I do not know the exact nature of the crime – maybe you are smugglers or bank robbers, or perhaps gunrunners – but the exact details do not matter.'

‘Preposterous!' Mitchell replied.

He wasn't putting on an act, Woodend thought. He had no need to. Because it
was
preposterous!

Whatever Medwin had been planning to do in Spain, it wasn't to rob a bank or run guns. Medwin had been a National Coal Board regional manager, a man with no need to turn to crime – and López knew that as well as he did.

‘So we're international criminals now, are we?' Mitchell asked, unconcernedly. ‘And I suppose Medwin was our leader?'

‘Perhaps,' López agreed. ‘Or perhaps not. What is important is that two nights ago you had an argument with him. Maybe Medwin wanted a bigger share of the money. I don't know, and it doesn't matter. But whatever caused the quarrel, the other five decided he had to die.'

‘Pure fantasy!' Mitchell said.

‘Who pushed him off that balcony, Mr Mitchell?' López demanded. ‘Was it you? The German? The Frenchman?'

‘This is insane!'

‘My English colleague here may be fooled by your protests of innocence, but I am not,' López warned him. ‘You should remember, Señor Mitchell, that you are not in the United States of America now. Here, we do not need one quarter of the evidence to convict that would be necessary in your own country. You will all be found guilty of the murder. Make no mistake about that. And there is no Supreme Court to slow matters up. Once the verdict is given, execution quickly follows.' The Captain paused for a moment. ‘But not all of you have to die. If one of you were to give evidence against the others, he would be spared and would probably be released after only a few years in prison. And one of you
will
give evidence, I am certain of that. So why shouldn't it be you? Why should you choose to be executed, when you have the power to save yourself?'

‘Am I under arrest?' Mitchell demanded.

‘We are the ones who ask the questions here,' López snapped.

‘
Am I?
' Mitchell asked, looking directly at Woodend.

‘No,' Woodend said. ‘No, you're not.'

‘So I can leave any time I wish to?'

‘Yes, you can.' Woodend agreed. He turned to López. ‘That's correct, isn't it?'

‘If he were a Spaniard …' the Captain said.

‘But I'm
not
a Spaniard,' Mitchell countered. ‘I'm an American citizen, and I demand that my rights as such be respected. Am I to be allowed to leave, or am I to report to my consul later that I was held here against my will?'

López looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘An innocent man would not
wish
to leave,' he said. ‘An innocent man would have the strong desire to stay and help us all he could.'

‘But you don't think I
am
innocent,' Mitchell said. ‘That's the whole point. You think I'm guilty, and nothing I say is going to change your mind. Under those circumstances, I can see nothing to be gained from remaining in these barracks any longer than I have to. Which means that I would like to leave now.'

Throughout the whole interrogation two privates had been standing at the door, as still as statues. Now López turned to one of them and spat out a few words in very rapid Spanish.

‘What did you say?' Woodend asked.

‘He said I was to be shown out through the back door, so the others wouldn't see me go,' Mitchell told him.

And immediately the words were out of his mouth, he looked as if he would gladly have bitten off his own tongue.

‘You told me you didn't speak Spanish,' Woodend reminded him.

‘No, I didn't,' Mitchell replied, making what – under the circumstances – was a very quick recovery. ‘All I
actually
said was that we weren't speaking Spanish at the table that night.'

‘You also said this was your first visit to Spain.'

‘And so it is.'

‘Then why is your Spanish so good?'

‘You may not know this, Chief Inspector, but there is a large country called Mexico which borders my own. They speak Spanish there, and that is where I learned mine.'

‘I don't believe you,' Woodend told him.

‘I don't care
what
you believe,' Mitchell replied.

Woodend waited until the first constable had escorted Mitchell from the room before asking López if he would dismiss the second one as well.

‘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.'