The Butcher Beyond (19 page)

Durán felt himself start to tremble, though he was still not quite sure what it was he had to be afraid of. ‘What do you mean?' he asked.

‘After Ruiz left your house, I had him followed. I fully expected an ex-detective like him to spot his tail eventually, but he didn't. Perhaps Ruiz has lost his edge. Or maybe he was simply so intent on his investigation that nothing else seemed to exist for him. Which do you think it was, Your Excellency?'

López paused, as if he expected some response to his question.

‘I don't know, and I don't care,' Durán said. ‘I have no interest at all in the man.'

López grinned. ‘You should have,' he said, ‘because Ruiz obviously has a great deal of interest in you. He talked to several people during the course of the day, and though most of them were far too lowly to have anything at all to do with such an eminent man as yourself, it was you they discussed. And here is the important point, Your Excellency – after Ruiz talked to them, my man did, too.'

‘I see,' Durán said heavily.

‘What they had to tell him – these people of no apparent consequence – was very illuminating. So illuminating, in fact, that I – unlike that fool of an English policeman – have almost a complete picture of what has been going on. Why don't you show me the photographs?'

‘What photographs?'

‘The ones which you carelessly left lying around on your desk yesterday, and which you have since, no doubt – now that it is far too late – locked away in a drawer.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' Durán protested.

‘Show me the photographs!' López repeated.

Durán opened a drawer, took out the pictures, and handed them across the desk.

López examined one of them closely. ‘A group of men in an olive grove,' he said. ‘I would guess this was taken in March 1939, just before Alicante fell to the Generalissimo's victorious army. Would I be right?'

‘You'd be right,' Durán agreed.

‘The faces are not very clear, but it is certainly easier to distinguish them when you know what you're looking for.' López pointed to the head of one of the figures. ‘I would say this is Medwin. Am I right?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘This one looks like Sutcliffe. And here is Mitchell, the American. How did you know they had returned? Were you still watching for them – even after all these years?'

‘It is always wise for a man in my position to take precautions,' Durán said.

‘Yes, I can understand that,' López agreed, ‘because if I'd been in
their
position, I'd certainly have done all within my power to pay you a return visit. So, they came back – and you were faced with a real dilemma. You could not have them thrown into prison, because you were afraid that once they were locked up they would start telling stories you would much rather have left untold. So what did you do? You killed one of them, in the hope that it would panic the others into running away.'

‘I did no such thing!'

‘Oh, not personally. You are too old and too fat to do your own killing any more. But you
arranged
for him to be killed. The problem was, they didn't run away, did they? And now you were facing an even worse problem. They were the natural suspects for the murder, and you were afraid that if I arrested one of them, he would tell me all about what happened in March 1939.'

‘I swear I did not order Medwin's death,' Durán said.

‘Medwin's death is not really important one way or the other,' López said. ‘He was a
brigadista
, which in the Generalissimo's eyes makes him a war criminal. It could never be openly acknowledged that you had him killed, but it certainly would not have done your career any harm. What
would
have harmed you – and can
still
harm you – is the secret which you hoped Medwin's death would bury for ever.'

‘I do not know what you are talking about,' Durán said – but he did not sound convincing, even to himself.

‘In March 1939, the
Caudillo
issued a directive that anything of value which was captured from the fleeing enemy was to be handed over to the new military authorities,' López said. ‘Do you remember that directive?'

‘No. I never saw it.'

‘You're lying. But even if you weren't, it makes no difference. Ignorance of the
Caudillo
's orders had never been any excuse for not obeying them.'

‘What do you want?' Durán asked dully.

‘Ruiz is a problem, but he is only
one
of the problems you could face over this matter. In exchange for making all these problems go away, I will require a considerable sum of money immediately – though it will be nothing you can't afford – and a fairly generous share of the pie once you are Provincial Governor.'

Durán said nothing.

‘You're wondering if I'm bluffing, aren't you?' López said.

‘So far you have put on a good show, but you have said nothing to show me that I need to fear you as much as I fear the
brigadistas
,' Durán said, with unusual candour.

‘Then why don't you let me ask you two questions?' López suggested.

‘Why should I?'

‘Because if you can answer them honestly – and without fear – then I have no hold on you at all.'

‘Ask them.'

‘The first question is this: what was in the boxes the
brigadistas
were carrying when they were ambushed on the beach?'

Durán gulped. ‘And what is your second question?' he asked.

‘The second is: what happened to those boxes after most of those
brigadistas
had been killed?'

‘W
hat would you like to do tonight, lass?' Woodend asked his wife.

Joan, who had been sitting by the window and looking out to sea, turned slowly, and with great care, to face him. ‘What would
you
like to do, Charlie?' she replied.

Woodend shrugged. ‘It's not really up to me. It should be your choice, after I've been forced to leave you on your own all day.'

A slight smile came to Joan's face. ‘Forced?' she repeated. ‘Is that what you were?'

‘It wasn't my decision, one way or the other,' Woodend said awkwardly. ‘The order came directly from the Home Office. Or from the Foreign Office. From some bloody office in London, anyway.'

‘But it didn't exactly spoil your holiday, did it?'

‘You've got it all wrong,' Woodend protested. ‘I don't
want
to work on this case.'

‘Don't want to work on the case? Or don't want to work
with that Captain López
on the case?'

‘He'll never find the killer,' Woodend said, all the exasperation of the day coming out in a burst of emotion he knew he should never have allowed to be released. ‘I don't even think he
wants
to find him!'

‘So it is
him
, rather than
the case
, that you object to?'

Woodend sighed. ‘Look, love, if you want me off the investigation, you've only to say so.'

‘What about your orders?'

‘Sod the bloody orders! I'm on holiday. They can't make me work if I don't want to. An' if I get a bollockin' when we get back to Whitebridge, well, it won't be the first bollockin' I've ever had, will it?'

Joan was silent for a moment. Then she said, ‘They've been talkin' about the case on the wireless.'

‘The wireless. But how could you understand what they were sayin', when you don't speak Spanish?'

‘I was listenin' to the BBC World Service.'

‘However did you manage that?'

‘I was listenin' on the short-wave radio we brought with us. Why do you think the case was so heavy?'

‘I didn't even know that we owned a short-wave radio,' Woodend admitted.

‘There's a lot of things that go on in our house you don't know about, Charlie Woodend,' Joan said. ‘A vast amount of things, if truth be told. But we're gettin' off the point I was about to make. They seemed to think on the wireless that this Medwin was a nice feller.'

‘Accordin' to what Monika told me when she rang up – an' what I've found myself – that's just what he was. When he was a lad, he risked his life fighting for a decent life for other people. When he became a boss, he was a
good
boss who never forgot his roots. There aren't many workin'-class heroes about, but I think Pete Medwin was one of them.'

‘An' you really do think there's no chance that López will find his murderer?'

‘Not a cat in hell's chance.'

‘So what are you goin' to do about it?'

‘I beg your pardon?' Woodend said.

‘López won't find the killer, and you won't find the killer either, as long as you're workin'
with
López. So what are you goin' to do about it?'

‘I don't know.'

Joan's eyes narrowed, as they always did when she was looking right into his mind. ‘You don't
know
– but you've had some thoughts on the matter, haven't you?' she said.

‘Well,' Woodend replied cautiously, ‘since López doesn't seem to be playin' it by the rules, I don't see the need to stick to them myself any longer.'

‘An' what does that mean, exactly?'

‘It means, I suppose, that I've been considerin' havin' a talk to a man who
does
seem to care about the case.'

‘Paco Ruiz?'

‘That's right.'

‘An' where do you think Paco might be right now?'

‘I don't know.'

‘Guess!'

‘It's more than likely he'll be havin' a drink at one of the bars near the church.'

‘Then you'd better get your skates on, hadn't you?' Joan said. ‘Otherwise, you might miss him.'

Luis de la Vega sat alone in the kitchen of the
Alcalde
's villa. He had a perfect right to be there – or in any other part of the house, for that matter – because although in theory he was no more than the chauffeur, in practice he performed a number of other significant roles.

He was the bodyguard, which was why he always carried the pistol now lying on the table in front of him. He was the butler, supervising the ordering of the wine and instructing the cook what to prepare for the
Alcalde
's meals. He helped the Mayor to dress and get out of the bath. And – though neither of them would have dared to admit it in a country run by a dictator who paid at least
lip service
to all the teachings of the Catholic Church – he had, for the previous two years, been Durán's lover.

It would not have been true to say that de la Vega relished the thought of visiting the
Alcalde
's bed, but he did not
particularly
mind it either, and if half an hour or so of discomfort was all it took to attach himself to a man who was going places, then it was a price he was perfectly willing to pay.

What he
did
mind was the arrival to the villa of Pedro Trujillo, another young man with slim hips and a knowing look in his eye.

‘We do not need this man, Don Antonio,' he had protested.

‘He's is not here to take your place, my dear Luis,' the
Alcalde
had said soothingly.

‘Then why
is
he here?'

‘To assist you – to take some of the weight off you.'

And what sort of weight was he talking about? de la Vega wondered. The weight of the
Alcalde
pressing down on him in the bedroom?

‘I do not need an assistant,' he'd said sulkily.

‘He will only be here at night.'

‘At night!' de la Vega exploded. ‘At
night
.'

‘Night is when there is most danger,' the
Alcalde
explained. ‘There are bad men in town, men who wish me harm. I would be happier if I had two of you protecting me.'

‘And that is all he is here for? To protect you?'

‘Yes.'

‘Not to supervise your meals? Not to help you dress? Not to—'

‘Just to protect me.'

Well, if that really
was
all it meant, no real harm could come from it, de la Vega supposed. After all, the
Alcalde
could not betray him with a man who was on constant guard duty.

That was where Trujillo was at that moment. On guard duty. Checking the grounds.

I'll keep the bastard busy, de la Vega thought vindictively. So busy that even if Don Antonio gives him the eye, he'll be too tired to respond.

There was a sudden urgent tapping on the grille which covered the kitchen window. De la Vega first reached for his pistol, then asked, ‘Who is it?'

‘It's me!' a voice said, almost in a whisper. ‘Pedro!'

‘You should be on patrol.'

‘I have been. That's why—'

‘This is inexcusable! You leave me no choice but to report to Don Antonio in the morning that you have been negligent in your duties.'

‘You must come outside, Luis!' Trujillo said urgently. ‘You must come now!'

‘But why?'

‘I cannot explain. You must see for yourself.'

The man was not so much a rival as a fool, de la Vega thought. His weapon still firmly in his right hand, he stood up and slid back the bolts on the door with his left.

‘Come in,' he said, opening the door.

‘I cannot come in,' Trujillo said desperately. ‘You must come out.'

‘But why …?'

‘Please!'

De la Vega sighed heavily. He would certainly tell Don Antonio all about this is the morning, he thought, and then perhaps the
Alcalde
would realize that the new boy was more of a hindrance than a help.

Nevertheless, he did step outside. Trujillo was standing close to the door, but in the shadows. And there was something wrong with him, de la Vega thought. He seemed much broader than he had earlier. And while his two arms were clearly hanging by his sides, he seemed to have developed a third arm which he had somehow managed to wrap around his own throat.