The Butcher Beyond (20 page)

Trujillo made a sudden gurgling sound, and collapsed. Only to reveal that he had not been alone! Only to reveal that another man had been standing right behind him!

The hand containing de la Vega's pistol had been hanging loosely by his side. Now he started to bring it up so that he could take aim at the intruder. But he had left it too late. Far too late. He had scarcely begun to bend his elbow when he felt a sharp stabbing pain in his chest, and knew that he was finished.

P
aco Ruiz had a glass of white wine in front of him, and was staring thoughtfully in the direction of the beach.

Woodend, feeling a little awkward and a little embarrassed, sat down opposite him. ‘I don't suppose you could ask the waiter to bring me a beer, could you?' he asked.

Paco looked up. ‘Of course I could ask. It is a very small request. I would do it for anyone.'

‘You're angry with me, aren't you?' Woodend said.

‘I am … disappointed,' Paco replied, choosing his words carefully. ‘But not so much with you as with the predicament we both find ourselves in. I have been telling myself that if I had been in your position, I would not have rejected the help of a man who obviously had so much to contribute to the investigation.'

‘I thought I explained that—'

‘Yet there is at least a part of me which suspects that if I had found myself in your shoes, I would have done exactly as you did – because I would have felt there was no other choice.' Paco paused, and took a sip of his wine. ‘Of course,
given
the situation as it is, I feel under absolutely no obligation to tell you what
I
have discovered.'

‘The situation's changed,' Woodend said.

Paco raised his right eyebrow, but so slightly that Woodend might almost have missed it. ‘In what way?' the Spaniard asked.

‘I can't solve this case alone,' Woodend admitted. ‘I'm probably doomed to failure even with you – but without you it's a dead certainty.'

Paco smiled. ‘I lied earlier.'

‘You mean, when you said you weren't angry with me?'

‘Perhaps that was a lie, too. But only a small one. The
big
lie was that I felt under no obligation to tell you what I'd found out. I'm only an
ex
-policeman on paper. In my head, I'm still a cop, and I couldn't withhold information from a brother officer. It simply isn't in my nature.'

Woodend grinned. ‘Well then, you'd better tell me what you've come up with, hadn't you?'

‘You told me López was making no effort with the case,' Paco said. ‘Coming from outside Spain, you had no idea why that might be. But I live here, and I knew immediately. If López was giving up the opportunity to make a name for himself by solving the crime, it had to be because someone much more powerful was ordering him not to. And the most powerful person in this town is the
Alcalde
. I went to see him this morning. I acted a little, I lied a little, and I learned that Durán not only knows about Medwin and his friends, but he is afraid of them.'

‘I spoke to my sergeant this evening,' Woodend said. ‘She told me that Medwin was in Spain from 1936 to 1939. He was a member of the International Brigade. He fought against Franco's fascists.'

He had expected Ruiz to be impressed – and perhaps even surprised – but the other man merely nodded and said, ‘Yes, that is exactly what he did. He must have seen many of his comrades die, but I don't think he expected to see any of them die on that beach just down there.'

‘What!' Woodend said.

Paco Ruiz smiled again. ‘Ah, so you are unaware of that particular black event from our recent history,' he said.

‘You know I am, you cocky bugger,' Woodend said, without rancour. ‘But I'd certainly bloody like to find out!'

Paco told him about the ambush, and about the boxes which the
brigadistas
had been carrying.

‘I don't think they were killed as an act of war,' he concluded. ‘I think they were killed for the boxes.'

‘An' what was in them?'

‘I don't know, but it must have been something valuable. I talked to an old man who told me that Durán had nothing at the start of the war, yet by the end of it he was a rich man. I think he
became
rich that night on the beach. He killed around forty men to get what he wanted, but he didn't kill Medwin. Not then. He had to wait nearly another thirty years to do that.'

‘So there's no doubt in your mind that Durán either killed Medwin himself, or else had him killed?'

‘None at all.'

‘And do you have any idea as to how we'll go about proving it?'

‘Again, none at all.'

Durán had gone to bed, but sleep had eluded him. Now he was back in his office, staring gloomily at the mountain of files he had piled up on his desk.

He'd got away with a great deal in his time, he thought. Or rather, he had been
allowed
to get away with a great deal. But if he was once found guilty of this one big thing, then all the blind eyes which had been turned to him in the past would suddenly be open – all the understanding nods in his direction quickly denied.

They'd crucify him!

‘See what we've done?' those responsible for his prosecution would say to the foreign press. ‘You write that we are corrupt, but we are not. Doesn't the very fact that we have punished this man for his corruption prove just how honest the rest of us are?'

So the secret of the boxes must
never
come out. It must be hidden at all cost. And that meant, did it not, that he would be forced to give Captain López whatever he asked for?

Or did it
really
mean that?

López was safe enough for the moment – he was still too valuable for any harm to come to him – but once he had done what was necessary for the cover-up, he would be about as useful as a stomach ulcer. And there was only one way to deal with stomach ulcers!

Many men – even important men like captains in the Guardia Civil – had been known to have accidents. If López's car should happen to crash into a stone wall and burn up, who would think to examine the driver's charred remains for bullet holes?

Durán heard the door to the office click open.

‘Not now, Luis,' he said. ‘I'm busy. Come to my bedroom when it's light again, and then we'll spend a little time together.'

His visitor laughed – but it did not sound like Luis's laugh. With an effort, Durán twisted round, so that his huge body was facing the door.

‘What are you doing here?' he demanded.

‘What do you think I'm doing here?' the visitor asked.

It was then that Durán noticed the knife in his visitor's hand, and the panic began to set in.

‘We had a deal,' he said.

‘Yes, we did,' the visitor agreed. ‘The only problem is, I'm not sure I can trust you not to go back on it.'

‘I … I … You have my word.'

‘The word of a man who would gun down nearly fifty men for the sake of the treasures they were carrying with them?'

‘That was war!'

‘It was
greed
, Don Antonio.'

‘And are you any less greedy?'

‘No, but I am wiser. I would certainly not leave myself as exposed to my enemies as you have.'

Durán nervously licked his thick lips, which were suddenly as dry as the desert sands.

‘Our deal is not set in stone,' he said. ‘If you are not happy with the terms, I'm sure we could renegotiate it.'

‘Oh no, it's far too late for that,' his visitor told him.

H
e is lying on his front, his face pressing down on something soft and friable – and he doesn't know why. Around him are the sounds of loud explosions and men screaming – and he can't explain them, either. He sticks out his tongue and licks the earth, as if that, in some strange way, will explain to him where he is and what he is doing there. But it isn't earth at all. It is something altogether stickier and more cloying. It's … it's sand!

‘Are you all right, Sarge?' asks a desperate voice somewhere to his right.

Since the question has nothing to do with him, he decides to ignore it. His task – his only real concern – is to work out why he's in a children's sand pit when there is obviously something very important going on beyond the bounds of the playground.

‘Sergeant Woodend, are you all right?' the voice asks again.

Sergeant Woodend!
His
name is Woodend. Maybe the voice is talking to him after all.

It's all coming back to him. The landing craft. Being up to his knees in water. The hail of bullets which greeted him as he waded to the shore. The explosion, once he was on the beach, which threw him into the air, twisted him round, and made him bellyflop on to the sand.

He is in Normandy. This is D-Day and the Allied Armies, of which he is one small part, are invading France.

Palms flat against the sand, he raises his trunk off the ground. ‘I'm fine, Hawkins,' he says.

‘Thank God for that!' Lance Corporal Hawkins says – and sounds as if he really means it!

Woodend climbs shakily to his feet – and almost wishes he hadn't. Men who had been alive only minutes earlier are now sprawled out dead on the sand. Limbs, which until recently had been part of entire bodies, now lie useless and alone.

There is even a complete head – jaggedly severed at the neck – resting on the sand like a ball left over from a game of beach football. Woodend recognizes the head as having once belonged to the lieutenant in charge of his platoon.

Even without the noise – even playing as a silent movie – the scene would be enough to convince those on the beach that they had landed in the very jaws of hell. But there is noise enough, and more. The explosions, the screams, the swearing, the praying and the whimpering – they all swirl together to create a soundtrack that even the Devil himself would have been hard pushed to create.

Woodend looks up to the cliffs. He can see the gun emplacements which are causing all the damage – all the death and destruction. He even thinks he can see – though he must surely be imagining it – the looks on the faces of the men manning those guns – terrified faces, faces as full of a sense of horror as the faces of the men on the beach. And it gives him new strength – gives him the will to fight back.

‘Regroup the men,' he shouts at Hawkins. ‘We have to knock out some of them bloody batteries before they can do any more soddin' damage.'

It never even occurs to him that he'll live through this nightmare, but he will. It never enters his mind that he'll be awarded a medal for his part in it, but that will happen, too.

They are halfway up the cliffs, and the explosions seem even louder than they were on the beach. Woodend is convinced the noise will burst his ear drums, that even if he does survive – as by now he thinks he just might – he will be stone deaf for the rest of his life.

He urges his men ever onwards – and the sounds change. Now it is not so much detonations he is hearing, it is simply a loud banging. It puzzles him. It is almost like … almost like knuckles being rapped against wood.

Woodend opened his eyes. ‘Wait on!' he half-shouted, half-mumbled, as he climbed out of bed. ‘Wait on, I'm gettin' there as quick as I can.'

There were two Guardia Civil privates standing in the hallway.

‘Come!' one of them said.

‘What?'

‘Come! Now!'

‘Where?'

‘
Capitán
López. He want see you.'

López was sitting at a table in the bar next to Woodend's hotel. He had a glass of brandy in front of him, and from the flushed look on his face, the Chief Inspector guessed that it was not his first.

Woodend sat down. ‘Is there a problem?' he asked.

‘The
Alcalde
is dead,' López said in a shaky voice. ‘Murdered.'

‘When did this happen?'

‘Some time early this morning. His bodyguards are also dead, but that does not matter.'

‘It doesn't?'

‘Of course not. Madrid does not care about the fate of two nonentities from the provinces. But the
Alcalde
– a man who was to be Regional Governor – is a different matter. Unless I arrest the killers, my head is on the block.'

‘In that case, I'm surprised you've not fitted up some poor bastard for the murder already,' Woodend said.

‘You're not listening,' López replied bitterly. ‘Since the
Alcalde
was
so
important, this is no longer merely a little local murder. The international press will be following the case.'

‘So you'll have to have some
real
proof before you make an arrest,' Woodend mused. ‘Which means that, for once, you'll be forced to do some proper detective work.'

‘Exactly,' López agreed, and if he noticed the implied insult at all, it did not really seem to bother him.

Woodend stood up. ‘Well, all I can do, now that it's a purely Spanish matter, is to wish you good luck,' he said.

‘But it is
not
purely a Spanish matter,' López said.

‘The victims are Spanish.'

‘But all the main suspects are foreigners. And two of them are English.'

‘You don't know for sure that one – or several – of those foreigners actually committed the murders,' Woodend pointed out.

‘Don't I? Do you doubt it yourself?'

Woodend remembered the dream he had been so rudely awoken from by the arrival of the two Guardia Civil constables. The
brigadistas
who had been ambushed on the beach in Benicelda must carry similar memories around in their own heads – must dream similar dreams – and, unlike the soldiers involved in the Normandy landing, they could put a name and a face to the man responsible for the hell they had been forced to live through.