The Butcher Beyond (27 page)

‘I clean this room every day,' she said. ‘I do a good job – a thorough job – just as they taught me to.'

‘I'm sure you do.'

‘The last time I cleaned it was just before the policemen came.'

‘Which time? The first? Or the second?'

‘The first. I cleaned all the cupboards – even in the corners. And then I turned over the mattress, and saw that something was hidden there. It must have been valuable, don't you think, or the
señor
would not have bothered to hide it like that?'

‘Valuable to him, at least,' Paco agreed. ‘What did you do when you'd turned the mattress?'

‘I put it back where I found it. And now it is gone! The
señor
cannot have taken it away, because he has not been back. And the room has been kept locked, except when the police were here. So
where
has it gone? They will blame me. I know they will blame me.'

‘No one will blame you,' Paco said soothingly. ‘I promise you that.'

‘Truly?'

‘Truly. Now tell me exactly what this valuable thing you found under the mattress was.'

And the maid did.

W
oodend had almost reached the main exit of the hospital when he felt a tap on his shoulder. He stopped and turned around, to find himself facing a tired-looking young man in a white coat.

‘You are Señor Woodend,' the man asked.

‘That's right.'

‘I am Doctor Sanchez.'

‘Are you one of the doctors who looked after my wife?'

‘No, I … I have been very busy with another patient. That is why I am here now. This patient of mine is dying, but he wants very much to talk to you. Will you come?'

‘I'd be glad to, if it'll help, but I don't
really
see what good I can do for him,' Woodend said. ‘Are you sure it's me he wants to see?'

The doctor nodded. ‘He was very insistent about it.'

‘But I'm not a doctor, or a priest. I'm a policeman.'

‘I know. He kept saying, “Get me the English cop. I need to talk to the English cop.”'

It was the slight American twang the doctor put into the last few words which gave it away.

‘This patient of yours isn't called Mitchell, by any chance, is he?' Woodend asked.

‘That is the man,' the doctor agreed.

They had put Mitchell in an isolation room at the end of a long corridor. The air was full of the cleansing scent of antiseptic, but even that didn't quite manage to mask the stink of impending death.

Mitchell himself was lying on the room's single bed, though his wasted body seemed to make hardly any impression in the mattress. His face had turned the colour of sulphur, and despite all the drugs that had been pumped into him, it was clear that he was still suffering agonies.

His eyes flickered, acknowledging Woodend's presence. ‘Whatever else you might tell me, don't – for God's sake – try to persuade me that this is just a temporary relapse,' he said.

‘I won't,' Woodend promised him. ‘You're dyin', Mr Mitchell, and we both know it.'

Mitchell forced a grin to his pain-wracked face. ‘They promised me another month at least. Think I can sue?'

Woodend returned the grin. ‘No harm in tryin'. What was it you wanted to see me about?'

‘I don't suppose there's any point in my confessing to having killed Durán and his bodyguards, is there?'

‘None. I've got a boss back in England who'll believe almost anythin' if it suits him, but even
he
wouldn't swallow the idea that you'd had the strength to carry out the murders.'

Mitchell's eyes flickered ‘In that case, I want you to find
another
way to get Sant released,' he said.

‘I'm not one to turn down a dyin' man's request,' Woodend said. ‘I'd do almost anythin' you asked of me – but I can't do that.'

‘Why not? He's innocent.'

‘That's not the way the evidence points, I'm afraid.'

‘What evidence?'

‘Sant is an expert with a throwin' knife an'—'

‘He
was
an expert with a throwing knife. And I should know that better than most – I saw him use it often enough in the old days. But he couldn't do it now.'

‘Sorry, but that's not true,' Woodend said. ‘Up until recently, he was instructin' the French Foreign Legion.'

‘He taught the Legionnaires the
techniques
of his skill
.
But he couldn't demonstrate those techniques himself – not after that night on the beach.'

‘What do you mean?'

‘I told you he took a bullet in the shoulder, didn't I?'

‘Yes, you did.'

‘If we'd been able to get him medical attention right away, it might have mended properly. But we couldn't. We were on the run from Durán, and the whole of Franco's army. It was months before we got him to a doctor, and by then it was too late. Sant can't throw a knife like he used to, because he can't raise his right arm above shoulder level.'

‘I see,' Woodend said, noncommittally.

‘You don't believe me.'

‘I think it's the easiest thing in the world to fake an injury. If I'd been plannin' to do what he did, I'd have faked it an' all.'

A look of total despair crossed Mitchell's face, only to be replaced, a moment later, by the faintest shadow of fresh hope.

‘The night Durán was killed, we were all in the hotel,' he said. ‘Do you know about our sleeping arrangements?'

‘Aye. Sutcliffe shared a room with Roberts, Sant shared a room with Schneider, an' you were alone.'

‘And do you know why things were arranged in that way?'

‘Sutcliffe thinks you wanted to be alone because that would give Durán a chance to kill you – an' that just might lead to his own downfall.'

‘Yes, yes, that's what I wanted,' Mitchell said impatiently. ‘But that's not important now.'

‘Then what
is
?'

‘The way
the others
divided up.'

‘The two Englishmen shared one room, an' the Frenchman an' the German shared the other. An' that's about it, isn't it?'

‘The two Englishmen shared one room,' Mitchell said, speaking in a croak, ‘and the two
former lovers
shared the other!'

‘Funny you should come up with that,' Woodend said, ‘because, as it happens, I did ask them if they had a thing for each other.'

‘Then you could see for yourself that they were very special to each other!'

‘No. I couldn't see anythin' of the sort. The only reason I asked the question was to throw them off balance. I didn't believe it myself, an' I wasn't the least surprised when they denied it.'

‘If they denied it, they were lying.'

Woodend shook his head. ‘I'm afraid that simply won't wash,' he said.

But he was starting to think that maybe it
would
. They made an odd couple – there was no doubt about that – but he'd seen odder couples in his time.

And there was more! Schneider had denied they were homosexuals, but had cast aspersions on Sant's heterosexual virility. And Sant had done the same thing with regard to Schneider's.

There was a symmetry about it which he should have noticed before – but hadn't. It was almost as if they'd rehearsed it – almost as if they'd discussed, beforehand, what would be the best kind of smokescreen to throw up.

‘You're convinced now, aren't you?' Mitchell said.

‘Not entirely. If it was true, why didn't they come clean about it when I asked them?'

‘Because most people in the societies they come from consider it
unclean
. Schneider
is
married, and
does
have children. Sant says he has mistresses, and I believe him. They've both changed over the years – but whatever happens, first love is the hardest of all loves to destroy.'

‘Can I get confirmation from the others on this?' Woodend asked.

‘No. They don't know. If I hadn't caught them together one night – out on the
sierra
, during the Ebro Campaign – I wouldn't have known about it myself.'

‘An' you never told anybody else about it?'

‘Not a soul. It was a beautiful thing they had together, you see, but most people wouldn't have understood. Do
you
understand?'

‘Well, I'm certainly not goin' to condemn it,' Woodend said, and the moment the words were out of his mouth he realized that he believed everything Mitchell had told him.

‘I'd have taken their secret with me to the grave,' the American said. ‘But I can't – not if I'm to save Sant.'

‘You're sure they still felt the same way about each other that they used to?' Woodend asked.

‘I'm convinced of it,' Mitchell replied. ‘I've been watching them over the last few days. They were
aching
to touch one another, but they didn't dare while the others were there. Then they were given a heaven-sent opportunity. They had the chance, on grounds of security, to spend the night together. Do you understand what that meant to them?'

‘I've a pretty good idea, but I'd still rather hear it from you.'

‘Even their hatred of Durán would not have got them out of their room that night,' Mitchell said. ‘They had this one chance to relive their old passion. They wouldn't have sacrificed that for anything.'

As Woodend stepped out of the main hospital door, he saw Paco Ruiz's little car parked on the other side of the road. It shouldn't have surprised him, he thought. Nothing Paco did should
ever
surprise him.

He walked across the road and came to a halt beside the Seat.

‘How is Joan?' Paco Ruiz asked, through the open window.

‘She's goin' to have to be careful, but it looks like she'll be all right,' Woodend said.

Paco nodded his head, slowly and seriously. ‘Good!' he said. ‘Excellent!' Then he took a deep breath. ‘Sant didn't do it,' he continued, the words gushing from his mouth like water from a burst dam.

‘I know he didn't do it,' Woodend replied.

I
t was dark by the time they reached the Guardia Civil barracks, and as the double doors closed behind Paco's small car, sealing it into the courtyard, Woodend couldn't help wondering if he'd done the right thing.

The lieutenant who spoke English – and had pretended to be a private – approached them as they climbed out of the Seat.

‘Captain López will see you,' he said, addressing the remark to Woodend, ‘but you –' turning to Paco – ‘must remain here.'

‘Open the gates again, will you, lad,' Woodend said.

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘If your Captain doesn't want to see both of us, then he gets to see neither of us.'

The lieutenant flushed. ‘I think you forget where you are.'

‘An' I think you forget who I
am
,' Woodend countered. ‘You might push your own countrymen around – you shouldn't, but you might – but don't try the same thing with me, laddie. Because Her Britannic Majesty
requests an' requires
that her subjects be allowed to pass without hinder. She doesn't like it when her subjects are bossed about by foreigners, you see – especially when the subject in question happens to be a senior police officer.'

The lieutenant hesitated for a moment, then said, ‘Wait here,' and disappeared into the building.

‘That was a very pretty little speech you just made,' Paco Ruiz said.

‘Thank you.'

‘Was it rehearsed?'

‘It was spoken straight from the heart of a true Englishman born and bred, you cheeky Dago bastard,' Woodend said.

‘In other words, it
was
rehearsed.'

Woodend chuckled. ‘It was more like an improvisation on a theme,' he said. ‘I thought it might be useful to have a few well-chosen words to hand, so I was composin' them on the way over here.'

The lieutenant returned. ‘My Captain will see you both,' he said, looking at Woodend with loathing.

Captain López was sitting at his desk. His feet – clad in highly polished jackboots – were resting on an open drawer of his filing cabinet, and he made no move to get up when Woodend and Ruiz were shown into the room. Woodend was unimpressed. His boss back in England played tricks like that and – if anything – did them slightly better.

‘So what do we have here?' Captain López asked. ‘Who has come to see me in the dead of night? Why, it is none other than the Laurel and Hardy of criminal investigation.'

‘Now that
is
what you call a carefully rehearsed line,' Woodend said, in an aside to Ruiz.

‘What are you saying?' López demanded.

‘Only that you're not even
half
as relaxed as you're tryin' to look an' sound. Because if you were, you'd never have agreed to see us.'

‘Why should I not be relaxed?' López asked, almost lazily. ‘I have my murderer under lock and key.'

‘You certainly have
somebody
under lock an' key,' Woodend admitted. ‘Unfortunately, it's the
wrong
somebody. You couldn't wait for me to find the real murderer, could you, Captain? However hard you tried, you couldn't resist tamperin' with the evidence.'

‘I don't know what you're talking about,' López said. ‘Sant is an expert knife thrower—'

‘
Was
an expert knife thrower,' Woodend interrupted. ‘By the time he comes to trial, he'll have sworn statements from half a dozen French Foreign Legion doctors. An' they'll all be prepared to stake their professional reputations on their opinion that he couldn't have raised the knife
high enough
to throw it.'