The Butcher Beyond (5 page)

For the first time since events had begun to unfold, Woodend began to consider the incongruity of the position he had allowed himself to blunder into. He was not a policeman here in Spain. He had no official standing of any kind. And he certainly had no business examining the body of a man who had died in violent circumstances.

He heard two sets of footsteps descending the steps he had so recently come down himself. He looked up. The two men were both carrying large torches in their hands, so all he could make out were a couple of black shapes behind the shining lights.

Woodend climbed to his feet, and waited. It seemed to take an inordinate amount of time for the men to complete their descent, but then, he thought, why
should
they hurry?

Finally they reached his level, and he could get a better look at them. They were both dressed in the same olive-green uniform as the policeman who had been watching from the hotel lobby earlier in the day, but while one of them was scarcely more than a boy, the other was in his middle thirties.

It was the older one who spoke.
‘¿Qué pasa aquí?'

‘I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't know any Spanish,' Woodend said, apologizing for his ignorance of the language for perhaps the tenth time that day.

‘
¿Inglés?
' the older policeman asked. ‘English?'

‘That's right.'

‘You were touching the body!' the Spaniard said accusingly. ‘I saw you do it! Why?'

‘I wanted to see if there was any chance that he was still alive,' Woodend replied.

The Spanish policeman snorted contemptuously. ‘You think a man can fall from such a high place and still live?'

‘I didn't think it was likely, but I thought it was best to check.'

The policeman turned to his younger companion, and said something in very rapid Spanish. The younger man immediately reached down to his belt, withdrew his pistol, and pointed it at Woodend.

‘Listen—' Woodend began, feeling his mouth start to dry out.

‘No,
you
listen!' the older policeman interrupted. ‘We are going to arrest you on suspicion of murder. If you try to resist us in any way, we will shoot you without hesitation.'

I
t was a very small car for a big man like Woodend to be crammed into the back of, and the situation was certainly not made any easier by the fact that his hands were cuffed behind him. Most of the people he'd arrested in his time would have complained bitterly about the situation, but the Chief Inspector did not bother. He was uncomfortable because he was
meant
to be uncomfortable. It was all part of the older policeman's strategy.

The little car sped through the narrow streets until it reached the edge of the town. Neither of the policemen in the front of the vehicle said a word – even to each other – during the course of the journey, and Woodend was damned if he'd give them the satisfaction of him being the first one to break the silence.

The car slowed as it approached what looked like an army barracks, then came to a complete halt when it reached a stone archway blocked by a pair of heavy metal gates. Two uniformed men, both holding sub-machine guns in their hands, appeared out of the shadows. Though they must already have known who the occupants of the vehicle were, one of them still stepped closer – as if to make absolutely sure – before giving a nod to his companion. Then the guards opened the gates, and the car edged slowly into an enclosed courtyard. Once it was completely inside, the gates were closed again.

Two new policemen appeared from inside the building. One of them opened the back door of the car and half-assisted – half-pulled – Woodend into the courtyard. Taking an arm each, the men frogmarched him into the building, down a corridor, and into a room which contained only a table, three chairs, a large portrait of General Franco, and a very powerful desk light. Still without having said a word, the men led Woodend over to one of the chairs, slammed him down on to it, and left the room, locking the door behind them.

Woodend's wrists chafed against the handcuffs, but he had more on his mind than merely physical discomfort.

He did not know how the Spanish police operated, but he'd already seen enough to realize that when the metal gates had closed behind him, he had entered a world in which the rules of police interrogation, as he knew them, simply did not apply.

He wondered how he would handle the interrogation when it eventually got under way, and accepted that it was not up to him – that the initiative was in the hands of his captors, and all he could do was react.

How long would they keep him waiting?

Half an hour? An hour? Even longer than that?

Had he been in their place, he would have left it for about forty minutes – just long enough for him to become seriously concerned.

He calculated that around forty-five minutes had passed before the door opened again, and the older of the two policemen who had arrested him entered the room.

‘I am Captain López of the Guardia Civil,' he said.

‘And I am—'

‘I know who you are.'

López sat down opposite him, and Woodend studied the face of the man who was to be his interrogator.

López was handsome in the way that the Latinate idols in the Saturday morning matinees of Woodend's childhood had been handsome. He was moustachioed, but his moustache was neatly trimmed and, unlike the ones sported by most of the other Spanish policemen Woodend had seen that night, did not resemble some fat hairy caterpillar which had fallen asleep above his lip. The Captain's eyes were quick and cold, his wide mouth was edged with thin lips. He was what, in Lancashire, would be called ‘a nasty piece of work'.

‘I'd appreciate it if you'd take these handcuffs off me, Captain,' Woodend said.

‘I'm sure you would,' López agreed. He reached into the pocket of his jacket, extracted a packet of cigarettes, and lit one up. ‘Tell me about the man you killed tonight.'

Woodend knew he should have been expecting it – or something very like it – but the comment still knocked the stuffing out of him.

‘I didn't kill anybody!' he protested.

López laughed scornfully. ‘You are staying in the room next to the dead man's at the hotel,' he said. ‘It would have been easy for you to go into his room, strike him on the head, and then throw him over the balcony.'

‘So I murdered him, did I? An' what did I do next? I asked the receptionist to call the police, an' then I waited around for you to come an' arrest me!'

López raised an eyebrow. ‘Is that a confession?'

‘Of course it's not a bloody confession!' Woodend said exasperatedly. ‘If I had killed him, would I have gone down to the body? Would
you
have gone down to the body, if
you'd
been the killer?'

‘But I was
not
the killer.'

‘An', as I've already said, neither was I. But let's pretend for the moment that I was. What would have been the point in my goin' to look at the body?'

‘Perhaps you wished to make absolutely sure that he was truly dead,' López suggested.

‘I want to see my consul,' Woodend told him.

‘There will be plenty of time for that,' López said easily.

‘I demand to see him now.'

The Captain laughed again, with more genuine humour to his tone this time. ‘According to your documentation, you are a policeman. But you should not confuse your kind of policeman with my kind of policeman. Do you understand what I am saying?'

‘I'm not sure.'

‘Perhaps it would make things clearer for you if I told you two important things about the Guardia Civil. Shall I?'

‘Why not? It'll help to pass the time.'

‘The first thing is about our especial nature. We are not part of the community, as I believe the police in England are. We live in barracks, even when we are married and have families. And we never police the area in which we were raised. I was born in Leon, and the men who serve under me come from all parts of Spain – except this one. Then there is our motto –
Toda por la patria
. Do you know what that means, Señor Woodend?'

‘No.'

‘All for the fatherland. Note the words carefully. All for Spain. Not for the
Spanish
, but for
Spain
. In this country, the state is much more important than the individual. Do you see the significance of that?'

‘I'd have to be pretty thick not to,' Woodend told him. ‘You said there were two things. What's the second one I should know?'

‘When the Generalissimo first attempted to seize power from the rabble of Jews, Freemasons and Communists who controlled this country in 1936, there were many who opposed him. But the Guardia Civil did not. It gave him its wholehearted support. The Generalissimo has a long memory – both with regard to his friends and with regard to his enemies.'

‘So what you're sayin' is that you can do pretty much what you like. An' that if you don't want me to see my consul, then I won't?'

‘Exactly.'

This time it was Woodend who laughed.

‘Have I said something amusing?' López asked, puzzled.

‘We're not as different as you seem to think, you an' me,' Woodend told him. ‘Oh, I might have approached the interrogation from another angle entirely, but I'd still have had the intention of makin' the feller I was questionin' feel just as helpless an' friendless as you're tryin' to make me feel now.'

López smiled, ruefully. ‘You seem to have seen through my game.'

‘Now that's
another
trick I'd have used,' Woodend said.

‘What is?'

‘Lettin' the feller I was interrogatin' think that he understood exactly what I was doin' – an'
why
I was doin' it. Lettin' him believe that though I might not know it myself, he was really the one in control.'

López's smile was replaced by a frown. ‘Why were you following this man Holloway?' he demanded.

‘I wasn't followin' him.'

‘Of course you were. You bring your wife along with you, to make us think that this is an innocent holiday. But the true purpose of your visit to Spain was to keep this man Holloway under observation. What had he done? What crime do you suspect him of?'

‘You don't really think I killed him at all, do you?' Woodend said.

‘I am asking the questions here.'

‘That particular accusation – pretendin' to suspect me – was just part of the softenin'-up process, which also included the handcuffs an' the long silences. But it makes no difference. I never saw Holloway until today, an' I've no idea who he is, or where he comes from. But why do you need my co-operation anyway? Why don't you simply get somebody in your Ministry of Justice to contact the Central Records Office at Scotland Yard, an' find out what
they've
got on him?'

‘To do that, we would first have to know who the man really was,' López said.

Another trick? Woodend asked himself.

No, he didn't think so.

‘So Holloway's passport was a forgery, was it?' he asked.

López nodded. ‘And not a particularly good one,' he said. ‘It should have fooled neither the official at the airport nor the clerk on duty at the hotel. Their incompetence will have to be investigated thoroughly, and action must be taken to ensure that such a mistake does not happen again.'

‘So what do
you
think this feller who called himself Holloway was really doin' here?' Woodend asked casually.

‘I do not …' López began. Then he pulled himself up short. ‘You can save me – and yourself – a great deal of time by telling me all that you know immediately.'

What
did
he know? Woodend asked himself.

He knew that Holloway had been uneasy about being in Spain at all, yet had seemed to be on familiar territory. He knew that though Holloway and the man in the check jacket had pretended not to recognize each other, something – a message of some kind – had passed between them on the square in front of the church. And he knew that someone – possibly the man in the check jacket – had had an argument with Holloway which had come to blows, and that then Holloway had tipped over the balcony.

But how much of this information was he willing to share with the Captain? It was perfectly possible that the man in the check jacket had nothing at all to do with the murder. So would it be fair to surrender him to someone like Captain López? Woodend didn't think so.

‘I heard an argument in the room next to mine,' he said. ‘It was between two men, one of whom – I assume – was the man I know as Holloway. I went on to my own balcony just in time to see Holloway fall off his. An' that's about it.'

‘You know, of course, that Holloway was attacked before he fell,' López said.

‘Do I?'

‘You were bending over the body for some time. Certainly long enough to discover that he had received a blow to the head.'

‘You really do need to make up your mind what part I'm supposed to be playin' in this investigation, you know,' Woodend said.

‘What do you mean?'

‘Why am I here? Am I a suspect? Am I a witness? Am I fellow officer who you want to consult about the crime? Or am I just another bloody foreigner, who you're havin' fun pushin' around? Make your choice, an' we'll see where we go from there.'

‘You do not realize the seriousness of your position,' López said threateningly.

‘Bollocks!' Woodend countered.

López frowned again. ‘Bollocks?' he repeated. ‘What does that mean? I do not know the word.'

‘Try
cojones
then,' Woodend suggested helpfully.

‘You told me you did not speak Spanish,' López accused.

‘Nor do I. But I picked up a few words from the Spanish wife of one of my inspectors. Very fond of that expression, is Maria. Because in England – just like in Spain – there's a lot of
cojones
about.'