The Exile (5 page)

‘Actually,
you
want to know what happened to him, Ana María. I don't think most of the public care one way or the other.' He saw her expression. ‘Christ, you've kept your job. Be thankful. The Guzmán investigation wasn't going anywhere in any case.' He looked down at the paper on his desk. ‘The directorate also took an interest in this right-wing group you thought were watching you, the
Centinelas
?'

She stared, suddenly anxious, trying to keep her voice natural. ‘What about them?'

‘We made extensive inquiries. They don't exist.'

‘But Judge Delgado was investigating them.' Galíndez frowned. ‘I gave him some evidence about them.'

‘Don't you read the news? Judge Delgado was impeached for improper use of public funds six weeks ago. I think you'll find he's going to be occupied for quite some time as he tries to clear his name. Those cases go on for ever.'

‘But we also had Guzmán's diary,' Galíndez persisted. ‘It was written in code.'

‘No, it wasn't.' Fuentes opened a drawer and took out a slim package wrapped in brown paper. ‘Here, you can keep it. You were right, it seemed to be in code but cryptographics finally concluded that it's just a diary.' He slide the package towards her. ‘The message from the top is no more Guzmán.' He met her gaze and held it. ‘Got that?'

Galíndez chewed her knuckle, wondering whether to argue. ‘I've got it,
jefe
.'

‘That's the spirit,' Fuentes said, more cheerful. ‘On a different note, I wondered if you'd like to come over to our place for a meal? Mercedes thought after all that's happened, you might like some home cooking. Would Sunday suit you?'

‘That would be great,
jefe
. I haven't seen your girls since you brought them in last year.'

‘They've grown.' Fuentes smiled, ‘and they're twice as much trouble. Inés still wants to be a forensic scientist.'

‘She's a bright girl.' Galíndez nodded. ‘Should I go and start work, then?'

‘Not yet. You've some leave left over from last year. I think you ought to take it.'

‘But I've only just come back.'

‘I think you're going to want to take a couple of days off.' Fuentes waved to someone standing outside the office. The door opened and Mendez came in.

‘Has she recovered from the shock?' Mendez asked.

Fuentes nodded. ‘I think so,
Sargento
. Probably time to give her another, I think.'

Mendez held out a file. ‘Present for you, Ana.'

Galíndez opened the file. ‘What's this, a welcome-back card?'

‘We got a message from a
guardia
post in the Basque country,' Mendez said. ‘The boss thought you might be interested.'

‘And what was this message from Euskadi?' The change in Galíndez's voice as she pronounced the Basque word wasn't lost on the other two. They knew how she felt about Basques. After what had happened to her father, no one blamed her.

‘Just this and that.' Mendez smiled, noncommittal.

‘I'm not going to beg.'

‘
Jesús
, just tell her, will you?' Fuentes grumbled.

‘OK,' Mendez said. ‘I got a call from a Sargento Atienza. He's based near a place called Legutio. It's near Vitoria. There's a reservoir with water sports, fishing and stuff.'

Galíndez raised an eyebrow. ‘You booked me a holiday?'

‘Legutio used to be called Villarreal back in the Civil War,' Mendez said, ignoring her. ‘It's where they started the final invasion of the Basque country in 1937.'

‘Water sports and history. My lucky day.'

‘Atienza says there was a village nearby that was shelled heavily during the fighting.'

‘This is like those programmes on hotel TV,' Galíndez cut in. ‘But less interesting.'

‘They're knocking down what's left of the old village to build a sports complex,' Mendez continued, ‘but when they came to demolish one of the houses, they found it was built on top of an older building with a big cellar. There was some stuff in it.'

Galíndez noticed the change in her voice. ‘What kind of stuff?'

‘He said it looked like an execution. There are bodies. Skeletons, I should say.'

‘A war grave?' Galíndez asked, disappointed. ‘So why did he contact you?'

‘He didn't, he contacted you. I've been checking your email while you've been off.'

‘OK, but why me? Don't they have their own forensic unit?'

‘He remembered your requests last year for information about Guzmán.'

Galíndez felt gooseflesh on her arms. ‘And?'

‘It was Guzmán,' Mendez said. ‘There's something that identifies him as the killer.'

Galíndez let it sink in for a moment. ‘
Jefe
, you know what you just said?'

‘I said the official investigation is over. What you do in your own time is up to you.'

Galíndez looked at him, deep in thought.

‘It's a four-hour drive,' Fuentes said. ‘Just promise me you'll keep out of trouble.'

‘Of course.' Galíndez looked at her watch. ‘It's only two o'clock now. I can drive up this afternoon. I'll phone to let them know I'm coming.'

‘Wait.' Fuentes looked at Mendez. ‘You know what happened at Legutio, don't you?'

‘I was about to mention it.'

Galíndez glanced from one to the other. Neither looked happy. ‘What?'

‘Two years ago, ETA parked a car full of explosives near the
cuartel
one night,' Fuentes said. ‘It destroyed the building. It was a wonder there was only one person killed.'

Galíndez remembered 2008 well, though for other reasons. Sitting at Aunt Carmen's side in a hospital room, watching chemicals flow through plastic tubes into her veins. Preparing for her new job in the
guardia
as she dealt with the funeral arrangements.

‘Go as Señorita Galíndez,' Fuentes said, interrupting her thoughts. ‘Don't carry anything that identifies you as
guardia.
And you'll need a weapon.'

‘I've still got the pistol they issued me in Vice.'

‘Good. Don't let anyone see you're armed. Word gets around fast up there.'

‘I'll be careful.'

‘Be really careful, Ana.' Mendez put a hand on her arm. ‘ETA don't play games.'

Galíndez shrugged her hand away. ‘I saw them murder my father, remember?'

‘I'm just saying,' Mendez protested. ‘There's a phone number for the
sargento
in these papers. I've printed out the route for you as well.'

‘Thanks.' Galíndez took the papers from her. She got up. ‘I mean it, thank you both.'

‘But when you get back, you draw a line under Guzmán and move on,' Fuentes said as she went to the door. Galíndez raised a hand in acknowledgement.

‘I hope she doesn't use the satnav,' Fuentes said, once Galíndez had gone. ‘She always breaks them. She doesn't look clumsy, but very often, they come back in pieces.'

‘Strange,' Mendez agreed.

‘I just hope whatever's up there is worth the drive.'

‘It will be to her,' Mendez said. ‘She's obsessed with Guzmán.'

Fuentes put his papers back into the envelope. ‘She seemed angry, don't you think?'

‘Ana's got quite a temper when she gets going, boss,' Mendez said. ‘Takes after her father, I heard.'

Fuentes finished his coffee. ‘
Jesús Cristo
, I hope not.'

MADRID 2010, GLORIETA DE PIRÁMIDES

The lights changed and an impatient line of traffic surged down into the underground section of the M-30. Galíndez followed the tunnel, emerging back into daylight on the Avenida de la Paz, hemmed in on both sides by tiers of apartment buildings, tall high-rises of burnished glass and steel glinting in the bright sun. Half an hour later, she joined the A-1 and headed north. She reached forward and switched off the satnav. There were two hundred kilometres of motorway to go before she needed to think about directions again.

A car roared past, horn blaring as she pulled into the inside lane out of his way. She saw the driver's raised finger and angrily returned his gesture.
Jesús
, she was tense enough without morons like him winding her up. She drove on, her actions becoming automatic as she brooded about Guzmán. It was one thing for Fuentes to tell her to drop her investigation, it was another to accept it. Most of Guzmán's crimes still remained hidden, waiting to be discovered. That was a challenge she wanted to take on.

Lost in thought, Galíndez didn't notice as she left the last isolated suburbs of Madrid behind. She was still dwelling on Guzmán, the way he got away with his crimes just as her father's murderer had. Before she'd been hospitalised, if the topic arose, she'd always said she wanted
Papá
's killer behind bars. There were times now when she harboured darker, more violent ambitions.

The pain began somewhere near Burgos. At first, Galíndez ignored it, staring at the endless line of the motorway in front of her. When it got worse, she slowed, crossing lanes to pull in at a service station. In the car park, screened from the road by a ragged line of trees, she tried to relax the way they'd shown her in the pain management sessions in the hospital. It hadn't worked then and it didn't now.

She watched the constant motion of traffic through the trees. Words hammered around her head, words she would never utter to anyone.
I'm a mess. A fucking mess.
She put her hand over her mouth, struggling for control. She hadn't given in to her emotions all the time she'd been in hospital and she wasn't going to start now, in a dusty service station on the outskirts of an industrial park. She just needed time. The memory of what had happened to her would fade, she was sure, but there were other, more permanent signs of her encounter with Guzmán's malevolent legacy that time couldn't erase.

She slipped a hand inside her shirt, tracing the line of scar tissue running down her ribs. She was lucky to be alive, the doctors said. Lucky because the shrapnel had only slashed her side, rather than embedding itself in her body. Recalling the pain of that still made her break out in a sweat. Lucky? The only piece of luck had been when she'd lost consciousness.

She left the car and wandered into the anonymous labyrinth of the service station. In the women's toilets, she splashed her face with water, seeing her reflection in the mirror above the sink. A pale face, dark weary eyes. She glanced round, checking if any of the cubicles were occupied. Satisfied she was alone, she took a plastic container from her pocket, twisted off the cap and shook two tablets into her palm. She swallowed them quickly and ran the tap, cupping her hands to catch enough brackish water to wash them down.

By the time she joined the queue at the coffee shop, the painkillers had started to take effect. The assistant behind the counter made a joke as she put her order on a tray and Galíndez laughed out loud, her eyes twinkling as she shared the joke. Returning to her car she sat in the back seat, alternating sips of coffee with mouthfuls of sweet roll. When she'd finished, she took out the plastic container and counted the tablets. Ten left. No more pills once those were gone, she promised. Not unless the pain got too bad. She got behind the wheel and started the engine.

She passed the industrial sprawl on the outskirts of Burgos in a haze, her eyes dry and heavy. The last thing she needed was to doze off and wake up in a ditch so she turned on the radio, selecting a chat show to keep her awake. She caught the words ‘Franco's crimes' and turned up the volume, suddenly interested as she heard a woman's voice, strangely familiar, her words fast and breathless, excited by her own erudition.

‘Perhaps the worst of the crimes committed during the dictatorship was the wholesale theft and sale of newborn babies carried out with the knowledge and often the assistance of the regime's police and security services. Although many believe the practice ended when Franco died, the lucrative trade continued for years after his death.'

The voice continued but Galíndez was no longer listening. No wonder the speaker sounded familiar, it was Luisa Ordoñez. On the radio, Luisa's voice was calm and authoritative, far from the wheedling tone she deployed when she and Galíndez were lovers.

Another woman was speaking now: ‘If you've just joined us, my name's Isabel Morente and you're listening to
Tardes con Isabel
. My guest today is Profesora Luisa Ordoñez, head of the School of Historical Discourse Analysis at Madrid's Complutense University. We're talking about issues relating to the
niños robados
, the thousands of children taken from their parents at birth by doctors and medical staff who took advantage of their positions to then sell them. If these issues have affected you, call our helpline on—' Galíndez turned off the radio.

Passing signs for Vitoria airport, Galíndez saw the white control tower in the distance, wavering in the heat. That might be about to change, she noticed. To the north, the horizon was lined with black clouds. She left the motorway at exit 355, passing through Gamarra Menor, a village of white-walled Basque
caserios
, chalet-style timbered houses with red tiled roofs and timbered portals. Her stomach tightened.
You're in the Basque Country now, Ana.
A couple of kilometres later, she pulled over to call Sargento Atienza.

‘
Hola,
Sarge, it's Ana Galíndez. I'm ten kilometres from Legutio. Can I visit the site?'

‘Sorry, I'm tied up for the rest of this afternoon, Ana. Can we meet up in the morning?'

‘I wanted to get a look at it today. I don't mind going alone.'

‘Thing is, we've had some trouble with the local workers on the site,' Atienza said. ‘It'll be better if I come with you and bring a couple of my guys.'