A sad smile came to Paz’s lips. ‘She was the most wonderful older sister. So kind and so loving and helpful. Everybody liked her. I know people always say that about the dead, but in María’s case, it really was true.’
‘What made her go to Madrid?’
Paz shrugged. ‘She’d always wanted to go there. Even when she was a little girl, she had her sights set on it.’
‘When did she leave the village?’
‘Just under two years ago.’
‘And do you know if she was happy in Madrid?’
‘She found it very hard at first. She got a job in a shirt factory. Sixteen hours a day she worked, and hardly earned enough to feed herself. She told me that several times she thought of giving up and coming home.’
‘But she didn’t?’
‘No, because then she got lucky.’
‘In what way.’
‘The owner of one of the shops which bought the shirts noticed her, and asked her if she would like to work for him. And, of course, she said yes.’
‘Where was this shop?’
‘Somewhere in Madrid,’ Paz said vaguely. ‘In a very nice area. María said that all her customers were gentlemen, and it was a pleasure to serve them.’
‘And I expect she was paid more, too.’
‘Oh yes. At first she lived in a cheap hostel, but when she got the job in the shop, she was able to rent an apartment. It wasn’t a very big one, she told me, but it was cosy. And the neighbours were mostly country-folk, like her, so she was very happy there.’
‘Do you have the address of this apartment?’ Paco asked.
‘Yes, it’s on her letters.’
‘Could I see them, please?’
Paz went over to the cabinet, slid open the drawer, and brought out a sheath of letters tied up in a ribbon. ‘María was very good about writing to us,’ she said. ‘We got a letter once a month, without fail – and after she got the job in the shop, there was always a little money in with it.’
She handed the letters to Paco. He slid one out of its envelope, and glanced at the address.
‘Have you ever visited your sister?’ he asked.
Despite her sorrow, Paz laughed. ‘Me? No! I’m not like María. I’d be lost in the big city.’
Of course she’d never seen her sister’s apartment. If she had, she couldn’t possibly have described it as she did. A cosy little apartment? In a barrio inhabited mostly by country-folk like herself? The address at the top of the letter said María had lived in Calle Hermosilla, right in the middle of the Barrio de Salamanca. There were no country-folk there, and no small apartments either. It was one of the richest barrios in the whole of Madrid, and, as Fat Felipe had pointed out, it was a fascist stronghold.
*
Paco saw the two guardias civiles as soon as he reached the square. They were standing a few metres from his Fiat, and apparently, were in no hurry to go anywhere else. It had been a day for bringing back childhood memories, he thought. First there’d been the village itself – the dust, the smells, the faint sense of desperation – and now it was these two green-uniformed guardias.
He remembered the two who patrolled his own pueblo – how they used to swagger down the street, and how the villagers looked down at the ground when they’d passed. They’d been Galicians, almost foreigners to the people of La Mancha. And that was how it had been planned. No guardia was ever allowed to serve in his native province, among his own people. Nor did he live with the people he was sent to police. His quarters were in a guardia barracks, and that didn’t change even if he married and had children.
The guardias’ word was law in the countryside, and they knew, as did everyone else, that whatever they did, however brutal they were, they would probably not be punished for it. Was it any wonder then, that these policemen in their absurd, menacing three-cornered hats, were both hated and feared by the villagers? Paco asked himself. And was it any wonder that, even after so many years away from his childhood home, he should feel a shudder run through him at the sight of the old enemy?
The two policemen watched Paco’s approach with obvious interest, then one of them, a corporal, leaned slightly towards his colleague, a private, and said something. The private nodded, unslung his rifle and held it out in front of him, so that the butt was resting in the dusty earth.
The village boy inside Paco told him to turn and run, while the sophisticated madrileño part of him said that he was not a peasant, and had nothing to fear. But it was an unequal battle, and, in the end it was only by force of will that he stopped himself scurrying away like a frightened rabbit.
He calculated the distance to his car. Another ten steps and he’d be there. Another two minutes and he’d be out of Villaverde altogether. If only the demons of his past would just give him the time to get clear. . . .
The two policemen stepped sideways, blocking his path. ‘Is this your car, señor?’ the corporal asked, pointing to the Fiat, even though it was the only vehicle on the square.
‘Yes, it’s mine,’ Paco replied. ‘Is there anything wrong with it, officer?’
‘And you are Francisco Ruiz?’ the corporal said, ignoring Paco’s question.
Shit! The man not only knew his name, but felt under no obligation to put a ‘Don’ in front of it. Paco wondered just how much trouble he was in.
‘I asked you if you were Francisco Ruiz,’ the corporal repeated, menacingly.
There was absolutely no point in pretending. ‘You know I am,’ Paco told him.
‘And could you explain to me exactly what you are doing in Villaverde?’
‘Visiting friends.’
The corporal frowned. ‘That is a lie,’ he said. ‘You have no friends – especially in this village.’
Paco looked from the private to the corporal and back again. He could neutralize one of them, he calculated, but with the two of them so alert, he had no chance of taking both. Very well, he would try to talk his way out. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘as you know my name, you probably also know that I’m a policeman, and—’
‘You are a policeman under suspension,’ the corporal interrupted. ‘And from what I’ve been told, even that is only a temporary state. Soon, you will be no kind of policeman at all.’
‘So I’m not here in an official capacity,’ Paco agreed. ‘Let us say then, that I’m visiting the village as a private citizen. I still have a right to—’
The corporal held up his hand in what was almost a fascist salute, and then curled back three of his fingers so that only the index was pointing at Paco. ‘Watch this finger, Señor Ruiz!’ he said, making it an order, rather than a request.
Like a fool, Paco did. And he was still watching it, a split second later, when the private suddenly swung his rifle, and slammed it into his gut.
Paco was suddenly plunged into a world inhabited only by pain, a world where suffering was the only reality, and fighting against it the only reason for existing. He sank slowly to his knees. His stomach was on fire, his chest was crushed, and he did not think he would ever breathe normally again.
‘Can you hear me, Señor Inspector?’ the corporal asked mockingly, his words floating on a surreal sea of agony.
Paco nodded weakly. Even that caused him excruciating discomfort.
‘What you have been given is only a warning,’ the corporal said. ‘It might hurt now, but you should consider yourself lucky . . .’
‘You . . . son . . . of . . . a . . . bitch!’ Paco gasped.
‘. . . because it could have been much worse,’ the corporal continued, calmly. ‘If the orders from Madrid had been different, it would have been worse. I don’t know who you have annoyed, Señor Inspector, but whoever he is, he can crush you like an ant, any time he feels like it.’
And having delivered their message, the two policemen walked away, leaving Paco on his knees, wondering just what it was going to cost him to stand up.
Chapter Seventeen
It was hard to say how he knew that something had ch
anged in Madrid in the few short hours he had been away, but something definitely had. Even viewed through the windscreen of the Fiat, he could see that the people on the streets moved differently, gestured differently, had new, possibly frightened, expressions on their faces.
Had there been a military coup? Paco wondered.
No. A coup would have been followed by an ostentatious show of strength, tanks on the streets and soldiers on every corner. Perhaps the government had fallen – but it was doing so little anyway that its fall would cause no more than a minor ripple.
As he turned onto Calle Hortaleza, Paco changed gear and felt a pain shoot through his chest, a reminder – if he needed one – that the Guardia Civil had had a lot of practice at hurting people. The Cabo de Trafalgar was just ahead. Paco signalled that he was pulling in, and parked. Now that he was safely back in the city, he could have the drink he so desperately needed.
Ramón and Bernardo were sitting at their usual table. They were not alone. Occupying the third chair – Paco’s chair – was the blonde Yanqui girl, Cindy Walker.
It was obvious even from the doorway that Ramón and Bernardo were arguing again, and Cindy was listening to them with a kind of interested confusion. Paco nodded to all three, pulled up a chair and, with only a slight jolt to his bruised ribs, joined them. ‘Has something out of the ordinary happened today?’ he asked.
‘You could say that,’ Ramón replied. ‘Don José Calvo Sotelo’s been killed.’
As a shock, it rated below the one delivered by the guardia civil’s rifle butt – though not much. Calvo Sotelo couldn’t be dead. Socialist militiamen and fascist foot-soldiers got killed; leading members of the Cortes – the Spanish parliament – were supposed to be above that sort of thing.
‘How did it happen?’ Paco asked.
Bernardo and Ramón both began talking at once –
‘It was like this . . .’
‘What really started it was . . .’
Ramón nodded his head to indicate that he was willing to let Bernardo tell the story. For the moment.
‘A young lieutenant in the Asaltos was murdered yesterday afternoon, shot down in the street like a dog by four fascist gunmen . . .’ Bernardo began.
‘But what’s that got to do with Calvo Sotelo’s death?’ Paco interrupted.
‘You’ll see if you just shut up and listen.’
Nacho arrived with fresh glasses of wine. ‘Make mine a brandy,’ Paco said, running his fingers gingerly over his ribs.
‘The murder of the Asalto took place outside his home, which is close to the casa del pueblo,’ Bernardo continued, ‘so naturally, when his body was taken down to the Asalto barracks on the Puerta del Sol, a great many socialist supporters accompanied it.’
‘Socialist riff raff, you mean,’ Ramón murmured.
‘Be careful how you talk about my comrades,’ Bernardo warned. He turned back to Paco. ‘You should have seen the procession. There were thousands and thousands of us. We filled Sol, right from one end to the other. We were so tightly packed together that none of us could move, but we didn’t mind. Of course, it was a sad occasion, because we were mourning the death of the lieutenant, but at the same time there was a sort of joy there – a joy which came from seeing just how strong we were.’
Ramón had clearly had enough of Bernardo’s version of events. ‘They were out for revenge,’ he cut in. ‘Most of the rabble were all in favour of attacking any Falangist they could find, but then this captain – a treacherous man named Condés, who’s left wing even if he is in the Guardia Civil – said to the people closest to him that instead of random violence, they should punish the leaders of the right.’
‘José Calvo Sotelo,’ Paco said, finally seeing where the story was leading.
‘Gil Robles and Eduardo Herrera as well,’ Ramón told him. ‘But, as it turns out, Robles is away in Biarritz for the weekend, so they couldn’t get at him.’
‘And Herrera? Is he away, too?’
‘Yes. He has a house in the mountains.’
‘It’s more like a stronghold, from what I’ve heard,’ Bernardo interjected.
‘Anyway,’ Ramón continued, ‘there they all were in Sol, in front of the Ministry of the Interior, plotting cold-blooded murder . . .’
‘Half of what you’re saying is no more than rumour,’ Bernardo protested.
Ramón gave him a scornful look. ‘You were prepared to believe that nuns were handing out poisoned chocolates to the children in the poorer barrios,’ he said. ‘That was rumour. This is fact.’
‘There was clear evidence that the nuns were—’
‘For God’s sake, let’s stick to the point,’ Paco said firmly. ‘Go on with the story, Ramón.’
‘They arrived at Calvo Sotelo’s flat shortly after three o’clock in the morning . . .’
‘Who is they?’
‘This Captain Condés I mentioned earlier, a couple of men from the socialist militia, several Asalto troopers, and two other men who have still not been identified.’ He looked across the table at Bernardo. ‘And this is not speculation. Calvo Sotelo’s family have confirmed it. Why would they lie?’
‘I would never trust the members of a fascist’s family to tell the truth,’ Bernardo muttered.
‘Condés asked Calvo Sotelo to accompany him to police headquarters,’ Ramón continued, ignoring Bernardo’s comment. ‘He did not have to go – parliamentary deputies are immune from arrest – but being the brave man he was, he agreed. About an hour later the bastards handed him over to an attendant at the East Cemetery. He had been shot twice through the back of the neck.’
‘What will happen now?’ asked Cindy Walker, speaking for the first time since Paco had entered the bar.
‘The military will rise,’ Ramón said. ‘When the government cannot even control its own Asaltos, what other choice does the army have? Unless,’ he lowered his voice, ‘unless, of course, the government was in control all along.’
‘Are you suggesting that the government was behind the murder?’ demanded Bernardo.
‘Are you taking its side?’ Ramón countered.
Bernardo looked vaguely uncomfortable. ‘I have no use for liberals,’ he said. ‘But I like to see fair play for everyone.’
‘Then let us consider the evidence,’ Ramón continued. ‘Condés was dismissed for his part in the ’34 revolt, and he has only recently been reinstated, at – it is widely said – the personal request of the Prime Minister.’
‘Slander!’ Bernardo gasped.
‘Slander or not, you will find plenty of people, on both sides, who are willing to believe it.’
That was true enough, Paco thought. It had got to such a state of affairs that people would believe anything. He finished his brandy, and signalled to Nacho for another one.
*
The heat clung to the city like an overcoat which is three sizes too small. Women, on the small chairs outside their front doors, fanned themselves and ate slices of watermelon. Men leant against the walls, and jangled the change in their pockets. The excitement and hysteria which the murder of Calvo Sotelo had injected into the city had finally faded away. Now there was nothing to look forward to but a long, sticky night.
Paco and Cindy Walker negotiated their way along the route from the Cabo de Trafalgar to their apartment block, stepping off the pavement occasionally to avoid groups of people who had taken over the whole area between the buildings and the road. Neither of them spoke. They hadn’t really spoken to each other all evening. Bernardo and Ramón had dominated the conversation, their argument about politics leaving little room for discussion of any of the more mundane aspects of normal life.
They reached their front door, and Paco clapped his hands to summon the sereno with his bunch of keys. ‘How did you get talking to Ramón and Bernardo?’ he asked Cindy.
She smiled. ‘They said they were friends of yours and invited me to join them.’
‘But what were you doing in the bar in the first place?’
‘I was looking for you, of course.’
Her directness made him uncomfortable. ‘Why were you doing that?’ he asked.
Cindy looked him straight in the eye. He noticed how deep blue and how serious her eyes were. ‘I was looking for you, because a big city like Madrid can be an awfully lonely place for some people,’ she said.
‘You’ll get used to it in time,’ Paco assured her.
‘I wasn’t talking about me,’ Cindy told him.
Chapter Eighteen
The brandies he’d drunk in the Cabo de Trafalgar had helped to make the beating Paco had received earlier little more than a memory. Starting to climb the seventy-two steps which led to his apartment brought it back as a painful reality. He stopped and clutched the stair-rail.
‘What’s the matter?’ Cindy asked.
Paco grinned, through clenched teeth. ‘I had a disagreement with a guardia civil’s rifle butt,’ he explained. ‘It turned out to be harder than my stomach was.’
‘You mean, you were attacked?’
‘The man who ordered it claimed it was more in the nature of a friendly warning,’ Paco said, starting to climb again.
‘But that sort of thing shouldn’t happen to you. After all, you’re a policeman yourself.’
Paco looked at her sharply. ‘Who told you that?’
‘Your friends. Bernardo and Ramón told me.’
‘Did they indeed,’ Paco said. Had they told her, or had she asked? he wondered. And if it was she who had asked, had there been other questions?
They reached Cindy’s floor. Only twenty-four more steps to go and he would be back in his apartment. Paco stopped. He had escorted the woman that far, he might as well see her through the door. Besides, the way he was feeling, he could use the pause.
Cindy took her keys out of her purse, hesitated for a second, then said, ‘Do you want to come inside and I’ll take a look at it?’
‘Look at what?’
‘At whatever it was that the nasty policeman did to you.’
Paco’s fingers automatically went up to his ribs. ‘Are you a nurse?’ he asked.
A Murder of No Consequence Page 10
