Just thirty-six hours before she was killed. There were moments during most cases when Paco felt a tingle which told him that, though he was still like a man blundering around in a dark room, he was finally getting near to the light switch. And he had that tingle now.
‘Did she happen to mention to you what kind of business she was in?’ he asked.
Alvaro shook his head. ‘But I know she visited the silk factory, because I could see her walking across there from the window. So maybe she’s a buyer from one of the big shops.’
‘There’s another possibility,’ Paco said, watching the other man closely. ‘Perhaps she was working directly for Don Eduardo Herrera Moreno.’
A look of pure loathing came to Alvaro’s face. ‘If I’d thought she was involved with Herrera, I’d never have served her a drink, as nice as she was.’
‘I take it you don’t like Herrera,’ he said.
‘I hate the son of a bitch. We all do. But not as much as we hate that bastard Méndez.’
Don Carlos? The private secretary? The opener of car doors and booker of halls? ‘Why should you hate Méndez?’ Paco asked.
‘Because Herrera might own the silk factory, but it’s his brother-in-law who runs it.’
That made no sense at all, Paco thought. Herrera was the businessman. Méndez was nothing more than the bankrupt son of a patrician family. ‘You’re sure Méndez’s in charge?’ he asked.
‘He’s certainly the one who’s done all the negotiating,’ Alvaro told him. ‘Or maybe I should say lack of negotiating.’
‘You’re not making a lot of sense,’ Paco said. ‘Maybe you should tell me the whole story.’
Alvaro leaned on the counter, as if the narration of his grievance was going to be a long and exhausting process. ‘Remember the troubles of ’34? Remember Asturias?’
‘Yes, I remember it,’ Paco said.
Of course he did. How could any Spaniard ever forget it? It had been a bloody business. The miners of Asturias had risen against the right-wing government in Madrid, and taken over almost the whole of the province. They’d been well organized, and armed with rifles and dynamite, but still proved no match for the legionnaires and Moorish troops used by General Franco to crush the revolt. The campaign of pacification had been swift and brutal, and by the time it was finished, 1,300 people had lost their lives – many of them killed after the fighting was officially over.
‘Well, Asturias wasn’t the only place to give the government a headache,’ Alvaro said, with obvious pride. ‘Any number of factories went on strike down here, the silk factory among them.’
‘That can’t have pleased Méndez,’ Paco said.
‘That’s where you’re wrong. Oh, I’m not saying he was over the moon about it, but – considering he’d only just been put in charge of the factory – it didn’t really seem to bother him, either.’
Timing was so important in this investigation, Paco thought. He felt instinctively that it was no coincidence that María had been killed when the country was teetering on the edge of collapse, and he was sure that it was not merely chance that had caused Méndez to take over the factory at the start of the troubles of ’34. ‘How can you be so sure it didn’t bother Méndez?’ he said.
‘Because most of the owners and managers tried to negotiate with their workers, but all Méndez did was to chain up his doors. And they stayed chained up until around the fifth day of the strike, when the builders arrived.’
Paco’s tingle was growing stronger. He still didn’t know where the light switch in this particular case lay, but he sensed that he could almost reach out and touch it. ‘So while the strike was on, Méndez took the opportunity to call the builders in,’ he said.
‘That’s right. They were in there for days. Made one hell of a racket, as well.’
Paco examined the building again. The windows were set high in the wall – to let in light, not to be looked through. ‘What exactly were they doing?’ Paco asked.
‘I’ve no idea,’ Alvaro confessed.
‘Weren’t you curious? Didn’t you ask any of the workers about it, once the strike was over?’
‘I would have done – if any of the workers had ever got back inside to take a look.’
The tingle was still there, the switch was almost screaming at him to touch it, ‘You’re not telling me Méndez employed a completely new labour force, are you?’ Paco asked.
‘That’s exactly what he did,’ Alvaro said in disgust. ‘And they’re not even Spanish.’
‘So where do they come from?’
There was a rumbling sound in the distance. Alvaro looked up at the wall clock as if to confirm a suspicion. ‘Where do they come from?’ he said. ‘You’ll see for yourself, if you wait a minute.’
Three open lorries pulled up outside the main door of the factory. On the back of each one were a couple of dozen dark-skinned men wearing knitted woollen caps.
‘Second shift,’ Alvaro said.
Two of the factory guards took up a position facing the top of the street, a second pair facing the bottom. The remaining two released the tailboards of the lorries. The dark-skinned men clambered down and disappeared into the factory. It wasn’t exactly like watching prisoners being transferred from one gaol to another, but it wasn’t that far from it, either.
‘What are they?’ Paco asked. ‘Moroccans?’
‘Could be. But to know for sure, you’d have to talk to them, and nobody around here ever has.’
‘Nobody’s talked to them?’ Paco repeated, incredulously.
‘Nobody.’
The guards were still in position, and now a second group of men was emerging from the silk factory and climbing onto the backs of the lorries.
‘First shift going home,’ Alvaro said.
The tailboards were fastened, and the lorries roared away. The whole operation had taken less than five minutes.
‘Where do they live?’ Paco asked.
‘Herrera owns this old army barracks on the edge of town, and Méndez’s Moors doss down there. I shouldn’t be surprised if they live like pigs in shit, but again, nobody knows for sure. It’s guarded day and night.’
‘They must come out sometimes,’ Paco said.
‘Only to work. Everything they need, including their food, is taken to them.’
‘They’re almost like slaves,’ Paco reflected. ‘And I’ll bet Méndez’s paying them a fraction of what he gave to the old workers. Even with the cost of the guards, he must be saving Herrera a fortune.’
Alvaro shook his head condescendingly. ‘You don’t understand the man. He’s not doing it to save money. He’s doing it out of spite.’
‘Spite?’ Paco said doubtfully.
‘The old workers dared to strike, and now he’s not having them back in the factory at any price.’
‘I would think that, working for Herrera as he is, saving money would be the main con—’
‘He’s not saving money,’ Alvaro interrupted, obviously annoyed by Paco’s scepticism. ‘Look, one of the first things the Popular Front did when it took power last February, was to declare an amnesty for everyone who’d been punished for taking part in the troubles of ’34.’
‘I know that.’
‘Which meant that any worker who’d been sacked for political reasons had to be recompensed for the wages he’d lost, and be given his old job back. Well, Méndez wasn’t having any of that.’
‘He refused to cough up the back-pay? So what? That’s a commercial decision again. He probably realized that it would take the workers years to get the money back through the courts.’
Alvaro grinned, as if he’d just scored a point. ‘Méndez didn’t refuse to cough up. He gave all the workers the two years’ wages he owed them. He didn’t refuse to employ them again, either. He just wasn’t having them back in the factory.’
Herrera was a shrewd businessman. He’d never have built up his empire from nothing if he hadn’t been. And he was tight with his money: he took a girl from t
he country as his mistress, and clothed her in his wife’s cast-off dresses. Would he really have allowed his brother-in-law to indulge himself in such expensive vindictiveness? ‘Let me get this straight,’ Paco said. ‘Méndez is paying the workforce their full wages for sitting at home.’
‘Exactly. And what’s that, if it’s not spite?’
Something very, very different, Paco thought. He looked across at the silk factory. The two guards on the door were as vigilant as ever, the ones on foot patrol were just turning the corner. They were all hard cases who looked as if they would not hesitate to use their weapons. Yet even as his stomach turned to water, Paco knew that if he were ever to turn up a motive for María’s death, he was going to have to find a way past them and into the factory.
Chapter Thirty-One
The overhead fans whirled listlessly round, the radio on the bar counter blasted out strident Sevillanas which told of love and death. It was half-past eleven, and though it had been dark for some time, the city was coated with a layer of sticky heat.
Paco was in the corner, crouched over the phone and trying to compete with the general noise level of the bar. ‘Is that the hospital of Nuestra Señora de la Calatrava?’ he shouted into the instrument.
‘Yes, it is,’ replied a crisp, no-nonsense female voice, which sounded as if it was used to dealing with anxious calls.
‘Can you put me through to a doctor? I want to ask about one of the patients.’
‘I have all the information. Are you a relative?’
‘No, but—’
‘Bulletins on the state of patients’ health can only be given to relatives.’
‘The man I want to ask about is my partner!’ Paco said desperately.
‘You’re in business together?’
‘No, no. I’m a policeman and—’
‘You’re ringing about Constable Fernández?’
Paco sighed with relief. ‘Yes, I am. Is he going to be all right?’
‘As I said, if you’re not a relative . . .’
‘You can surely tell me whether he’s going to live or to die, can’t you?’ Paco pleaded. ‘Or . . . or if he’s dead already.’
‘If you came into the hospital and asked to see his doctor . . .’ said the voice, giving nothing away.
‘I’m in Seville,’ Paco told her.
‘In that case, I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do.’
‘I want to know!’ said Paco, in a shout which was almost a scream.
‘I’m sorry,’ the voice said, with what sounded like genuine regret, ‘but we have our procedures. It wouldn’t be fair to the others.’
‘I don’t care about the others!’ Paco said, but he was already talking to a dead line.
He walked across to one of the empty tables, and sat down. A waiter came across to him. ‘What can I get you, señor?’ he asked. There was not much enthusiasm in his words, but who could expect enthusiasm in a place where the air was almost hot enough to bake bread?
‘I’ll have a cognac,’ Paco said. ‘A Fundador, if you’ve got it.’
‘Anything to eat?’
‘Nothing.’
The waiter nodded, and made his way lethargically back to the bar. If Fat Felipe had been with him, they’d have been ordering something to eat, Paco thought. Felipe could not have come to Seville without doing the complete gourmet tour.
He pictured his partner sitting opposite him, and it was almost as if he was.
‘So you’re going to break into the silk factory, are you, jefe?’ asked this figment of his imagination.
‘That’s right,’ Paco agreed.
‘Even though it’s guarded by six armed men who’ll probably kill you before you even get through the door?’
‘That won’t happen. I’ve got a plan.’
The imaginary Felipe chuckled so hard that his big belly wobbled. ‘A plan? You call that a plan? You really must be desperate.’
‘I am,’ Paco agreed. ‘I have to do it for you and María. And for Reyes, as well.’
‘It’s just about the craziest thing I’ve ever heard. Still, if there’s one man in Spain who can make it work, the man is you.’
‘Thank you, Felipe,’ Paco said to the empty chair on the other side of the table.
The waiter returned with a glass and a bottle of Fundador. He placed the glass on the table, and unscrewed the bottle cap.
‘Half the normal measure,’ Paco said.
The waiter looked at him strangely. ‘I shall have to charge you the full price.’
‘That doesn’t matter.’
The waiter poured the drink and left. Paco looked down at his glass. He’d got the amount just right, he thought – enough to give him courage, not so much as to make him lose his edge.
*
The later it got, the hotter it seemed to be. Paco checked his watch. He’d been sitting at the table for over half an hour, and most of his frugal brandy was gone.
The wireless on the bar counter was still playing Sevillanas, but most of the customers no longer had the energy to even tap their feet in time to it. Then, suddenly, in the middle of a song about a gypsy girl who fell in love with an aristocrat, the music stopped.
‘I was enjoying that,’ complained a man at the table next to Paco’s. ‘What’s the matter? Has something gone wrong with your wireless?’
The waiter walked to the counter, and examined the machine. ‘It’s still lit up,’ he said.
‘You ought to keep a spare in case the one you’re using breaks down,’ the customer grumbled.
But the wireless hadn’t broken down. It crackled, and then a second later an official-sounding voice said, ‘Stand by for an important announcement.’
A young woman at a corner table reached over and nervously took her boyfriend’s hand. A group of middle-aged couples looked questioningly at each other. Two old men went into an urgent whispered conference. The bar was suddenly filled with a tension even more overpowering than the heat – because while everyone suspected they knew what the announcement would be, few hoped that they would be right.
The announcer coughed. ‘There has been a revolt within the Army of Morocco . . .’ he said.
There was instant pandemonium.
‘A revolt!’
‘I told you it was coming!’
‘Well, I don’t believe it!’
‘It wouldn’t be on the radio if it wasn’t true.’
‘Shut up, all of you!’ someone called out. ‘I want to hear the rest.’
The noise subsided slowly, though some people continued to speak in whispers.
‘. . . Melilla, Ceuta and Tetuán are temporarily in rebel hands,’ the announcer said, ‘but Tangier and Laranche have remained loyal. The government has already taken decisive action, and the situation is well under control. Please await further developments.’
Another pause, and then the music started again. All signs of lethargy had left the bar. Customers waved their hands excitedly and argued at the top of their voices.
The revolt would spread to the mainland.
Of course it wouldn’t. How could it when the government still controlled the navy?
The army would rise in Seville itself.
The soldiers stationed in Seville were all loyal to the Republic.
It was about time somebody did something about the crisis.
Maybe, but an army take-over wasn’t the right way to go about it.
Paco paid for his drink and left. All along the route back to his hotel, the bars had their radios on full volume and the same message was being repeated again and again.
‘. . . the situation is well under control . . .’
‘. . . under control . . .’
‘. . . under control . . .’
He thought about Madrid, where fascists and socialists were killing each other every day, where blue-shirted Falangists flaunted their weapons on the Puerta del Sol and at Calvo Sotelo’s funeral.
The government had the situation under control, di
d it? What bullshit that was! If it couldn’t even control the warring in the capital, what chance would it have against the army?
Chapter Thirty-Two
The narrow alley was dark and hot and smelled of urine, but at least as long as he stayed there, he was safe. The problem was, he couldn’t stay there, not if he was to find out what he needed to know. To get that information, he had to cross the dangerous open space between the alley and silk factory. And not just once, but twice.
Footsteps. Paco stepped back further into the darkness. Two of the factory’s guards passed by on the other side of the road. Paco counted to five, then tiptoed to the top of the alley. The guards were walking towards the main entrance, where two other guards were permanently posted. And coming from the opposite end of the factory were another couple of security men.
He’d been standing there long enough to know this was their regular routine. One team went clockwise, the other anti-clockwise. The circuit around the building took them six minutes, which meant that in just over three minutes, both teams would be as far away from the entrance as they ever got.
The workman’s overalls he’d slipped on over his suit made the heat of the alley even worse, but at least he wouldn’t have to put up with them for much longer – they were only necessary for the first phase of the operation, and that, for better or worse, would soon be over.
Paco reached into the cloth bag he was carrying, and checked his equipment by feel. One brick. One bottle. One cigarette lighter.
And one chance, he told himself. If he missed his target the first time, he had missed it for ever.
The guards began their new circuit, and Paco started to count down the seconds. ‘One hundred and eighty . . . one hundred and seventy-nine . . . one hundred and seventy-eight . . .’
As he reached double figures, he raised his hand to his forehead and discovered that his fingers were as cold as ice. By the time he was down to twenty seconds, his heart was trying to batter its way out of his rib-cage.
‘. . . three . . . two . . . one!’
He sprinted diagonally from his hiding place towards the right-hand edge of the building. To his own ears, his footfalls echoed as loud as thunder, but the permanent guards by the door didn’t seem to have noticed him. Yet.
A Murder of No Consequence Page 18
