‘I can take orders.’
‘You’d have no choice if you worked here, Ana, because all our staff work under extremely close supervision.’ Mascarell set off down the corridor towards a glass-paned door, clicking her fingers to hurry Galíndez along.
‘This is where you’d be working.’ Mascarell pointed to a spartan room with large glass windows on three sides, each offering different views of the car park and the M-30. Several women were working at long tables, hammering away at their computer keyboards with furious concentration. None looked up until Mascarell introduced Galíndez to them. The women gave her a few words of greeting and then went back to work.
Galíndez sensed something familiar about the women as the colonel led her away. She’d seen that same dull expression before: a weary look of resignation when faced with a series of mind-numbing tasks. Her own expression, reflected in the windows of the university library when she was completing her PhD.
With the tour over, Coronel Mascarell escorted her back to the entrance, promising she’d be in touch in the near future. ‘I may sound firm,’ Mascarell said, ‘but I always get the best out of my staff.’ She gave Galíndez a chilly smile. ‘You’d be a challenge, Ana. But I’m sure given six months, I could shape you into an excellent member of staff. I’ll tell General Ortiz that.’
Galíndez muttered a few words of thanks and went back to her car.
The motorway traffic was heavy and slowed to a halt almost as soon as she joined it. She sat, drumming her fingers on the wheel, nursing her anger at Coronel Mascarell’s demolition of her career. A disaster waiting to happen? The sudden blast of a horn startled her as she began to drift into the outside lane. She tried to put the criticism out of her mind. It wasn’t easy: she had a nagging feeling Coronel Mascarell might have been right.
MADRID 2010, GUARDIA CIVIL RESEARCH CENTRE, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE
Isabel looked up from her laptop as Galíndez came through the door. ‘Where have you been?’
‘Job interview,’ Galíndez headed for the coffee pot, ‘in the Profiling Unit.’
‘Oh yes?’
‘What does that mean exactly, Izzy?’
‘I mean “oh yes” as in why didn’t you tell me you were going for an interview? After all, if you leave, that’s the research centre finished and I’m out of work.’
Galíndez held up her hands. ‘You’re right, I should have told you. Sorry.’
‘It’s not like it’s the first time, Ana. You never keep me up to speed on anything.’
‘Well, you’re the first to know that I won’t be working in Profiling. And don’t worry about your job, we’ve still got four years’ funding for this centre.’
‘I thought profiling was the job you always wanted?’
‘So did I,’ Galíndez said. ‘But the director is some sort of headmistress from hell and as for the office where I’d be working...’ She shook her head as if trying to erase the memory. ‘There were these five women I’d be working with. It would be awful.’
‘What was wrong with them?’
‘They were all like me. Like I used to be, anyway. Studious, utterly involved in the work, not taking lunch breaks and working flat out on data all day.’
‘And you think you’re not like that?’ Isabel laughed. ‘But if you’re not leaving, what’s the focus of our investigation going to be?’
‘Guzmán,’ Galíndez said. ‘So far, we’ve only collected information about the crimes he committed in the past, but everything’s changed now we know he’s alive. Instead of cataloguing his old crimes, we’re going after the man himself.’
Isabel shook her head. ‘He’d be covered by the 1977 Amnesty Law, surely?’
‘For crimes committed during the dictatorship, he would,’ Galíndez agreed. ‘But not for kidnapping and torturing me. That will keep him in prison for the rest of his life.’
‘It sounds a challenge. So why the long face, Ana?’
Galíndez went over to Isabel’s desk and sat down next to her. ‘Can you keep a secret?’
‘Of course.’
Galíndez took a deep breath before she started talking. ‘I found out Uncle Ramiro adopted a baby girl in 1970. Her birth certificate showed she was one of the children stolen from hospitals during the dictatorship. Not only that, the birth certificate was signed by Guzmán.’
‘Have you asked Ramiro about it?’
‘I can’t, it’s too sensitive. When the girl was twelve, Ramiro’s wife gave birth to a baby boy. A few months later, Ramiro and Teresa went out, leaving the girl to babysit. Izzy, she pulled a boiler pipe from the wall and asphyxiated them both.’
Isabel looked at her, open-mouthed. ‘And it was definitely Guzmán who authorised the birth certificate?’
‘Apparently, he must have been involved with the people at the hospital. It would have been easy money for him, I suppose,’ Galíndez said. ‘Ramiro never talks about it to anyone. Too traumatic, I guess.’
‘And the girl was definitely a stolen child?’
‘It looks that way, though I can’t be certain. I just wish I could find out one way or the other to set my mind at rest.’
‘But it’s ancient history, Ana María, why are you getting so worked up?’
Galíndez sighed. ‘Being an amnesiac, I get paranoid when I realise there are things I still don’t know about my family.’ Her voice cracked with emotion. Impatiently, she waved away Isabel’s attempt to comfort her. ‘I just want to know, that’s all. I want to know who my family are, who they were and who I am. Normal stuff, like everyone else.’
‘So what are you going to do?’
‘I can’t ask Ramiro about it, can I? It would look like I was prying into his private life.’ Galíndez slumped against her. ‘He’s been so good to me over the years, I couldn’t do anything to harm him or his career.’
Isabel put an arm round her shoulders. ‘Maybe you should just leave well alone?’
Galíndez turned to look at her. ‘A DNA test would show if the girl was Ramiro’s biological daughter or not. I could do that without him knowing and spare his feelings.’
‘So how easy is it to do a DNA test?’
‘Very easy. I’ll just take a glass Ramiro’s used and swab it.’
‘But how long has the girl been dead?’
Galíndez thought for a moment. ‘Nearly thirty years.’
‘Can you get a DNA sample from her after all this time?’
‘I can,’ Galíndez said, hesitantly, ‘but that’s where I could use your help.’
‘To do what?’
Galíndez gave her a weak smile. ‘I need you to help me break into the crypt.’
CHAPTER 5
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, PENSIÓN PARAÍSO, CALLE DEL CARMEN
Guzmán rose early. After he had showered and shaved, he selected a suit before taking his seat in the cramped dining room. The fact that it was empty pleased him. He had no wish to make small talk at this time in the morning.
Downstairs he heard voices and the rattle of cutlery. That was encouraging, it sounded as if the staff were preparing breakfast. But time passed and nothing appeared that even vaguely resembled breakfast. Finally, he went down into reception in search of food.
Daniela was standing at the desk talking to a woman. A rather attractive dark-haired woman, Guzmán noticed, so much so that he decided to dispense with the broadside on the lack of service he’d been about to deliver.
‘Buenos días, Señor Ramírez.’ Daniela gestured towards the other woman. ‘This is my cousin, Luisa Ordoñez. Luisa’s just completed her doctorate at the university. Isn’t that something?’
‘It certainly is.’ Guzmán nodded, giving Luisa a casual appraisal. Disappointingly, his interest was not reciprocated. Undeterred, he held out his hand. ‘Leo Ramirez.’ When they shook hands, hers was cool and limp and she pulled it away quickly.
‘I’d like my breakfast as soon as possible,’ Guzmán told Daniela. ‘I have an appointment this morning.’
/> ‘Breakfast?’ Daniela took a deep breath. ‘That might be a problem.’
‘What kind of problem?’
‘We’ve no food and Dad’s pension hasn’t arrived.’
Guzmán reached for his wallet. ‘I’ll pay you in advance for my room, how’s that?’
‘Great.’ Daniela scooped up the banknotes he laid on the desk. ‘Keep Señor Ramirez company for a moment, will you, Luisa? He’s a veteran, so perhaps he’d like to take part in your research?’
Luisa’s expression brightened, though not much. ‘That would be helpful.’
‘What research?’ Guzmán asked, ogling Luisa’s breasts as discreetly as possible.
‘We’re interviewing people about the war,’ Luisa said. ‘Building up a collection of accounts for future generations about the experience of the war and the dictatorship.’
‘And you’d want to interview me?’
‘Yes, although it won’t be me who does the interview, I’m managing the project.’ She saw the lack of interest in his expression. ‘It’s very important work, Señor Ramirez. We’d ask you about what it was like to fight, what you recall most vividly and of course what it was like to suffer such a terrible defeat at the hands of the fascists.’
He gave her a fierce stare. ‘I didn’t suffer a defeat.’
Her smile suggested he was simple. ‘I don’t mean in battle, I mean the war itself.’
‘So do I,’ Guzmán said. ‘My side didn’t lose the war.’
There was an embarrassed silence. Finally, Luisa regained her composure. ‘Perhaps you’d contribute anyway?’
‘Perhaps,’ Guzmán grunted.
‘I’ll ask one of my researchers to call in and see you.’ Suddenly aware of the real focus of his attention she quickly fastened the top button of her shirt. ‘He’s an Irish student who’s working with us. He speaks excellent Spanish.’
Across the street, Guzmán saw Daniela returning with the food. ‘Fine,’ he said, no longer interested. ‘Send him along. I’ll tell him exactly what it was like.’
‘Thanks.’ Luisa went to the door, pausing to exchange a few words with Daniela as they passed on the stairs.
‘Your cousin’s an attractive woman,’ Guzmán said as Daniela came through the door.
She laughed. ‘You won’t get far with Luisa. She’s gay.’ She saw his expression. ‘You know, a lesbian?’
‘I know what they are, thanks,’ Guzmán said. ‘Though I wouldn’t have guessed.’
‘You know what, Señor Ramirez? “Oft expectation fails, and most oft where most it promises.”’ Her shy smile reminded him of someone he’d once known.
‘Who said that?’ Guzmán’s preferred quotations were usually by military men, preferably dead ones.
‘An English playwright,’ Daniela said. ‘We studied him in school.’
‘You’d be better off learning how to sew.’ Her expression made him change the subject. ‘What did you get for breakfast?’
‘Ham, eggs, tomatoes – all the things you said you liked. Take a seat in the dining room. It won’t take very long.’ She hurried away to the kitchen.
As Guzmán reached into his jacket for his cigarettes, he had a feeling of being watched. Behind the reception desk, he saw a faint movement behind the curtain of glass beads. Quietly, he went behind the desk and pushed through into a large windowless room. A bed was pushed against the far wall and a sink and stove were crammed into the corner near the door. In the centre of the room, an old TV set stood on a rickety wooden stand.
A man was sitting in a wheelchair in front of the flickering television. A thin, sallow face, an unkempt air and clothes that were easily thirty years out of date. He had the shrunken appearance of someone who had not moved in a long time. A shave wouldn’t have hurt either, Guzmán thought.
The man in the wheelchair spoke first. ‘You must be the fascist.’
‘Actually, I’m a paying guest, so watch your mouth.’
‘Lucky you.’
‘Been hiding in here since the war, have you?’ Guzmán asked, casting a baleful eye over the miserable room.
‘You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Then you could turn me in. I must still be on someone’s list.’
‘I’m a police officer,’ Guzmán said in a low voice. ‘And if you’d been on one of my lists, you’d be a few dry bones in a ditch by now.’ He paused, hearing Daniela call to tell him his breakfast was ready. He looked scornfully at the TV screen. ‘I’ll leave you to your wildlife safari, señor.’
In the dining room, Guzmán beamed as Daniela set down the plate of ham, eggs and tomato in front of him. He speared a piece of ham with his fork. ‘This looks good. Aren’t you having any?’
Her eyes flickered for a moment. ‘I’ll get a sandwich at college later.’
‘By the way, I met your father just now.’
‘Oh dear. How did you get on?’
He smiled. ‘Like a house on fire.’
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, GUARDIA CIVIL HEADQUARTERS
Footsteps echoed in the cool morning air as the two men walked across the courtyard. An orderly opened the door and pointed down the corridor. ‘Straight ahead, señores.’
They crossed a small patio and went into a waiting room with a row of khaki chairs lined up along one wall. On the far wall was a door with a light bulb mounted above it.
‘Not exactly welcoming,’ Guzmán grumbled.
The door on the far wall opened and a corporal came in to greet them. ‘Brigadier General Gutiérrez and Comandante Guzmán, would you follow me?’ Guzmán led the way, knowing it would annoy Gutiérrez.
The interview room was spartan. A large Spanish flag hung on the wall behind a desk. On one side of the desk, next to the phone, Guzmán noticed a metal panel fitted with several coloured buttons.
‘If the gentlemen require anything I’ll be outside,’ the corporal said.
‘We’ll have coffee,’ Guzmán called after him. He settled into the chair behind the desk and tested it for comfort, finding it sadly lacking. Idly, he watched Gutiérrez as he struggled to get one of the chairs across the room. Finally, with a great effort, he wrestled it into place and slumped into it, gasping for breath.
‘You know, you’re in bad shape,’ Guzmán said. ‘You were fit once.’
‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ Gutiérrez wheezed.
‘Now you know how I felt after Alicante.’
Gutiérrez took a packet of Ducados from his jacket pocket and toyed with them.
‘Do you want a light or are you just going to play with those?’ Guzmán asked, irritated. Gutiérrez offered him the packet and Guzmán plucked a cigarette from it. He lit it and then leaned across the desk to give the brigadier general a light.
Gutiérrez started coughing just as the corporal returned with their coffee. Guzmán let the corporal pour and then dismissed him. ‘You can go now,’ he said, ‘though I might call you back to shoot my colleague if his cough gets any worse.’ The corporal gave Guzmán a conspiratorial smirk as he left the room.
‘I’m ill,’ Gutiérrez gasped. ‘And don’t start again with that shit about Alicante.’
‘It wasn’t shit to me,’ Guzmán said, immediately angry. ‘And it was your fault.’
‘You blame me for everything.’
‘That’s because everything that goes wrong usually is your fault.’ He blew a stream of smoke across the table and watched Gutiérrez convulse in another fit of coughing.
Gutiérrez’s bronchial spasms finally calmed enough for him to speak normally. ‘There’s a meeting tomorrow between the Centinelas and various heads of government departments. General Ortiz thinks it would be a good idea if you’re there as well.’
‘You want me to sit at a table with those bastards?’
‘No, it’s a covert observation. The general likes to keep an eye on the enemy.’
‘So what sort of activities are the Centinelas involved in that need formal meetings?’
‘Policy direction,’ Guti�
�rrez wheezed. ‘They give an indication of what’s going to happen in the next month and how they expect certain departments to respond. Minimising customs surveillance around certain ports, for example.’
‘So they can smuggle in drugs?’
‘Drugs, guns, explosives, women. All manner of things, as long as they’re profitable.’
‘Just like we used to,’ Guzmán muttered, ‘apart from the women.’
‘The things you were involved in were just perks, Guzmán. They were never on the scale of the Centinelas’ operation.’
Guzmán frowned. ‘Do they give you orders?’
‘We’re too small and specialist for them to bother with, though that could change.’
‘I’m surprised General Ortiz tolerates them at all. He should take a squad of civil guards along and shoot the bastards. That’s what I’d do.’
‘General Ortiz is the only person who’s dared to stand up to them,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘So far he’s managed to keep them from infiltrating the guardia civil. He’s a brave man, because no one else is prepared to support him.’
‘I take it that includes you?’
‘I prefer to work behind the scenes, Comandante.’
‘Action,’ Guzmán snorted, ‘that’s what’s needed. If they’re all together in a meeting room, one man with a machine gun could take them out.’
‘That’s why I’m glad you’re only going along to observe tomorrow.’ Gutiérrez’s words were lost in a burst of coughing. ‘We don’t want to start some sort of war.’ He began coughing again and reached for his handkerchief.
Guzmán waited impatiently until the coughing died down. ‘Did you bring the list of archives we’re going to steal the files from?’
Gutiérrez took a map from his briefcase and smoothed it on the desk. ‘These are the sites where the most incriminating material is housed. I’ve prepared lists of the file reference numbers for you.’ He put another sheet of paper on the table. ‘There’s a list for each site we need to visit.’
‘I need to visit,’ Guzmán corrected.
‘Some of the sites with less sensitive information aren’t guarded,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘I suggest you do them first.’ He continued, outlining the various locations of the archives and the numbers of men guarding them, all the practical information Guzmán would need, delivered with the Germanic precision he’d acquired there during the war. There was only one thing that differed from the Gutiérrez of old, Guzmán thought: he looked as if he was dying.
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 7
