Inside, the air was warm, a damp tropical heat, cloying and uncomfortable. She walked slowly through the trees, surrounded by the sounds of a rainforest: shrill bird calls, the occasional shriek of a monkey and other, more disturbing, sounds that she didn’t recognise.
As she went further into the apartment, following an aisle between thickets of tall bamboo, she saw the source of the sounds: several speakers, arranged discreetly behind the plants. But though the sounds of the jungle were fake, the smell was not: a dank, earthy fragrance, oddly familiar, an odour she remembered from her days at university. Sure enough, as she left the bamboo grove, she saw lines of potted cannabis plants, hidden between other, more legal shrubs.
Close by, she heard the sound of water and started to move towards it. Nearby, someone groaned, ‘Oh fuck.’ A few metres ahead, a waterfall tumbled down over a bed of artificial rocks into a pool. And another sound now, someone having trouble breathing. Moving quickly, she drew her pistol, keeping it raised as she crept forward. ‘Guardia civil, don’t move.’
A man was sprawled on a lounger by the side of the pool. Dressed entirely in leather, he appeared to be dead. Then, as she approached, she heard a sudden, noisy intake of breath. He was fast asleep, she realised, she’d been listening to the sound of his snoring. One of his arms hung over the side of the lounger, fumbling for a huge joint smouldering in an ashtray on the floor nearby. Slowly, his eyes opened and he stared at Galíndez, puzzled for a moment. Then he grinned. ‘Are you the chick from the agency?’ He raised himself on his elbows and ran a jaundiced eye over her. ‘You’re a bit skinny, but you’ll do, sweetheart.’ He gave her another addled look. ‘I hope you take Visa?’
‘Before you say anything else,’ Galíndez said, ‘I’m with the guardia civil. We spoke on the phone about half an hour ago.’
‘If you say so.’ He shook his head, groggily. As he staggered to his feet, Galíndez heard a strange creaking sound. The tight leather clothes might have fitted once but they were now taking a terrible revenge, given his restricted range of movement.
‘So you’re the chick who phoned earlier?’ Rosell asked, suddenly remembering.
‘I’m also the chick who might bust you for running a cannabis farm.’ Galíndez shoved him into a chair beneath a clump of palm trees. ‘I’ve got some questions for you.’
‘You’re not supposed to lay your hands on me,’ Rosell grunted. ‘Police brutality.’
‘And you’re not supposed to fill your apartment with industrial quantities of cannabis plants,’ Galíndez said. ‘You’re already looking at jail time and I’ve only been here five minutes.’
Rosell raised his hands in surrender. ‘How can I help you, officer?’
‘Tell me about the Legions.’
‘Of Death?’
‘No, of Julius Caesar. What do you think?’
‘I was their manager,’ Rosell said. ‘Is that why you’re here? You want a free album?’
Galíndez laughed. ‘I wouldn’t touch one of their albums if you paid me.’
‘A lot of people would. They’re highly collectable. I’ve got the set. Want to see?’
‘Why not?’ Galíndez kept an eye on him as he went over to a cabinet hidden among some ferns and returned with a pile of vinyl albums still in their shrink-wrapped covers.
‘Here we go.’ Rosell spread the albums on the table, like a huge hand of cards.
She looked at the first album. Louder than Sound, Brighter than Light. ‘How does the title connect with these two girls in bikinis?’
Rosell looked at her in surprise. ‘Everyone likes a girl in a bikini, right?’
‘Can’t argue with that.’ She started leafing through the albums. Most of the covers were variations on the first. ‘So how come the band broke up?’
‘For a cop, you don’t know much, do you, babe?’
‘I know I could break your arm if you call me babe one more time.’
‘No need to be like that,’ Rosell said. ‘Anyway, the band didn’t so much break up as become extinct.’ He saw her puzzled look. ‘They’re all dead, lady. One after another over a five-year period. Too fast to live, too... fill in the blanks, you know what I mean?’
She picked up another album. The cover showed a woman in a tiny silver bikini astride a Harley Davidson. The title picked out in glittering letters: Too Fast to Die, Too Young to Live. ‘How did they die?’
Rosell counted the deaths on his fingers. ‘Overdose, car crash, cardiac arrest.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘If you live the rock’n’roll lifestyle, it comes with the territory, I guess. You only have to read some of their lyrics to see where they were heading. When you play hardball, you have to have...’ He frowned, trying to remember what came next.
‘A hardball?’ Galíndez suggested.
‘Lyrics,’ Rosell said. ‘You know how some bands have songs that are life-affirming? They were the opposite.’
‘Did people ever read things into the lyrics? Hidden messages, that sort of thing?’
‘Yeah, a few. Most of the fans were bigger junkies than the band.’
‘Did they ever have a stalker?’ Galíndez asked, casually. ‘Someone who hung round them a lot, idolised them maybe?’
‘No, though if they’d had more money, the guys would happily have paid for a stalker. They always wanted a better class of fan.’
Galíndez picked up the last album cover and froze.
‘Trouble was, success came too late for the Legions,’ Rosell sighed. ‘They were too old for that kind of lifestyle. Hello? Am I talking to myself here, babe?’
Slowly, she looked at him and then back at the album. Black Gothic lettering: DEATH IS FOR LOSERS. No bikini-clad girl here, just a black-and-white photograph of the band in a recording studio lined up alongside the drum kit, one behind the other, peering through manes of matted hair at the camera.
All but one. Standing at the back of the line, illuminated by the faint light from the studio door, his shaved head gleaming in the dimly lit studio.
She held out the cover towards Rosell. ‘Who’s this?’
As if she needed to ask.
MADRID, OCTOBER 2010, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE, FACULTAD DE HISTORIA CONTEMPORÁNEA
Isabel parked behind the Faculty of Contemporary History and made her way down into the basement where the small room housing the guardia civil’s research unit was located. As she unlocked the door, she saw several polythene-wrapped chairs piled against the far wall. The office furniture had finally arrived.
Isabel heard singing in the corridor and went back to the door as a large black woman emerged from an office further along the corridor. Middle-aged, her hair tied in a brilliant multicoloured scarf, a broom in one hand, and a large plastic sack in the other.
‘Bonjour, Mademoiselle Isabel. I already cleaned your office. All ready for you and Mademoiselle Ana.’
‘Buenos días, Madame D’Nour. I like that song you were singing.’
‘It’s a song we sing in Senegal for girls who can’t find a man. Girls like you and Mademoiselle Ana, no?’ She gave Isabel a wide smile. ‘Don’t worry, chérie, there’s time yet. The right man will come along just when you least expect it. It’ll be such a surprise, no?’
‘A very big surprise,’ Isabel agreed.
‘There’s always hope, mademoiselle. Love finds you when it’s least expected.’
‘Doesn’t it just.’ Isabel smiled as she went into the office.
She sat at her desk, though work was the last thing on her mind this morning. Ending up in bed with Ana was something she hadn’t been expecting. Perhaps Madame D’Nour was right.
A sudden knock at the door interrupted her daydreaming. Before she could say anything, the door opened and a woman came into the room. A tall, black woman, wearing the uniform of the guardia civil. The usual clutter of equipment hanging from her belt. Isabel heard the creak of her leather gunbelt as she came forward.
‘Buenos dias. You must be Isabel.’
‘Can I help
you?’
‘I’m Sargento Mendez, I brought some stuff over for Ana María.’ Mendez held up a thick folder, crammed with papers. ‘These are details of some new databases that have just been made available. She might find them useful.’ She put the folder on Isabel’s desk.
Isabel looked at the papers and saw a series of coloured photos. ‘What are these?’
‘The latest wanted notices from Interpol,’ Mendez said. ‘I doubt you need them but Ana’s still guardia so she needs to be kept in the loop.’
‘She never said anything about it.’
‘I’m sure she has other things on her mind,’ Mendez said, sarcastically.
‘Like a lost sword?’ Isabel regretted that at once as she saw Mendez’s angry look.
‘That sword was stolen. I’m pissed off about it as well, not that Ana cares what I think.’
‘I don’t really care to discuss a colleague when she’s not here.’
Mendez looked at her, amused. ‘Good for you. Don’t bother about returning those papers, we’ve got copies at HQ. Maybe there’s something in them to help with Ana’s obsession.’
As Mendez went to the door, Isabel’s voice stopped her. ‘What obsession?’
‘Guzmán, who else? She’s spent the last two years chasing a dead man, causing havoc as she goes. But you can do that when your uncle’s the boss, I guess.’
‘Ana was kidnapped and tortured by Guzmán. That’s hardly indulging an obsession.’
A mocking laugh. ‘How do you know she was tortured?’
‘She told me, of course.’
Mendez opened the door. ‘She tells people lots of things. It doesn’t mean any of them are true.’ A cold smile. ‘I’m sure she said she wants you around for your investigative skills?’
Isabel stared at her, angrily. ‘What are you implying?’
There was no reply. Mendez had already closed the door.
MADRID, OCTOBER 2010, CALLE DE LA TRIBULETE
Rosell looked at Galíndez, blank-faced. ‘That’s Sancho, one of our roadies. Actually, he was our only roadie, we couldn’t afford any more. Good at his job, mind. Strong, as well.’
‘How long was he with the band?’
‘Let’s see.’ Rosell leaned back in his chair. ‘I think he joined us in 1990, maybe ’91. Yeah, ’91. The first album came out that year, remember?’
Galíndez shook her head. ‘I was seven.’
‘We never really appealed to that demographic.’ Rosell sighed. ‘It was hard to tap into for a band like us.’
Galíndez brushed aside his nostalgia for lost marketing opportunities. ‘What was Sancho’s surname?’
‘Your type, is he? Always was one for the ladies.’
‘Not this one. What’s his surname?’
‘Hernández. Is he in some sort of trouble?’
She nodded. ‘It’s important I find him as soon as possible.’
‘That guy always sailed close to the wind. He’s good company, though, don’t you think?’
Galíndez had a sudden image of herself, straining against the leather straps as the electricity surged through her. ‘How come he left the band?’
‘He lost heart when the drummer died. Said the band was jinxed. Turned out he was right. After Sancho left, things just fell apart. Worst of all, no one cared.’
Galíndez picked up the bag and slung it over her shoulder. ‘You did.’
‘Yeah, we were like brothers. When you find him, tell him I said hello, will you?’
Galíndez had a sudden image of Sancho, her Glock 17 aimed at his chest. Her finger squeezing the trigger. The sharp echo of the shot. ‘Sure, I’ll tell him.’
Rosell accompanied her to the door. As Galíndez said goodbye, he held his arms wide as he approached her. ‘Big hug, yeah?’
She planted her hand against his chest to keep him at bay. ‘Let’s just shake hands.’
Rosell frowned as he held out his hand. ‘Hey, did you ask Ramona about Sancho?’
‘Who are you talking about?’
‘His wife, babe. Big Ramona?’
‘Have you got an address for her?’
‘Kind of, she works in an S&M bar called Cuero y Acero.’
‘The one on Calle Espino?’
‘That’s the one. How come you know that?’
‘A lucky guess,’ Galíndez said. ‘Thanks for your time.’
For a moment, as the door closed, Galíndez glimpsed her reflection in the glass, watching as Señor Rosell turned and ambled back into his jungle of cannabis plants.
CHAPTER 11
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, BAR ARIZONA, CALLE DEL CARMEN
The barman looked up from his newspaper. In the doorway, he saw the owner of the bar, brushing rain from his coat as he came in.
‘Buenos días, Alberto.’
‘Muy buenos.’ The barman quickly started polishing the counter. ‘Quiet today.’
‘At least we’ve got one customer, I see.’ The bar owner indicated the young red-haired man sitting in the window, staring across the street at the Pensión Paraíso.
‘Him?’ The barman scoffed. ‘He’s been nursing that coffee since seven. Two hours, he’s been watching that place.’ He stopped polishing. ‘Want me to throw him out? At least it would give me something to do.’
‘I’ll do it,’ the owner said. He walked over to where the young man was sitting. ‘Can I get you something, señor?’
Michael Riley turned away from the window. He seemed distracted. ‘Sorry?’
‘Can I get you something? We’re not a charity, you know.’
‘No, thanks.’
As Riley started to turn back to the window, the owner put a hand on his shoulder. ‘Thanks for your custom.’ He steered the student to the door and pushed him out into the rain. ‘Call again.’
The barman laughed. ‘That showed him.’
‘Maybe he’ll have more luck somewhere else,’ the owner grunted.
Outside, Riley took shelter beneath the awning of the grocery next door. Luisa’s idea of keeping a watch on Guzmán hadn’t gone according to plan. Still, he wasn’t too unhappy at abandoning his vigil, not after the way Guzmán treated him the previous day. The last thing he wanted was to have the comandante manhandle him again. Luisa hadn’t told him Guzmán might become violent. Worse, when Riley told her what happened, she seemed excited rather than concerned for his welfare. And she owed him for the tape recorder.
‘Scusi.’
A green car was idling at the kerb. Riley had been so engrossed in thinking about Guzmán he hadn’t even noticed. He walked over to the car and bent to look in. The driver was a middle-aged man with short, cropped grey hair. Though his Spanish was good, he had a slight accent that Riley couldn’t quite place.
‘Can I help you?’
‘The question is whether I can help you,’ the man said. ‘I’ve driven past this bar several times this morning and it looks to me like you’re keeping a watch on that pensión.’
‘No, not at all,’ Riley said quickly.
The man grinned. ‘I think you’re interested in Comandante Guzmán.’
‘Are you a friend of his?’ Riley asked, hoping he wasn’t.
‘Not at all, though I know a lot about him,’ the man said, ‘and about his crimes.’ He slapped a hand to his forehead, ‘Sorry, I haven’t introduced myself. Professor Luca, from the Institute of Social History.’ He held out his hand through the window and Riley shook it.
‘I’m doing a PhD at the Complutense on the Civil War,’ Riley said.
‘Really? That’s a coincidence, because I’ve been researching Guzmán’s activities for years. Maybe you’d like to take a look at my findings? You might like to use some of them in your thesis.’
The young Irishman’s head spun at the prospect of getting fresh material for his dissertation. ‘That would be great, thanks.’
‘Hop in,’ Luca said. ‘I’ll take you for lunch and we can discuss this some more.’
Riley slid into the passenger se
at, glad to be out of the rain. ‘Nice car.’
‘An Alfa Romeo Spider,’ Luca said. ‘My little extravagance.’ As the car surged forward over the cobbles, he switched on the radio. A sudden static-laced burst of Italian came from the speakers. ‘Hope you don’t mind?’ he asked Riley. ‘They’re previewing tonight’s game. My team’s playing Palermo.’
‘Who are your team?’ Riley didn’t like football but it seemed best not to say so.
‘Napoli,’ Luca said. ‘Our star striker just returned to the squad after an injury. At one point it seemed he’d miss the entire season.’
Riley looked out of the rain-spattered window. He had no idea where he was. ‘Must’ve been a bad one,’ he said, trying to show interest. ‘At least he’s back now.’
‘True,’ Luca agreed. ‘He makes a big difference to the team’s performance.’ He turned into a street lined with dilapidated tenements and crumbling warehouses. The car came to a halt at the side of a derelict factory. The rain was falling heavily now.
‘Where are we?’ asked Riley.
‘This is where I work,’ Luca said. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, GUARDIA CIVIL HEADQUARTERS
As Guzmán went into the squad room, Quique came rushing up to give him the news about the bombing in central Madrid.
‘I know, it’s probably ETA,’ Guzmán said. ‘I heard it on the radio at my pensión.’ He pushed the kid out of the door before he could do any more damage to his hearing. As he took a seat, there was a tap at the door as the orderly came in.
‘Phone call, Comandante, it’s Brigadier General Gutiérrez.’
‘In that case, you’d better bring me a pot of coffee to keep me awake.’
Guzmán went into his office. Once he’d settled himself in his chair, he picked up the phone. ‘What?’
‘You’ve heard about the bomb, I expect?’
‘It’s the only thing I’ve heard since I got up,’ Guzmán muttered, wondering where his coffee was. ‘Who’s responsible, ETA or one of the right-wing groups?’
The Dead: Vengeance of Memory Page 15
