The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘Detain me for what? I’m here to get information.’

  ‘Exactly. Very sensitive information about Sancho Hernández.’

  ‘Our agencies exchange information all the time,’ Galíndez said, struggling to control her temper, ‘so how come you’re threatening me with illegal imprisonment?’

  Villena’s eyes narrowed. ‘Why don’t you start by telling me about your interest in Inspector Hernández?’

  A long silence. ‘Inspector Hernandez?’ Galíndez said, finally.

  ‘That’s right,’ Villena said. ‘He’s one of my best undercover operatives, or I should say he was one of the best, since he’s been missing for four years. Perhaps you could explain your sudden interest in him?’

  ‘I’d be happy to. Sancho Hernández is implicated in several crimes including murder and an attack on the home of a civil guard capitán. He’s also linked to the killings of the CEO of a group of private hospitals and the assassination of the Minister of the Interior and her husband, two weeks ago.’

  ‘You have evidence of all that, do you?’

  ‘I saw him at the scenes of some of those crimes,’ Galíndez said. ‘He was also jointly responsible for kidnapping me last week, assisted by a former member of Franco’s secret police.’ She sat back, breathing hard, angry at the memory of it.

  Villena’s eyes narrowed. ‘You saw Sancho?’

  ‘On several occasions, including the attack on Capitán Fuentes’ house.’ She leaned forward. ‘It’s clear to me your inspector’s gone over to the other side.’

  ‘What other side?’ Villena snapped.

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘And you’re sure it was him?’

  Galíndez shrugged. ‘Do you have any photos? I can identify him.’

  ‘I won’t be a minute.’ Villena jumped to his feet and hurried out of the door.

  Still angry, Galíndez listened to his footsteps fading down the corridor, leaving her alone. Alone, with only Sancho’s file for company.

  She pulled the file across the desk and flicked open the cardboard cover. Inside was a black-and-white photograph of Sancho, probably the one used for his police ID card. A few details: age, rank, blood group and his wife’s address. She flipped the page and saw a handwritten address above a scrawled map: Monasterio de Santa Eulalia, near Las Rozas. In the corridor, she heard the sound of footsteps. Villena was coming back.

  She reached into her pocket for her phone, took a photo of the page and pushed the file back across the desk.

  A moment later, Villena came into the room, clutching a handful of photographs. ‘Have a look at these.’ He spread the photos on the desk, careful to mix them up.

  Galíndez looked at the photos in front of her. Two were of Sancho, one with his piercings and tattoos, one without, clearly taken earlier in his career. The other pictures were of men of a similar appearance. She examined the photos slowly, making Villena wait. Languidly, she tapped the pictures of Sancho with her finger. ‘These two are Sancho,’ she said. ‘Now are you going to tell me what this is about or are you going to threaten me again?’

  Villena slumped forward on the desk. ‘I was out of order, I know. But you’d do the same in my position.’

  ‘I wouldn’t, but that doesn’t matter. What can you tell me about him?’

  ‘He was one of our best undercover operatives. The man was a natural. Four years ago, we set up an operation to infiltrate a group of ex-military officers and politicians who were affiliated with organised crime syndicates in Madrid.’

  Galíndez felt her pulse quicken. He was talking about the Centinelas. ‘Go on.’

  ‘They were already powerful when we started planning to take them down. Once we sent Sancho in, we found out they were even more powerful than we thought. They had influence in various branches of the police, the armed forces and the guardia.’

  ‘The guardia?’ Galíndez cut in. ‘Were we notified?’

  He shook his head. ‘We couldn’t alert agencies that had been infiltrated by these people, it would have blown our operation. We wanted them to think no one was aware of their activities. That way, we could take them by surprise when we made our move.’

  ‘And did you?’

  ‘We never got the chance. Sancho sent a last message saying there was a problem. Something had been lost and they were desperate to get it back.’

  Galíndez’s mind was racing now. ‘Did he say what it was?’

  ‘He never contacted us again,’ Villena said quietly. ‘We kept trying to make contact so we could get him out, even though we suspected he was dead. At the same time, communications between members of the group stopped. We couldn’t get a lead, we had no informers, nothing. I swore to his wife we’d find him but it never happened.’

  ‘Did the group he was investigating have a name?’

  His eyes flickered with sudden interest. ‘Not as far as I know. Why?’

  ‘I just wondered.’

  ‘Could you send us the material you’ve got on him?’ Villena asked, conciliatory now. ‘We’ve been assuming he’s dead but from what you say, it sounds like there’s still a chance of finding him.’

  Of course, I’ll send you copies of my reports,’ said Galíndez. ‘But I have to tell you that everything I’ve found suggests that he’s switched sides.’

  ‘We’ll deal with that once we find him,’ Villena said. ‘Any information you can give me will be helpful.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll send it over. Not that you deserve it after your behaviour earlier.’

  He gave her a sheepish look. ‘I really am sorry about that. I was Sancho’s unit commander when he went undercover and it was my call to send him in. That also meant it was up to me to get him out. But I failed, which is why I’m desperate for information. I thought I could bully it out of you.’

  ‘“Please” would have worked a lot better.’

  ‘I’m really sorry. If I get any more info on Sancho, I’ll copy you in on it at once.’

  ‘Who said the age of diplomacy’s dead?’ Galíndez smiled.

  Back in her car, she took out her phone and checked the picture she’d taken of Sancho’s file. Then she set the satnav for Las Rozas.

  MADRID 2010, MONASTERIO DE SANTA EULALIA, LAS ROZAS

  ‘Follow the A-6 to Pozuelo and then bear left at Majadahonda.’ Galíndez looked angrily at the crumpled map on the passenger seat next to her. Shit, why can’t they make these things clear? She glared at the satnav, the wires hanging loose from its cracked screen. That hadn’t been much use either.

  She was deep in the suburbs now. Commuter land: neat gardens, swimming pools shaded by large palm trees. Expensive cars parked on long drives.

  And then a sign, no, two signs, one for Majadahonda and the other a tourist sign, Monasterio de Santa Eulalia, 12km.

  She sighed with relief as she turned onto a dusty country road rising gently around the side of a hill. At the top, she passed a grove of olive trees and then, as the car turned a bend, she saw the outline of the monastery on the skyline, a big arched gate, a steep grey slate roof, rows of ancient leaded windows. She slowed, thinking of the centuries of austere habits and bleak comforts that had passed here on this desolate hilltop, broken only by midnight prayers in the dead of winter.

  A couple of hundred metres up the road, she saw a long wooden bar with a veranda overlooking the countryside beyond. A perfect spot to sit and watch the sun go down with a cool drink. She slowed to a halt alongside the only other vehicle in the parking lot. As she climbed from the car, she looked up again at the hermitage. By the gate, she saw activity: several small vans, people hurrying in and out of the gate. Sancho was somewhere in there, she was certain, though she doubted Inspector Villena would get his wish to get him back. Villena was being naive: it was clear to her that Sancho had changed sides. Yet another reason to put a bullet in him.

  The barman was leaning on the counter, engrossed in the sports pages of El País. He looked up as he heard her approach. ‘Buenas tardes.
’

  Galíndez ordered a Coke.

  ‘Just finished work?’

  ‘Not yet, I haven’t.’ Galíndez gestured towards the monastery. ‘Interesting old place. Is it open to the public?’

  He pushed her drink across the counter. A tinkle of ice cubes. ‘No, it’s some kind of private members’ club.’

  ‘Really? What kind of club?’ She tried not to sound interested.

  ‘You tell me. We all have our own theories as to what goes off when they have their special nights up there.’

  ‘Why, what happens?’

  ‘Sometimes there’s two dozen cars parked round that gate. People go into the monastery and then they leave in the early hours. That’s all I know.’

  ‘Maybe they have dinner dances or something?’

  ‘Maybe.’ His expression suggested he wasn’t convinced. ‘They have all the lights on, but I’ve never heard music. In fact, there’s never any noise at all. Whatever they do, they do it quietly.’

  ‘Maybe they’re swingers?’

  ‘Don’t think we haven’t thought of that. But if they are, they keep it to themselves.’

  Casually, she slid Sancho’s photo across the counter. ‘Ever seen him round here?’

  The barman gave her a long look. ‘You a cop or something?’

  She grinned. ‘Me? Are you kidding?’

  He joined in her laughter. ‘Yeah, you’re too pretty to be a cop.’

  ‘Flatterer.’ She took another sip of Coke. ‘Actually, I’m a lawyer. That guy in the photo was married to a client of mine. He ran out on her and the kids. I’m trying to get some maintenance for her. It’s no joke, looking after four kids. You can imagine, can’t you?’

  ‘I can. What a shit.’ The barman picked up the photo and examined it. ‘Yeah, I know him. He’s the caretaker up there. Once in a while he drops by for a beer. Keeps himself to himself though.’

  ‘You think he’s up there now?’

  ‘Who knows? You could try for nothing.’

  ‘Know what?’ Galíndez said. ‘I’ll do that.’

  *

  The road became a narrow track as she approached the monastery. At least she didn’t have to climb the hillside, she thought, seeing the steep slopes littered with stunted trees and broken rocks.

  Ahead of her, a line of vans was parked by the gate. The logos on the sides showed they were from a catering firm. Quite a big order, given the number of vehicles. She kept walking, deciding to wander in. If anyone asked, she’d bluff it out with a story about being a lost tourist.

  As she went past one of the catering trucks, a man was standing at the back of the vehicle, talking into his mobile. He gave Galíndez an evil look. ‘Hang on, I think she’s here now.’ He glared at her. ‘You’re Carla, I take it?’

  Galíndez nodded.

  ‘Well you’re late. Do it again and I’ll dock your wages. I know you said you weren’t experienced but I didn’t think you’d be forty minutes late.’

  ‘Sorry, my car broke down.’

  ‘I don’t care. I expect you to be on time, OK?’ He pointed to a woman standing by a van a few metres away. ‘That’s Elena, your supervisor. She’ll tell you what to do.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Galíndez wandered over and introduced herself.

  Elena gave her another warning about punctuality and then slid a big tray of canapés covered in cling film from the back of the truck. She pushed the tray into Galíndez’s arms and went back for another. ‘Follow me.’

  Two men were standing by the gate. Both in black suits, earpieces and mikes. As she got nearer, Galíndez saw the bulge of sidearms under their jackets. Probably not a swingers’ evening then, she guessed.

  ‘Just got to check you two ladies out.’ The bigger of the two smiled as he came towards them. Galíndez’s stomach tightened. Even the most cursory search would find the Glock tucked in her waistband.

  The man went up to Elena and lifted the cover on the tray she was carrying. ‘Looks tasty.’ He came over to Galíndez and checked her tray. ‘OK, girls, go straight in, the refectory is down the corridor and on the right, you can’t miss it.’

  They continued walking.

  ‘Hey, brown eyes.’

  Galíndez stopped and turned.

  ‘You married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He looked over at his partner. ‘Told you. The best ones always are.’

  Galíndez stayed where she was, staring at them, stony-faced.

  The man waved his hand dismissively. ‘Carry on, señora.’

  Slowly, Galíndez turned and followed Elena into the monastery.

  ALICANTE, 25 OCTOBER 1965, LLANTO DEL MORO

  The motorcade came to a halt, almost filling the main street with long black limousines. Men jumped out from both sides of the lead vehicle. Hard-faced men, wearing dark suits despite the heat.

  One of them ran to the rear door of the car and opened it.

  For the first time in a long time, Villanueva felt vague excitement, realising it was probably some foreign film star, making another spaghetti western in the arid countryside.

  As the man got out of the car, Villanueva realised at once he was not an actor, though his face was familiar. He’d seen it often enough in newspapers and newsreels at the cinema. Alberto also had recognised him, and was now rigidly standing to attention, saluting with uncharacteristic formality as the prime minister came towards them.

  ‘Almirante.’ Villanueva raised his hat. ‘Inspector Villanueva at your service.’

  Admiral Carrero Blanco looked at him, expressionless. ‘Who the devil are you?’

  ‘I’m Chief of Police.’

  Carrero Blanco gave him a cold look. ‘Not any more.’ He turned to one of the dark-suited men. ‘Get the church hall opened up. I want all the villagers in there within the hour.’

  CHAPTER 15

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE DE MENORCA

  Guzmán took a coffee at a café on Avenida de Calle Menéndez Pelayo before going in search of the Sepúlveda Garage. As always, Gutiérrez’s instructions were annoyingly accurate. He turned into Calle Menorca and a hundred metres further on, he saw the sign.

  Whoever Sepúlveda had been, he had not looked after this garage. The battered metal shutters were daubed in painted slogans from both left- and right-wing groups. Various slogans, most beginning with Death to. Others called for an amnesty for political prisoners; one hopeful soul had even painted Viva Franco across the door. Yet another sign of the times. In the old days his men would have hospitalised someone for this wanton vandalism.

  Inside the garage, bolts rattled and a small metal door slid open. ‘That you, Guzmán?’ The words were lost in a sudden fit of coughing.

  ‘No, it’s the Centinelas, we heard you’d opened a library.’

  ‘Don’t make jokes like that,’ Gutiérrez grumbled. ‘It might be bad luck.’

  Guzmán slammed the door behind him. ‘When did you start caring about luck? You said you always placed your faith in science.’

  ‘And which of us spends his time consulting fortune-tellers or asking dwarfs for their opinions?’

  ‘I’ve lost faith in dwarfs,’ Guzmán sighed, reaching for his cigarettes. ‘This new generation don’t want to work in fairs or circuses and even if they get a job in a hotel, they complain about being stuck in the lift all day.’

  ‘Why would they turn their noses up at regular work like that?’

  ‘Same reason people are wearing clothes that look they were made by a blind gypsy.’ Guzmán fumbled in his jacket for his lighter. ‘Got a light?’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t smoke in here.’

  ‘I’m in need of a cigarette. I promise not to exhale.’

  Gutiérrez went to the wall and hit the light switch. ‘This is why you can’t smoke.’

  The overhead lights fluttered on, revealing the interior of the old garage. By the far wall, Guzmán saw a small glass-sided office. Along the other wall were piles of rusty tools and worn tyres. But it wa
s the huge shelves that caught his eye. At least two metres tall, they dominated the place, long metal racks loaded with boxes and files, arranged in rows that extended to the back of the garage.

  ‘This is what I’ve been doing, Guzmán. While you and your squad have been collecting the files, I’ve started sorting and cataloguing some of the most damning material.’

  ‘Including the stuff on us?’

  ‘Some of it, though it’s early days yet, I’m going to need more help.’ Gutiérrez picked up a folder lying on a workbench. ‘Remember this? You arrested twenty men from a village near Toledo in 1959. They were never seen again.’

  Guzmán frowned. ‘Can you be more specific?’

  ‘They were all members of the PCE,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘If that helps?’

  ‘Ah, the communists.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘It was a meeting in an abandoned church.’

  ‘How convenient.’

  ‘I’ll say. We threw the bodies into one of the tombs and blew it up with grenades.’

  ‘We?’ Gutiérrez chuckled. ‘It says here you did all the killing.’

  ‘If you want a job doing properly...’ Guzmán waved away the memory. ‘So those documents really do have all the shit on us?’

  ‘Indeed they do, which is why we ought to think about moving this material to a more secure location. I’ve had a feeling the place has been under surveillance these last few days.’

  ‘I’ve been followed on a couple of occasions as well,’ Guzmán said. ‘He’s good too. Tailed me for forty-five minutes and then, just when I’d decided to kill him, he melted away. A pro, definitely.’

  ‘Then the sooner we move these files the better,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘I’ll make some calls this afternoon.’ He looked at his watch. ‘How about lunch? It’s on me.’

  Guzmán was cheered by the thought of food and even more cheered by the prospect of Gutiérrez paying. ‘There must be at least one five-star restaurant round here’.

  ‘There’s a bar just down the street,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘It’s very reasonable.’ He pressed a button on the wall and two men came out from the back of the garage, dressed in overalls though no one would take them for workmen since both were wearing shoulder holsters. ‘We’re going out,’ Gutiérrez told them. ‘No one comes in until I get back.’