The Dead: Vengeance of Memory

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘If he’s so well known, how come you haven’t got him in a cell?’ Guzmán scoffed.

  ‘Sebastian Uribe’s a sly one, sir.’

  Guzmán frowned, deep in thought. ‘I knew an Alberto Uribe, back in the day.’

  ‘That was the father,’ the officer said. ‘His son’s almost as big a villain as he was.’

  ‘And you’ve never managed to pin anything on him?’

  The policeman rubbed his thumb and index finger together. ‘Greasing someone’s palm with cash solves most problems round here.’

  Guzmán suspected the man was speaking from experience. ‘I’ll take it from here.’

  Guzmán waited until the policeman’s heavy footsteps faded and then made his way down the street. Feral echoes shimmered through the shadows and a strong odour of cess drifted up from the drains. He remembered these streets from when he was younger. It had been bleak then. A liminal world where people lived on the margin between poverty and depravity, their lives punctuated by the violence that always accompanies such conditions. It had suited Guzmán well.

  A hundred metres further on, he arrived at a ramshackle warehouse, set in a cobbled yard off the main street. Large double doors, wet and glistening in the rain. Above the entrance, a sign: SEBASTIAN URIBE LTD. AUCTIONEER.

  He went to the wicket gate set in the side of one of the doors and hammered on it.

  A suspicious voice inquired who was there.

  ‘A customer,’ Guzmán said, lowering his voice. ‘I’m looking for something I lost earlier this evening.’

  ‘Get lost.’

  ‘I’m also a police officer.’ He took a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and put one in his mouth. ‘We can do business now or I’ll come back with a truckload of uniformed cops and take this place apart.’ He lit the cigarette. ‘And everyone in it, starting with you.’

  He heard a sudden muffled conversation on the other side of the gate. The sound of bolts sliding. The wicket gate opened a few centimetres and a cadaverous face peered out. ‘Business, you said?’

  ‘Exactly.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘I’m looking for some lost property.’

  An indifferent shrug. ‘You’d better come in.’

  Guzmán stepped into the loading bay of the warehouse. Flickering oil lamps threw a greasy light over the clutter around him. He saw racks of clothes, motorcycles and boxes, piles of them, big shipping crates and smaller items wrapped in oilcloth. In the hearth, a small coal fire was burning, nuancing the room with erratic shadow.

  ‘This place looks like a museum,’ Guzmán said.

  ‘You’ll find everything you could wish for here, señor.’ A sharp voice, beyond the ring of pallid firelight.

  Guzmán peered towards the speaker. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a large man sitting behind a desk. A wide, well-fed face, cruel, glinting eyes. His pinstriped suit seemed incongruous in these sordid surroundings. Behind him, Guzmán saw the obscure outlines of more stacked crates.

  ‘You’d be Señor Uribe, I take it?’ Guzmán asked, walking towards him.

  Uribe held up a hand. ‘Not too close, my friend.’ He gestured to one of the men who hurried forward with a chair and placed it in front of the desk.

  ‘Have a seat,’ Uribe said. A harsh, smoky voice. ‘You’re a policeman, I understand?’

  Guzmán shook his head. ‘Not for the purpose of this visit.’

  ‘You seem familiar.’

  ‘I knew your father.’

  A sudden creaking of wood as Uribe leaned back, adjusting his great bulk in the chair. ‘A lot of people knew Alberto Uribe. He was well respected.’

  That was not strictly true, since Guzmán could recall watching his sargento kick Señor Uribe senseless in the cells below the comisaría on several occasions. He decided not to share that memory.

  ‘I’m looking for some property that was stolen in Calle Tribulete earlier this evening,’ Guzmán said, provoking a muffled giggle from one of Uribe’s men.

  Uribe leaned forward, clasping his hands on the desk. ‘Is this property valuable?’

  Guzmán nodded. ‘It has sentimental value.’

  ‘Value is value,’ Uribe said. Casually, he took a cigar from an inside pocket, bit off the end and spat it onto the floor. ‘Cuban,’ he said as he lit it, exhaling a mouthful of smoke.

  It was indeed Cuban, Guzmán knew from the aroma. He had started the conversation not liking Uribe, but his failure to offer him a cigar like the one now clutched in the fat man’s mouth was downright insulting. ‘The contents were in a leather case.’

  ‘I may be able to help.’ When Uribe smiled, the lamplight glittered on a gold tooth. ‘Assuming you can pay.’

  Guzmán reached into his jacket and took out his wallet, or more accurately, the late Señor Benavides’ wallet. He flicked through the thick wad of banknotes, making sure Uribe saw it and then tucked the wallet back in his jacket. ‘Let me see the goods.’

  Uribe made a brusque gesture to one of the men hovering in the shadows. As the man scuttled away into the dim recesses of the loading bay, Guzmán took the opportunity to count the others. There were four, five when the other one returned. And Uribe, of course.

  ‘We couldn’t understand what exactly it was,’ Uribe said. He met Guzmán’s gaze, his demeanour slightly more pleasant now he’d seen the colour of his money.

  ‘I invent things,’ Guzmán said. ‘It’s one of my inventions.’

  ‘What does it do?’

  ‘Profit and loss calculations,’ Guzmán said with a sudden improvised authority. ‘Ideal for small businesses.’

  Uribe’s flabby face displayed no interest. He sat, his big hands still resting on the table until his man returned with the leather case.

  ‘Everything’s still in there, I hope?’

  ‘Of course,’ Uribe said. ‘We didn’t know what to do with it anyway.’

  ‘Can I ask who supplied it to you? Just out of interest.’

  Uribe laughed. ‘María the black widow. If someone faints or slips on the cobbles, she’s always on hand, wailing and offering up a Hail Mary for them while her daughter robs anyone within reach.’

  Guzmán looked at the case lying on Uribe’s desk. ‘How much?’

  The fat man’s face set with professional interest. ‘Let’s say half a million pesetas.’

  ‘Let’s say your mother’s a whore,’ Guzmán said. ‘I could just as easily arrest you.’

  Uribe grinned. ‘I’ve got five lads there who say you’re not leaving with that case unless you come up with the money.’ He took another long drag on his cigar. ‘And don’t think you’ll be coming back with a bunch of coppers for it either, because I’m protected. You must have heard of Eduardo Ricci?’

  Guzmán took a deep breath. He needed to think of this as a business transaction, he told himself. Throttling this fat toad of a man would only complicate things. Even so, the thought that the fat fuck didn’t know Ricci was dead pleased him immensely.

  ‘Half a million.’ Guzmán smiled, reaching into his jacket.

  Uribe slouched back, taking another satisfied pull on the cigar. Then his eyes widened. ‘What the hell?’

  The shot briefly echoed round the darkened warehouse. Uribe slumped back, his weight upending the chair as he toppled to the floor in a crumpled heap.

  Guzmán pointed the pistol towards the stunned men. ‘There are twelve bullets left in this pistol,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘Whether I use them or not is up to you.’

  ‘Don’t want any trouble, officer,’ the skull-faced man said.

  ‘That’s sensible.’ Guzmán nodded. ‘Maybe you should take over, now Señor Uribe’s indisposed?’ He picked up the leather case. ‘Show me out, will you?’

  As Guzmán stepped out of the wicket gate, the door slammed behind him and the bolts rattled into place. Inside the warehouse, he heard an argument starting. With luck they would have killed one another before morning.

  He strolled down Calle Sombrerete. Near the Plaza de Lavapiés, a
taxi had pulled up by the kerb. Guzmán gave the driver an address and climbed in.

  ‘End of a late night out, señor?’ the driver asked.

  Guzmán shook his head. ‘It’s only just begun.’

  MADRID, OCTOBER 1982, CALLE FERNÁN CABALLERO

  The taxi dropped Guzmán at the end of the street. The road was quiet, apart from a babble of voices coming from a bar on the corner. He soon found the address he was looking for: an old weathered door with a sign offering repairs to all manner of electrical appliances. He knocked twice. After a moment, he heard the sound of hurried footsteps and then a key turned, and then another. Finally, the door opened.

  ‘Christ, you’ve got more locks on that door than the Bank of Spain,’ Guzmán said, pushing past Julio. In front of him, he saw a steep flight of stairs descending into darkness.

  Julio followed him down the worn stairs. The air was thick with damp, a familiar smell: it reminded Guzmán of the cells beneath Calle Robles.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Julio pressed a switch and a dull light glowed in the ceiling. Ahead, Guzmán saw a sturdy wooden door.

  ‘In there,’ Julio said.

  Guzmán pushed the door and went into a small cellar. A single bulb in the ceiling illuminated the stains splattered over the mildewed wall. In one corner, he saw a pile of tools and chains.

  ‘You’ll never guess what used to happen here,’ Julio chuckled.

  Guzmán lit a cigarette and blew smoke into the pale light. ‘The question is, does she?’

  Paloma Ibañez’s eyes widened as the two men turned to look at her. Uncomfortable under their gaze, she tried to move, though since she was securely bound to a heavy wooden chair, there was little chance of that. An uncomfortable experience for her, Guzmán was sure, though it was hard to know for certain, since Julio had gagged her.

  Guzmán pulled the gag from her mouth.

  ‘Do you know who I am?’ Paloma said, outraged.

  ‘Of course I do,’ Guzmán said, untying her wrists. ‘Do you know who I am?’

  Paloma was too busy rubbing the circulation back into her wrists to answer for a moment. ‘I have no idea, but I tell you this, you’re in trouble unless you release me at once.’

  ‘My name’s Guzmán,’ he said. ‘Your friend Javier Benavides told you all about me at your meeting at the Torre de España.’ He watched her eyes widen. ‘What? Didn’t you think anyone might be spying on you?’

  Paloma gave him a furious stare. ‘Things have changed since you were last in Madrid, Comandante. Let me go now and I’ll overlook this unfortunate incident.’

  Guzmán took a thoughtful drag on his cigarette. ‘Some things haven’t changed.’

  ‘Oh no?’ Paloma sneered. ‘Like what?’

  ‘Principles,’ Guzmán said. ‘Principles like avenging murdered friends, for example.’

  Paloma swallowed, hard. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘You hired the Italian. He killed a friend of mine and her father. That makes you responsible.’

  ‘It wasn’t entirely my decision,’ Paloma said. ‘Javier was the one who gave him permission to come after you. I don’t know anything about the other people.’

  ‘Javier’s dead,’ said Guzmán. ‘I killed him, Ricci and several of his lackeys. That leaves you.’

  ‘Don’t forget I’m protected. If you hurt me, the Centinelas will come after you.’

  ‘Know what?’ Guzmán said. ‘No one is fucking protected, señorita. Least of all you.’

  ‘I am.’ Paloma’s voice cracked with emotion. ‘They said so.’

  Guzmán turned to Julio. ‘Did you get them?’

  ‘Yeah.’ Julio took a thick brown envelope from his coat. ‘The old man said you owe him plenty for this.’

  ‘He always says that.’ Guzmán smiled, spilling the contents of the envelope onto the filthy tabletop.

  Paloma stared at the wad of documents lying on the table. ‘What are those?’

  ‘These are copies of your bank statements, showing various withdrawals you’ve made over the last two years. There are receipts for cars and antique furniture, designer clothes and holidays, all drawn against the Centinelas’ private account.’

  Paloma frowned. ‘They must be forgeries.’

  ‘Of course they are,’ Guzmán agreed. ‘Done by one of the best in the business. They show you’ve been skimming money from your employers.’ He picked up one sheet and brandished it in her face. ‘You even made a contribution to the PSOE’s election campaign.’

  Paloma stared wide-eyed at the paper. ‘But I hate the Socialists.’

  ‘I’m sure they feel the same way,’ Guzmán smiled and leaned closer, ‘but what’s General Alvaro going to say when my courier delivers these papers to him? “Oh, Paloma would never do such a terrible thing?” Or is he going to send someone along to put a bullet in your head as a reminder of what happens to people who betray the Centinelas?’

  Her face grew pale. ‘They’d kill me.’

  ‘I expect so,’ Guzmán said. ‘Still, those who live by the sword, eh, señorita?’

  ‘You’ve got to stop that courier. I’ll pay you.’

  ‘I never thought I’d say this, but you haven’t got enough money.’

  Nervously, Paloma ran a hand through her hair. ‘What can I do to stop you delivering those papers to General Alvaro?’

  ‘Leave Spain,’ Guzmán said. ‘There’s a fake passport here. I suggest you use it.’

  ‘Leave the country?’ Paloma spluttered. ‘You can’t be serious?’

  ‘The girl at the pensión was eighteen,’ Guzmán said. ‘Her father was in a wheelchair. They got caught in someone else’s war. Since you and Benavides call the shots on behalf of the Centinelas, it makes sense to kill you as well as Javier. The only reason I haven’t is because Daniela wouldn’t have wanted me to. She thought the war was over.’

  Paloma swallowed, hard. ‘But the war is over, Comandante.’

  ‘There’s always a war,’ Guzmán said, shaking his head. ‘Leave Spain, or you’re the next casualty.’ He smiled. ‘And the funny thing is, I won’t be the one to kill you. Your colleagues will do it for me.’

  ‘But where would I go?’ Paloma asked, though her expression suggested she was already considering the possibilities.

  ‘You’re a lawyer, you work it out. If I were you, I’d empty my bank account the moment the banks open this morning and then get a plane to somewhere warm. I’m sure you’ll do well wherever you go.’

  ‘All right, I’ll do it,’ Paloma said, mopping her brow with a handkerchief. ‘I just need to collect a few things from home.’

  ‘No, Julio will take you to the bank and then the airport. You can buy clothes there.’

  ‘And you promise not to give Alvaro those documents?’

  ‘Of course not. I don’t trust you an inch. My courier will deliver them at nine thirty this morning. You’ve got just enough time to get your money and drive to the airport. Julio will make sure you’re on a plane.’

  Her shoulders slumped. A long resigned sigh. ‘Just as you say.’

  ‘Where will you go?’ Guzmán asked. ‘Merely out of interest.’

  ‘Argentina,’ Paloma said, without hesitation.

  ‘What, gauchos and the rolling plains?’

  ‘Not at all,’ Paloma said. ‘The country’s run by a dictator. There should be plenty of opportunities for someone like me.’

  ‘I think you’re right,’ Guzmán said.

  ALICANTE, 25 OCTOBER 1965, LLANTO DEL MORO

  Villanueva watched the afternoon shadows lengthening. By the church hall, men were unloading crates of bottled water and hampers of food for the villagers. Many protested, asking why they could not return to their homes. Surely they would be safe enough there? Their protests were cursorily dismissed. No one wanted to tell them that the real reason for their isolation was to prevent them contacting the press.

  Villanueva saw Guzmán coming towards him, accompanied by a tall, bald-headed man.
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  ‘This is Brigadier General Gutiérrez,’ Guzmán explained. ‘He’s in overall command of this operation.’ From his tone, Villanueva sensed Guzmán was not entirely pleased at that.

  ‘There are eighteen children in that bus, is that correct?’ Gutiérrez asked.

  Villanueva nodded. ‘Ten boys and eight girls. Where are they now?’

  Gutiérrez pointed up at the headland. ‘Somewhere up there. He says he’s filled the bus with explosives and we’ve no reason to disbelieve him: he’s done these things before. If we send in the police and guardia, he’ll kill them all.’

  ‘So what do we do?’

  ‘He wants the money delivered in large-denomination notes,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘But we can’t trust him to keep his part of the bargain so whoever delivers the money will have to kill him and that psychotic woman accompanying him.’

  ‘It has to be done soon,’ Guzmán cut in. ‘What we didn’t tell the villagers is that Santorini spent time in an asylum: he’s half crazy. And he’s particularly violent towards women. If he thinks we’re trying to trick him, he’s likely to kill the girls first.’

  ‘You’ll have to give the Italian the money,’ Villanueva said, his face pale. ‘My sergeant’s daughter is on that bus, you can’t risk the lives of those children.’

  ‘I spoke with Franco half an hour ago,’ Gutiérrez said. ‘He was very clear. There’s no chance of those prisoners being released from prison, today or any other day.’

  CHAPTER 24

  MADRID 2010, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE, DEPARTAMENTO DE HISTORIA CONTEMPORÁNEA

  Galíndez slowed as they approached the campus. In the distance, across the tan lawns near the faculty building, she saw the fountain, a stream of diamonds and ice fire in the afternoon sun.

  ‘This was a good idea,’ she said as she turned onto the slip road. ‘It’ll be hard to find us in a campus teeming with thousands of students.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’ Isabel was interrupted as Galíndez pulled up in front of a wooden barrier blocking the road leading into the campus. A handwritten sign was fixed to the centre of the barrier: