by David Hewson
Maria could feel him hesitate. ‘I have the feeling, Captain, you are about to say “but”.’
‘But . . . you must appreciate what we may be facing.’
‘I think I do.’
‘What?’
‘Someone who has killed two people and attempted to maim a third.’
‘That is only part of it, probably.’
‘Then what?’
‘There is a pattern, one that is familiar even to detectives like our humble friends Quemada and Velasco, though they were unwilling to talk about it while you were here. The Angel Brothers were clearly no random killing. They must have been familiar with their murderer to have allowed him into their apartment and let him become so intimate with them. The attack on our friend Famiani, on the other hand, appears to be purely opportunistic.’
‘And the pattern?’
‘It may be one of two things. Our man may have killed the Angel Brothers and then simply discovered that he enjoyed it. Or he may be working to some kind of plan, a programme even. Remember, he alerted us to the bodies by returning to the Lucena house, breaking in again and leaving the door open. He wanted the bodies to be found.’
‘Either way, you expect him to try to kill again.’
‘Most certainly. My guess is that there is some cycle in this, perhaps linked to Semana Santa itself. The city goes a little crazy at this time of year. That has only just begun. The pitch will increase daily until Sunday, with the final parade, then the bulls. It’s customary for our arrests, across all categories, to increase exponentially each day. Perhaps the passions rise, or whatever. All killings of this nature come to an end – either because the perpetrator is caught or because the cycle itself ends. There are very few instances of continuous multiple murder, over a period of years. The psychology of the killers means that something happens to end it. Maybe they purge themselves of the desire. They get married. They find God.’
‘I understand what you’re saying.’
‘Do you? We’re facing someone who is certainly intelligent – intelligent enough to model the death of two modern artists on a canvas hundreds of years old; intelligent enough to see the parallel between the two, as you saw it. This person, or persons, may be dangerous in more than a mere physical sense. I have seen good, resolute policemen destroyed by the simple evil that other human beings may inject into this world. What you said about this city last night, that gives me concern. You must not think of it in this way or it may harm you.’
‘I was tired. I was depressed. I don’t know why.’
He looked at the file again. ‘I read this for the first time last night.’
‘Yes?’
‘You were married.’
‘My husband died. A sickness. He was ill, suddenly. Two years ago. He was thirty-two.’
‘And that is when you switched from teaching to research?’
‘I wanted to change something about my life. It seemed wrong to carry on as if nothing had happened.’
‘And still his death depresses you?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘I see.’
‘Is this relevant?’
‘Your peace of mind is certainly relevant to me.’
‘So I may continue?’
‘Yes. I would be glad of it. You will make a visit shortly with Menéndez and Torrillo. I am doubling the manpower on the case from midday. At two thirty we will have another press conference appealing for information. It will be a delicate affair. To stir sufficient concern to generate a response, without scaring people so much that we have a panic. But perhaps during Semana Santa we will be wasting our time in any case. Who watches TV, Professor? Who reads the papers?’
‘I would prefer it, Captain, if you called me Maria.’
‘So the sergeant said. Very well.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And if this becomes too much for you, Maria, you will not be too proud to tell me. I don’t have the time to worry about you needlessly.’
She almost laughed. ‘I shall ensure my mental state does not interfere with your professional competence.’
‘I would appreciate that. Now. Will you please ask Sergeant Torrillo to step back into the room?’
Bear was leaning on the water fountain, threatening to topple it over. He looked into her face, saw colour in her cheeks, something close to amusement.
‘Fourth time today, Maria,’ he said. ‘This could become a habit.’
ELEVEN
Out on the street the atmosphere had changed. Through the half-open window of the car, now struggling to get through the crowds, she could almost touch the difference. It was electric. A choir of young boys, dressed in white, carrying crosses and hymn books, crossed the square slowly, like a military formation, a balding priest at the head. On the pavement, crowds watched, snapping cameras, shuffling their feet, reading programmes, trying to decide what to do next. A hopeful gypsy woman sang an impromptu melody on the corner next to the pharmacy, then thrust an arm through the car window looking for change. Torrillo barked something, and the hand disappeared as fast as it had come. Bodies brushed, sometimes fell, against the car as it struggled to get free of the crowd. The bell of the great tower chimed overhead, scattering crowds of pigeons into the sky, now a deep eggshell blue, with the faintest trace of high cirrus in front of an indolent, fading half-moon. Morning smells – coffee, fat frying, the sweet perfume of churros and sugar – mingled with the aromas of Semana Santa. Incense and horse dung, diesel and cheap wine.
A group of dancers in traditional dress, black headdresses outlined against the sky, clattered past in a cloud of crude, mephitic perfume, laughing in young, unspoiled girlish voices, heels clicking on the cobblestones, with heavily made-up faces and bright, carmine lips, humming tunes to the occasional click of a castanet. Behind them followed a man and woman on horseback, immaculately dressed, he in the grey suit and round hat of a Jerez caballero, she in white jodhpurs and blood-red hunting jacket, black leather boots past her knees. They both rode with one hand on their reins: in the other they carried a small glass of sherry. Far off, in the distant corner of the square, close to the side entrance of the cathedral, Maria could see the focal point of the crowd, gold and gaudy under the sun, a huge carved wooden platform, supported on the shoulders of a group of men who wept and sweated in the heat. In the centre, behind glass, she could just make out the figure of a Virgin, cross in hand. It looked like an old-fashioned wax doll. In the train came a group of penitents, slow, silent and anonymous.
They were dressed in white.
The car broke free of the mass, shook off their sluggish momentum, and turned sharply into the wider avenue of San Fernando. Torrillo sped into third gear and left the crowds behind. They disappeared, like bees focused on a single honey pot. The streets were almost deserted, many of the shops were closed. Down one narrow alleyway, at its very end, she saw the signs of another procession, heard the blare of a trumpet and the rattle of a drum. The crowds dwindled as they moved away from the centre. Her old university, once the tobacco factory where a fictional Carmen worked, flashed past. They were driving alongside the Murillo Gardens, past the mansion of Cristina Lucena, past the area where Famiani had been attacked that morning. Finally the vehicle cut back into the warren of paths and streets, medieval and earlier, that made up Santa Cruz, the barrio where the locals lived almost on top of each other, screamed out of windows, seemed never to sleep, grew up with the map of the tangled skein of turnings and little squares around them already imprinted inside their heads. She remembered the first time she had stumbled into it as a student, walking for hours trying to find a way out of the maze, never once feeling threatened but always alone, a stranger, out of place in a tiny, enclosed world that was somehow separate even from the city itself.
Torrillo braked, then parked by the side of the cobbled road, running the vehicle so close into the wall that they had no choice but to get out of the driver’s side doors.
‘We’ll have to walk from here,�
�� said the sergeant. ‘It’s not far.’
He ducked under a dark narrow arch that smelled of cats’ piss and they followed, Menéndez making up the rear. The alley opened out enough to let two donkeys pass almost in comfort. They were in a tiny triangular piazza dominated by three tall, black iron crosses mounted on weather-worn marble and porphyry columns. The smells of the barrio, of washing, flowers, drains and food, everywhere food, filled the air. A child screamed, a mother scolded, a television set babbled from behind a half-open door. From an upstairs window came the unmistakable sounds of a couple making love, the frantic creaking of bed-springs, the moans of passion.
Torrillo asked in a shop – a hotchpotch collection of bread, biscuits, cheese and meat, housed in someone’s front room – then came out and headed for the building on the opposite corner. It was broad, three storeys tall, painted a bright ochre colour. Mustard yellow. The colour that could ward off evil. So many places were this shade in the barrio. She remembered what the boy who first took her here, all those years ago, had said, giggling, winking at her slyly. There must be a lot of it about.
She could hear the sound of flamenco from the ground floor. Hard heels on a wooden floor, shouts, castanets. The sign pointed to a dance school. The brotherhood was nothing more than a name by the bell. Torrillo punched the button, spoke into the entryphone and, when the buzz came, pushed his way inside.
The office was on the first floor, a simple, elegant room, well furnished, with teak desks and cupboards, leather furniture and the smell of polish. Miguel Castañeda, the general secretary of the Brotherhood of the Blood of Christ, sat in the most expensive-looking chair of all, pushed back from behind a vast desk. He appeared at least seventy, short, squat, leathery-faced, and gazed at them unpleasantly from behind rectangular gold-rimmed glasses, shifting in his chair with a slow, reptilian deliberation.
‘No. The answer must be no, Lieutenant. Our membership lists are a matter between the brotherhood and God. We do not hand them out for public consumption.’
Menéndez looked around the room. The walls were covered with old black-and-white photographs. Franco’s face, white, imperious, sometimes a little befuddled, peered out of many. Once, the general was in full uniform, at the head of ranks of penitents, another time in a business suit, watching a parade pass, looking bored.
‘We’re not talking about public consumption, Don Miguel. The records will remain confidential within the police force, that I assure you.’
Castañeda made an unpleasant noise, clearing his throat. ‘The police, the police. Twenty, thirty, forty years ago you could have made such a promise. Not now. You’re pawns. Servants of this poisoned state.’
‘We’re policemen, sir, investigating two murders and an attempted murder, all acts committed by a member of your brotherhood or someone closely connected with it. You have a public duty to assist us.’
‘Duty?’ Castañeda glared at them and let the word hang in the air. ‘You do not know the meaning of the word. None of you do any more.’
‘We have a duty to safeguard the citizens of this city,’ said Menéndez. ‘To do this we must examine your membership records. As far as I know, every one of your members is innocent. Do you not realize that, until I can place them outside the remit of our enquiries, each must be regarded as a suspect?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. The purpose of the brotherhood is charity, tradition, worship. And duty. Yes. True duty. You’re wasting your time. Wasting my time.’
‘We could go to the courts to force this. It would take time, however, and it would be easier, it would be quieter, if you were to offer your cooperation.’
‘You could try. Do you have any idea of the kind of men who belong to this brotherhood? They’re not street urchins. The thieves of the gutter you normally deal with. I could pick up the phone here and now and speak to one of your superiors. I could talk to any number of high-court judges.’
‘I don’t doubt it. Nor that they will know their responsibility in this matter too. This is an official police investigation and you must help us.’
‘You don’t understand. It’s inconceivable that any of our brothers could even contemplate being involved in the kind of crimes you are investigating. These brothers, these sodomites?’
Castañeda said the words with obvious distaste. ‘You’re a policeman. You know where to look for the kind of scum that moves in those circles. Not here.’
‘And yet we have firm evidence that these crimes were committed by someone wearing the dress of the brotherhood.’
‘Impostors. Charlatans.’
‘But why the brotherhood? Why choose it?’
Castañeda shrugged his shoulders. ‘It is of no concern to me.’
Maria spoke. ‘Perhaps there is a compromise. If we were to give you certain details, you could check them against the records yourself and tell us if there were any matches.’
The old man glared at Menéndez. ‘She is with you?’
‘She is a civilian who is helping us on the case.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Incredible.’
‘We’re looking for someone with a close connection to bullfighting,’ said Torrillo. ‘How about it?’
‘I doubt there’s a man in the brotherhood who doesn’t follow the bulls.’
‘And you have people in the business? Administrators, judges, matadors, too?’ asked Menéndez.
‘Of course. We return to the original question. To answer this, I would have to give you our entire membership list, and that is not possible.’
‘What about him?’ Torrillo nodded towards a small poster in the corner. It advertised the corrida that marked the end of Semana Santa the year before. At the top, in bold lettering bigger than anything else on the page, were the words ‘El Guapo’. By the side of it was a picture of a young man, with blond hair that looked dyed. He was grinning to show perfect teeth. More like a pop star than a matador. ‘I can’t see any other posters for the ring here. What about Mateo? Are you a fan, sir, or what?’
The old man wriggled, visibly. ‘He’s a very popular individual. Some purists might not approve of his style. That is not for me to judge.’
‘Is he a member of the brotherhood?’ asked Menéndez.
The old man sighed. ‘This becomes tedious. The membership is closed. I say nothing on this subject and my silence means nothing.’
‘Is he here, in the city, now?’
‘I believe, I have read in the newspapers, that he will be the most experienced matador in the ring on Sunday. He comes from the city. This is no secret and so, yes, I expect he is here already.’
Torrillo walked over and looked more closely at the poster. He rubbed the paper, cheap and thick and glossy, between his fingers and stared at the photograph until he could see the dots that formed it.
‘Don Castañeda. He is a very’ – the words came slowly – ‘pretty boy. If we were to examine the list of parties attended by our murdered Angels, do you think it possible they might have met?’
Castañeda laughed, and it sounded like rocks rumbling around in a well. ‘If you’re suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, you are somewhat far of the mark, Sergeant. El Guapo is a swordsman outside the ring as much as he is in it. It goes with the job, as they say. But don’t take my word. Discover this for yourself. Do what you will. This interview is at an end.’
‘I will have to take this further,’ said Menéndez.
‘Do what you wish. I have work to do.’
He showed them to the door of the first-floor office and they walked down the narrow wooden stairs. When they got to the bottom Torrillo grimaced, kicked at the floor and swore.
‘What is it with these old farts? He’s got nothing to hide. Why can’t he just cooperate?’
‘He will,’ said Menéndez. ‘He just wants to make us work for it, that’s all.’
Maria looked around, saw the ‘Servicios’ sign and said, ‘Excuse me. I have to go.’
Menéndez nodded and said, ‘W
e’ll wait outside.’
She followed the sign and found a door marked with a silhouette of a woman with a fan, went inside, hung her bag up on the hook, pulled down her jeans and sat down. From the gap above the door she could smell strong, dark tobacco. It curled inside the tiny washroom, hung in a grey cloud close to the ceiling, then drifted slowly out of the half-open window. When she had finished, she stood up and used the small, clean ceramic sink, rubbing the tiny tablet of pink soap that sat damp and semi-liquid in the recess. She dried her hands on a worn green towel, wiped them on her jeans out of habit, picked up the bag, threw back the bolt on the door, turned the handle and pushed.
Nothing happened. The door barely moved, then bounced back. Something was blocking the way, something that gave, just slightly, when she tried to get out. The smell of cigarette smoke grew more acrid. She felt something run over her skin, along her spine, puzzled over it, wondered to herself: why?
She pushed again. The door gave a little further. She could see sunlight staining the polished tile floor, the corner of something, before the door was gently, but firmly, pushed back on her.
Maria tried to work out what was happening, wondered if she ought to shout for Torrillo and Menéndez. But they were outside, beyond earshot. She looked at the window. It was too small to get through, and in any case, she didn’t know where it led. She yanked the handle down again, put all of her slight weight against the door and pushed. It moved reluctantly again, a little further. Then, as she tried harder, it fell free. She was caught off balance, tipping forward, feeling the gravity greet her momentum and draw her towards the tiles, gleaming in the sun. She stumbled, banged her knees, rolled over to cushion the blow and found herself cowering on her back, legs drawn up to her stomach, hands around her shins, underneath the shadow of a scarlet giant, clad, head to foot, in blood-red cloth, eyes mere slits, but staring at her, down at her from a point that seemed close to the ceiling.
He was vast, anonymous, deadly.
