Death in Seville

by David Hewson

  Thirty minutes later Quemada stopped and stared at the list. He’d been ticking in red, Velasco in green. Every one had a mark by their name, bar one.

  ‘I don’t believe it,’ said Velasco. ‘These guys ring up and say, “Send me a new boyfriend, the old one burst.” And they just leave their names and addresses, just like that. Shit, half of ’em leave their credit-card numbers too. I can just see old Felipe: “American Express, sir, yes, that will do nicely.” Unbelievable.’

  ‘You oughta get off this queer thing,’ Quemada said. ‘Your interest in these matters is starting to strike me as unnatural. They say those who bitch the most got the most to hide.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, they best not say it to me, not while I’m hearing.’

  Quemada looked at the one cross. ‘Some joker. Miguel Raton, Hotel Inglaterra.’

  ‘Maybe he was just passing through without Minnie and got to feeling a little lonely.’

  ‘Disney ought to sue.’

  ‘Yeah. You know, they once did a cartoon where Mickey and Minnie were doing it. For real, you know?’

  Quemada blinked and said, with a sigh, ‘For real?’

  ‘Yeah. It was a joke.’

  ‘You don’t say.’

  ‘It was a joke. They did it for Disney’s birthday or something. Screened it at the party, Mickey humping Minnie. I read it in a magazine.’

  ‘Really?’ Quemada was still looking at the names.

  ‘Disney watched the movie, asked who did it – apparently the drawing was real good – then fired them all. After the party, after he got the presents. They say Disney came from Almeria, you know. I had a cousin from there. He was a miserable bastard too.’

  ‘You read some crappy magazines.’

  ‘Thanks, partner,’ said Velasco. ‘Thanks a lot.’

  Quemada kept scanning the list. His partner did too. ‘Nothing. Every one checks out, right address, right phone number.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Velasco. ‘Old Felipe’s not so great at typing in the phone numbers, though.’

  Quemada waited.

  ‘Like this one here.’

  Velasco pointed to an entry with a tick beside it. It read: Luis Romero, 3 Calle de Calderon, telephone 5167678. It showed a contact with the Angel Brothers four months before.

  ‘The number’s wrong. Way wrong. I made a note of the right one. It’s 5123397. Bad typing.’

  ‘Maybe it’s a different number for him. A work number or something.’

  ‘Don’t you know anything about telephone codes?’ Velasco asked. ‘There isn’t a local exchange that begins 516. It’s all done on an area-by-area thing. I know. I had to try to get some phone-fraud guy once. Believe me, it is not easy. But there’s no way that number can be right. Watch.’

  Velasco popped the hands-free button on the desk phone and listened for the dial tone. Then he dialled the number. All they got was a long, low continuous whistle. He dialled the number again. The same thing happened.

  ‘That is not a real telephone number and it never was. Maybe it was a mistake.’

  Quemada scowled. ‘Felipe didn’t look like the kind of guy to make mistakes. He was in this for business.’ He chewed on his pencil. ‘The guy couldn’t have deliberately left the wrong number to disguise who he was. Otherwise why would he have left his name and address? He must have done it when he booked, to make sure no one rang back or something.’

  He began flicking through his notes.

  ‘Do you remember when Felipe said he closed down the office? What time?’

  ‘Three. Three in the morning,’ said Velasco. ‘Lot of late trade, I guess.’

  Quemada looked at his watch. It was 2.30 a.m.

  ‘There’s something we should have asked,’ he said, dialling the number. Ordóñez answered immediately.

  ‘Señor Ordóñez. It’s Detective Quemada. We spoke earlier, you have my card? Yes, sir.’ Quemada silently echoed the word ‘sir’ to himself incredulously across the empty office. ‘I’m sorry to have to trouble you again. But there is one thing. I’d be grateful if you could look it up on your computer. It won’t take a minute and then we won’t disturb you again.’

  Quemada waited. He could hear the office chair shuffling across the office, the beeps and whirrs of the computer.

  ‘You got your database in front of you? No. OK. I’ll wait. Fine. No problem. That’s OK now? What I was wondering, sir, was whether you had any entry for someone called Freddy Famiani, an American.’

  Quemada listened, nodded, then put his hand over the mouthpiece.

  ‘He’s looking Famiani up. He remembers him. Remembers the American.’

  ‘Jesus,’ said Velasco. ‘You never can tell . . .’

  ‘You had one booking for Mr Famiani? Yes, sir. He asked for his money back because the guy never showed? Fine. And the name? Is this someone you’ve met, sir? Someone you’ve spoken to? No. I see. Always pays cash, by post or through the door, always books over the phone. Fine. I am very grateful. May the rest of your evening go swingingly.’

  Quemada put down the phone, scribbled something on the pad, then looked at his partner.

  ‘On Friday night Freddy Famiani fixed a date with Luis Romero. Says Romero never showed.’

  Velasco tapped his pen on the table and gave a little grin. ‘You want to wake that shit Menéndez or should I do it?’

  NINETEEN

  An hour later, four police cars were speeding across town into what passed for middle-class suburbia on the road to Carmona. The city was still busy. Crowds, dull from emotion, sullen from tiredness, hung around street corners. The gaiety had gone. Now it was just late. Menéndez was in the first car with Velasco and Quemada. In the three other vehicles were twelve officers, all in uniform, all armed. Four of them were from the Special Services squad. They had specific training in dealing with armed sieges. Two were from the police shooting team that, a year before, had won the national rifle trophy in Valencia.

  Quemada asked, ‘What do we do, Lieutenant?’

  Menéndez watched the streets roll by, high walls lit by wrought-iron lamps. ‘We knock on the door and ask. What else would we do?’

  Quemada grimaced out of the window, into the night. ‘This guy, he’s not exactly the sort to let us cuff him and walk away, is he?’

  Menéndez disagreed. ‘Who knows? If we come upon him out of the blue he’s exactly the sort to do that.’

  ‘This is all that psychology stuff the ice queen’s into?’

  ‘If that’s what you want to call it.’

  ‘Why are we indulging that woman?’ Quemada wanted to know.

  Menéndez turned, stared at him and said, ‘Because the captain says we should. Do you want to argue with him?’

  The car turned right, into a dead-end avenue, then drew up outside a drive guarded by a high iron gate. They got out and waited for the cars behind. Menéndez walked ahead.

  ‘Well, I’ll tell you one thing,’ said Quemada to his partner, ‘if he starts throwing them darts around, I for one don’t intend trying to psych him into surrendering. Those boys with the guns can sort it out. That’s what they’re paid for.’

  Velasco shook his head. ‘Just leave it to the lieutenant, huh? He knows what he’s doing.’

  ‘Yeah. Leave it to the lieutenant. If one of us gets killed, maybe he’ll make captain even sooner,’ Quemada said sourly and kicked at the gravel in the drive.

  Ten feet ahead of them Menéndez felt for the latch on the gate, found there was no padlock, opened it and walked through. The rest of the team followed him. The house was a modern two-storey villa surrounded by a large lawn. Beyond some flowerbeds a kidney-shaped pool shimmered under the light of the moon. The garden was overloaded with the night perfume of flowers. Under a lean-to sun-cover set against the house stood a Mercedes saloon.

  Quemada looked at it and whispered, ‘Guy’s got money. Could afford a few boyfriends if that’s what he wanted.’

  There we
re no lights on inside. The front door and all the ground-floor windows were covered by wrought-ironwork frames, all closed. Menéndez gently shook the one on the door. It was locked. He turned to the officer from the Special Services unit carrying the sledgehammer, saw the reaction and shook his head.

  Quemada looked at the armed men and said to Velasco, ‘Shit! They’re wearing vests. How come they get vests and we don’t? How come?’

  ‘Because if there’s shooting they’re the ones who’re going to have to deal with it.’

  ‘Too right,’ said Quemada and started to wonder about how much the Mercedes was worth.

  Menéndez reached forward and pressed the illuminated doorbell. From inside the house came a long, metallic sound, like a gong. They could hear it echoing down long, bare corridors, searching for a response and failing to find it. Menéndez pressed the bell push again, then once more, and waited. Velasco and Quemada wondered what was going to happen next. There was no easy way they could get in, not in the night, not without knowing what was in there.

  Then, on the second storey, a light came on, low and yellow. A bedside lamp, just an ordinary thing. They heard noises from inside, someone moving. More lights, more sounds, coming closer. With an abrupt, loud rattle the door was drawn back. Quemada and Velasco unconsciously stepped backwards, behind the armed team. They watched the uniformed men, hands on their guns, tense and expectant in the dark. The armed team stood a good three yards behind Menéndez, who was leaning on the iron door-guard looking for whoever was inside. Then the porch light came on, the door opened and a tired female figure, in a long, drab dressing gown, confronted Menéndez.

  Quemada and Velasco relaxed a little, moved forward and, without thinking, found themselves between the armed team and Menéndez. They wanted to hear what came next.

  ‘Mrs Romero? We’re police officers,’ said Menéndez.

  The woman peered at him, nodded, then tried to see beyond, into the dark. She looked as if she needed glasses.

  ‘What do you want?’ she said quietly. ‘What time is it?’

  ‘We’d like to speak with your husband. I’m sorry about the lateness, but it’s important.’

  She stared at him and Velasco found himself patting his gun in its holster just in case. She looked more than a little crazy.

  ‘You want to speak to my husband? You are police, and you want to speak to my husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Is this some kind of a joke?’

  Menéndez was silent. Something had been nagging him ever since Quemada and Velasco had woken him up. The name: Luis Romero. He had taken a holiday at the beginning of February: a brief week spent driving along the coast. When he returned he had run through the log as usual to check what had happened while he was away, looking to see if anything had required his attention. Romero was there, buried, quiescent, half-forgotten.

  He looked at the pale, sad woman and said, ‘I’m sorry. There’s been a terrible mistake. I can only apologize. I can’t explain. I must speak with you. Please.’

  ‘Now?’

  He nodded and she started to unlock the iron security frame.

  The lieutenant turned to his men and dismissed the uniformed team. They disappeared into the night, disappointment hanging over them, leaving Quemada and Velasco alone with Menéndez.

  ‘Isn’t he at home?’ asked Velasco. ‘There’s some problem?’

  Menéndez thrust his hands into his jacket pocket, waited for her to push open the ironwork frame, then headed for the house.

  ‘Luis Romero committed suicide two months ago. It was in the reports. I should have remembered.’

  ‘Two months?’ asked Quemada.

  ‘That’s not good,’ muttered Velasco, then followed the lieutenant into the house.

  Teresa Romero sat on a cream sofa in the living room underneath a broad, modern canvas. Menéndez felt he ought to recognize it, but the name escaped him. Quemada and Velasco occupied dining chairs to one side, silent, making notes. The woman looked as if she were on the edge. Her hair was lank, long, stringy. It hung down lifeless to her thin shoulders. Her tan was pale and dun. She was, perhaps, fifty, thought Menéndez, but her features, burned away by what – anguish? fear? life? – seemed much older. There was something both haunted and haunting in her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Menéndez repeated. ‘We didn’t link your husband’s name with the information we had.’

  She clutched a glass of brandy. It was close to four in the morning.

  ‘What do you want to know?’ It was as if she feared the question.

  ‘Mrs Romero . . .’ Menéndez struggled for a beginning and found himself wishing Maria were with them. ‘We’re investigating some serious crimes. You may have seen them on the TV. In the newspapers.’

  ‘You mean those . . . brothers?’

  ‘Quite. We came across your husband’s name.’

  Nothing changed in her face. She didn’t want to ask the question.

  ‘Clearly, on at least one occasion when someone used his name it was a deliberate lie, since it was only last week. But I do need to know if that was always the case. I need to know what kind of company he kept.’

  She drank some brandy. ‘Do you know who my husband was?’

  ‘Something at the university? I’m trying to remember.’

  ‘He was a history professor.’

  ‘A popular man?’

  Teresa Romero laughed again. ‘Oh, yes. He was popular. Every day, every evening. He was there or somewhere else, being popular. Here.’

  She got up, walked to a side table, picked up a photograph and gave it to Menéndez.

  ‘What do you see?’

  It was a portrait, slightly posed, of a man in his late forties, wearing an open-necked shirt of a floral design, raising a glass to the camera. There was a gold chain around his sunburned neck. His hair was brown and frizzy. He had a moustache and a broad, sunny smile.

  ‘A professor of history?’ She leaned over him and he could smell the drink. ‘Or some little play actor trying to pretend he’s still twenty-five years old?’

  She stumbled over to the sofa and sat down.

  ‘Was your husband a homosexual?’ Menéndez asked.

  ‘No,’ she said straight away. ‘Not that. He liked women, he liked history. There are plenty of people out there who can tell you. I was just married to the man. I knew him well enough to know he wasn’t that.’

  ‘Do you know if he used gay dating agencies for some reason? We found his name in the records of one.’

  She thought about the question. ‘No. I can’t believe that was him.’ She spoke in a dreamy, disjointed way.

  Menéndez pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket. On it were the names from Abraxas. He passed it to her.

  ‘Do you recognize any of these people?’

  She went down the list, one by one, then said, ‘No.’

  ‘Was he interested in bullfighting?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Blood, thunder, passion. He loved that. He used to follow one in particular. You know, the pretty one, with the blond hair.’

  ‘El Guapo?’ asked Velasco. ‘Jaime Mateo?’

  ‘Yes. Him. Every fight. I think Luis knew him slightly.’

  ‘And religion?’

  She stared at him. ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Was he involved in any of the Semana Santa activities? Did he belong to any of the brotherhoods?’

  ‘My husband was an anarchist who hated everything to do with the Church. The only thing he liked about Semana Santa was the corrida at the end. That and whatever he found to amuse him afterwards. In the streets. Wherever he ended up.’

  ‘I see.’

  Menéndez rose from the chair. ‘It’s late.’

  ‘Is it?’ she asked.

  ‘Mrs Romero?’

  She was drifting away somewhere. The questions were starting to go past her.

  ‘Why do you think your husband killed himself?’

  She snorted, spilling brandy down the f
ront of her dressing gown.

  ‘He seemed a contented, successful man,’ Menéndez went on, indicating the photograph. ‘His lifestyle may have been unconventional. But, from the picture, he didn’t look unhappy.’

  She gazed out of the window at the night.

  ‘Perhaps,’ she said. ‘For the last ten years I didn’t know Luis. He wasn’t the man I married. He became someone else, someone chasing this youth he never had. I never knew what was happening in his mind. And besides . . .’

  Menéndez watched her hesitate, then overcome her reluctance. ‘Besides?’

  She put down the glass on the table with a look of distaste on her face. ‘I drink this shit. God knows why. I blame Luis and it is not his fault.’

  Teresa Romero pulled her dressing gown around her and gazed at him. ‘They came and told me that one night my husband drove his car into some godforsaken industrial park on the edge of the city, drank half a bottle of whisky, took out a penknife and cut his own wrists. Then they say what you say: “Why?” Lieutenant, I may not have known my husband well these past few years, but some things never change. Luis was a coward. I couldn’t get him to take a shot when we went abroad. He hated the idea of blood, of cuts, of anything surgical. He could have killed himself. He had something inside him that made him capable of that. But not this way. Not Luis. It would have been pills, something like that.’

  ‘So what do you think happened?’

  ‘What I told your people before. Someone murdered him.’

  Menéndez said nothing.

  ‘I am not a hysterical, bereaved widow, Lieutenant. I was not when this happened. I am not now. But I knew Luis well enough to know that he could not do this to himself. Many other things, but not this.’

  She picked up a packet of cigarettes, opened it, thought better of the idea, then put it back on the table.

  ‘What goes on between a man and a woman when they’re married, married for years, no one sees. Not even the people themselves. It all happens invisibly, behind, around us, and if we notice it we’re too polite to mention.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to kill your husband?’

  ‘I have no idea. No idea at all.’

  Menéndez pocketed his book, racked his brain for more questions. None came. He got up to leave and the detectives moved to follow him.