by David Hewson
‘So you saw each other again?’
‘No. I saw him. He was not aware of me.’
Maria waited. It would come.
‘It was five years later. In the bullring here. By then he was becoming something in the city. He had a box of his own. The box that was once ours. The scandal around La Soledad had faded, others had taken the blame. Antonio knew how to please people. He knew how to give them the “good things”. They liked him. They warmed to him. He was rising in the Falange. Working in the city hall. He knew he’d never have to wheel the sick around in a hospital any more.’
She said the words with a slow, methodical precision.
‘I’d thought about it for a long time. I had the knife, the little one from the house in La Soledad. I still have it somewhere. I waited until the end of Semana Santa, Sunday, the great bullfight. Even Franco was there, the special guest. There were thousands of people, all fighting, screaming to be near the Generalissimo. This was when the Falange were really the victors, before the bitterness, the fear had set in. There was no middle ground. Any man who had a voice was for them then. Everyone else was silent or dead. So I stayed in the crush, I went with them. After the last fight, we scrambled around the box, jumped into it, people were kissing El Caudillo, kissing his hand, blessing him. And Antonio stood there silent, looking into the ring. I was behind him. I could have killed him. It would have been very simple.’
Maria watched her pause. Watched her searching for the words.
‘But I did not.’
‘Why?’
‘You ask for reasons so glibly, so easily. Do you think that life is run on reasons? For this purpose we do something, for another we do not. No one’s life is a machine, an engine. Not even yours.’
Maria found herself disliking Cristina Lucena, with an intensity that made her feel guilty.
‘It’s not my life we’re talking about.’
The thin lips puckered. ‘No. Why didn’t I stab him then? Perhaps, in a way, I loved him. At least I was aware that he was the only person I would be capable of loving in this lifetime. I no longer wanted him. I thought about him, true, I thought about our time together. The reality of it. What he gave me. But the desire was gone. Killing him would not bring it back. I felt the knife in my dress. He was as close to me as you are now. But there seemed . . . no point. Had I been a man, of course, I would have done it. Men are driven by baser things – jealousy, revenge, hatred. I felt none of these.’
‘What did you feel?’
Cristina Lucena looked at her with an expression that came close to contempt. ‘That he was an inferior creature who had failed me.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘Afterwards, I saw him around the city. Always by accident. Never face-to-face. I doubt he would have recognized me in any case. I looked very different from the little girl in La Soledad. I watched him, noted him over the years. His face was in the paper a lot, then there was some scandal, he left politics. The next time I saw him, he was dying. It was obvious. This was a man who had always seemed so full of life, of vitality. Then one day I saw him near the city hall and he was a shadow, a ghost struggling to walk. It was written in his face. There was something, some kind of cancer, that was eating him from within. A year later I read about his death in the paper. There was a short obituary. “A loving family man.”’
She sniffed. It was an unpleasant, dismissive gesture.
Maria wanted to get out of there without having to ask the question. She could not. When she went back to the station, they would demand to know. If she did not ask, someone else would.
‘Cristina.’
The old woman was tight-lipped. She looked gaunt and faded, as if she were part of the bed itself, a thin sheet of humanity in the midst of folded, bleached cotton.
‘Did you see the grave of the child? The boy? Did your aunt and uncle take you there, tell you where it was?’
She snorted and Maria could see the expression on her wrinkled, sour face for what it was: pure contempt.
‘Grave? Grave? There was no grave. Do you think I am a fool?’
‘No,’ said Maria softly. ‘No, Doña Cristina, I do not.’
TWENTY-NINE
They were sitting in the little office, now stuffy with heat and perspiration: Rodríguez, Menéndez, Maria, Torrillo. She looked at Rodríguez and remembered what Torrillo had said about him, remembered the unspoken, unshakeable confidence they all appeared to have in the man. His distance, his reluctance to become involved in the case seemed to be disappearing, dissolving by the hour. They were waiting for him to move, waiting for his insight. In recognition of that, his levity and, to a degree, his politeness had disappeared. She wondered how she could ever have mistaken him for an academic. It was an act, one he performed well, with subtlety. At heart Rodríguez was a cop. She watched his eyes scanning the pages in front of him anxiously. A worried cop, too.
Quemada and Velasco joined them partway through the conference, having accepted the inevitable: this was one case where you worked when you worked, and the shift had to wait. It was just after one in the afternoon. The blackboard was covered in white spidery scribbles. Maria could feel her head swimming. In the space of a few hours they seemed to have moved from darkness into light, but a light that blinded them. There was too much information for her to absorb, too many possibilities to be sorted into some kind of sense.
Menéndez led the discussion, writing on the blackboard what he called the ‘known points’ of the case. She read his shaky handwriting.
1. The killings were not random? Some link – possibly a homosexual one?
2. Luis Romero, a professor of history, possible victim.
3. The Brotherhood of the Blood of Christ – grudge? Other link?
4. Antonio Alvarez?
5. El Guapo. Links to Alvarez, Angel Brothers and Romero.
6. Cristina Lucena’s son – who? Still alive?
There was a lull in the conversation. So much information, so many roads to explore . . .
‘It can’t be the son,’ she said.
Menéndez agreed. ‘It’s impossible. He’d be too old. He could be anywhere. Dead even. All of the information points to someone younger.’
‘Definitely younger,’ she agreed.
‘Yeah. Well, you seen him,’ Quemada mumbled.
She felt the hidden accusation roll off her, barely noticed.
‘We still need to know,’ said Menéndez. ‘Is the son alive? If so, where does he live? You two can check with Melilla. Start there.’
Velasco wrote on his notepad, then grimaced. ‘Sure. Trouble is – and you’ll excuse me for telling you your job, Lieutenant – you know what it’s like trying to get back this stuff from the war. They didn’t keep such good records then. I’ve tried before, other cases. Everything you get is anecdotal. No paperwork. Nothing.’
Rodríguez looked at Velasco and Quemada for a moment, then said, ‘You keep pursuing this line till there’s nothing left to look at. Talk to the police in Melilla. See what they can find. If necessary, fly there yourself. You could do it in a day. I want it out of the way so we can concentrate on something more material.’
The two detectives glanced at each other, nodded, then scribbled some more.
Menéndez asked them, ‘Is there much more to be had from the records you took from the dating office?’
Velasco didn’t look hopeful. ‘We’ve got some people running through the names. Lots of interesting ones there, but no contacts with Romero so far. Seems the only people Romero met were the Angels, then he fixed the date with our athletic American. Except of course it wasn’t Romero. It was our matador friend.’
‘You know that for sure?’
Quemada said, ‘Ordóñez reckons he never met “Romero” in person, but he spoke to him whenever he phoned up. Said the guy had a young voice, definitely young. He was adamant on that. He didn’t pay by credit card or anything like that. He used to put cash in an envelope, then put it in the post or push
it through the door when the office was closed. Sometimes he wouldn’t do that until after the date. Ordóñez had good reason to make sure he could trust him. He wanted to make sure he got paid. He listened to that voice.’
Maria asked, ‘Who else did Romero, or whoever, date?’
‘That’s the funny thing,’ said Quemada. ‘He booked dates with three other guys, paid for them too, but never showed. We’ve got the names. They’re just regular guys, nothing special, no connection with bulls, the war, the brotherhood, nothing like that. We’re looking at them more closely, but they never even met the guy.’
‘You mean they think they never met him,’ said Maria.
‘I guess so,’ Quemada replied, looking interested. ‘What are you getting at?’
She glanced at the blackboard, tried to sort truths from the tangle of facts there. ‘It’s as if he isn’t after sex at all. He’s after something else.’
‘He’s checking them out,’ said Menéndez. ‘He’s booking dates so that he can look at them. Presumably without them knowing. When he’s done that he makes his decision. Something about the Angel Brothers triggered him. Something about Famiani too.’
‘Except there’s no link with our friend in the brotherhood office,’ said Quemada. ‘The matador killed him and he sure as hell didn’t get that date through some agency. Castañeda was as straight as they come.’
‘He didn’t need to check out Castañeda,’ said Maria. ‘He knew he was the man he wanted.’
‘Which brings us back to the brotherhood,’ said Quemada gloomily. ‘And all this history stuff. I hate history.’
‘What we have,’ said Menéndez, ‘is someone who has a direct link with these events in the war, maybe even with La Soledad itself, who is now taking some kind of vengeance.’
‘He’s too young,’ said Velasco. ‘It must be some second-generation connection. Why start all this now?’
‘Because he didn’t have the trigger,’ said Menéndez. ‘No one had pulled it.’
‘El Guapo,’ said Quemada. ‘We just got to pull him in. He met them all, except Castañeda maybe, and Castañeda sure knew him. He’s got the bullfighting connection, he’d sure know how to kill people. If it’s true, like your old guy says, that he’s Alvarez’s son, then maybe . . .’
He stopped. The train of thought clouded his face.
‘Maybe?’ asked Rodríguez, barely disguising his temper. ‘We don’t build a case on maybes.’
‘Well then, what if he’s next on the list?’ said Quemada. ‘We’ve got to talk to him anyway.’
‘I agree,’ said Menéndez. ‘We have the appointment fixed at his apartment for eight, Sergeant?’
Torrillo nodded. Maria watched the two men. They’d talked this through beforehand. And hadn’t shared it with another soul.
‘Good,’ Menéndez said.
Something buzzed around Maria’s head, nagging her, tugging just out of reach.
‘But why, why . . .’ She could feel the tone of her voice rising, close to hysteria. Cristina Lucena’s face, grey and pallid, flitted in front of her for a moment. ‘Why did he pick Luis Romero?’
Quemada shrugged. ‘Maybe he read his books. Maybe he met him sometime, gay date or something. I’m not sure I buy your idea this isn’t about sex.’
‘But he knew Romero’s address,’ Maria said. ‘He was giving his address out to the dating agency before Romero died. It wasn’t casual somehow. He picked Romero as the identity he wanted to use, and he picked him for some specific reason.’
Menéndez looked interested. ‘What might that be?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know. In universities sometimes people play jokes. Students. Other lecturers. They order things in somebody else’s name. Maybe . . .’
Quemada waved a big tanned hand in the air. ‘Come on. He picks someone else’s identity to go kill people, but picks the identity of someone who’s that close to him? This guy’s too clever to take stupid risks.’
‘We should check it,’ said Torrillo. ‘We should run through the students he taught, the people he knew at the university.’
‘Sure,’ said Velasco. ‘We’ll get it done. But you can see his point. Why use someone else’s name if you’re that close to them? Doesn’t add up.’
‘Nothing in this case adds up,’ grumbled Quemada. ‘The whole thing’s nutty.’
‘No,’ said Maria, and she could sense she was right, could feel the certainty behind her words. ‘It all adds up, except we haven’t sighted it yet. There’s something cold and straight and logical all the way through. That’s the way he sees it.’
‘Maybe the cold and straight and logical thing is that he likes killing people now and again,’ said Quemada. ‘You know, some of us play golf, some go to the football, but our guy just puts on his red gown, tools up for the evening and goes out and murders someone. Simple as that. What possible reason could there be for that Famiani guy, the runner? He didn’t even live here. Had no connection with Spain even. Just happened along on some queer date, no one showed, the next thing our man’s trying to stick him. Where’s the logic there?’
Maria fought to shed light on it. Quemada was right . . . and wrong. She couldn’t find the words.
‘Maybe,’ said Torrillo, ‘it started off like Maria said. Cold and straight and logical. Then, when he kind of got into the swing of things, it changed. He found he did like it. Not just killing the guys he wanted to kill, but killing other people too. Now it’s a little fuzzy in his mind. He doesn’t know whether he’s killing people because he’s got a reason or because he feels like it.’
‘That’s a cheery thought, Bear,’ said Quemada. ‘If you’re right we’ve really got trouble on our hands.’
Maria stared out of the window. The light was constant, unremitting, the sky a sheet of perfect blue, punctuated by the darting flight of swifts.
‘That’s right,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t know any more. He can’t differentiate.’
Something akin to sympathy hovered around her head like a moth attracted to a candle. She shook it away, trembling.
‘So that’s it,’ said Menéndez. ‘We’ll go see the bullfighter. You two chase Melilla. And try the records too. On Romero. Ordóñez. Whoever.’
‘Whoever,’ echoed Quemada.
‘What about Alvarez?’ asked Maria and the words came out dreamily, not the way she intended. ‘Might there be any records on him?’
The two detectives exchanged glances. They didn’t like rooms of dusty files, tedious pieces of paper.
‘He’s dead, lady,’ said Velasco. ‘Long dead.’
‘All the same . . .’ she said.
They looked at Menéndez. He nodded and, grumbling, the pair shuffled out of the room.
‘And those company names you found? At Castañeda’s?’ Maria asked.
Menéndez sat silently on the other side of the room.
‘Company names?’ Rodríguez looked puzzled. ‘You didn’t mention company names. I’ve nothing in any report about company names.’
‘They didn’t check out,’ said Menéndez. ‘Nothing at all.’
The captain grunted and said, ‘All the same, I’d like to see them. When you get back to your desk.’
Then he looked at her across the room, a look it would have been hard for the rest of them to miss.
I am not your accomplice in this, Maria thought to herself. I am not.
‘I’ll bring the file round straight away,’ said Menéndez.
Rodríguez rubbed his eyes and said, ‘I’m not giving you the support you deserve on this, Lieutenant. It’s not your fault. Semana Santa this year, it seems so big. We’ve more visitors than ever. Every room, every inch of the city is full. I don’t have the manpower to deal with the ordinary tasks, let alone something like this. I cannot – cannot – change this for the next few days, so I have to rely on you to proceed on your own for the moment, but it’s essential I see every piece of paperwork that comes through. For your sake as much as mine.’
Maria pinched herself. She suddenly got the impression that the coolness Menéndez felt towards her had plummeted several more points towards zero.
THIRTY
The streets overran with people. Their voices, high and tense and everywhere, flooded the car as it struggled to find a way through the mass of human flesh. Maria sat in the rear, silent, listening to Bear talking to himself up front. Menéndez was uncommunicative too, in a way that seemed new to her. Something disturbed him, something she could not begin to guess at.
They rounded a corner, passed a procession waving banners, red, yellow and green against the golden stone of the cathedral. It was still hot, hotter than she could ever remember for this time of year. She opened her bag, pulled out a tissue, wiped her forehead with it. When she looked back in the bag before closing it, something registered. Something was missing. There was a dull, infuriatingly stupid ticking at the back of her mind. She closed the bag and looked out of the window. The lurching of the car was beginning to make her feel sick.
‘Interesting place to live,’ said Torrillo. ‘Lots of money to buy, just a short walk into the back streets of Triana if he feels like a little illicit fun in the barrio.’
Jaime Mateo, El Guapo, lived in a riverfront terraced mansion on the Calle Betis, the one gentrified street of the working-class suburb that lay west of the city, across the Guadalquivir. Some of the back streets were still places with a reputation. This one broad avenue, close to the Triana bridge and the yellow, castellated restaurant called El Faro, was the place to live for any poor Sevillian made good. A plaque on the wall of a yellow house three doors away said that Manuel García López, the bullfighter known as Maera, a hero of Hemingway’s, had once lived here. Another matador who had clawed his way out of the slums. The low, white shape of the Seville ring stood almost directly opposite on the east bank of the river. The grand, whitewashed three-storey house that Mateo owned was a statement, a boast. Mateo had come a long way from the impoverished lanes of Santa Cruz, thought Maria, and then she reached for the handle and stepped out into the close evening air.
