All intel to be shared.
Filipe de Burgos. Commissioner general of police in Andalusia.
So it had been decided. The death of the South African had already been declared a murder. So much for the questioning of suspects and gathering of evidence. He looked up to the ceiling. ‘Dios mío. Why do you test me so?’
‘Also…’ said Rubio, ‘some people are coming from La Secreta.’
La Secreta. The secret police.
Garcia felt a wave of nausea in his stomach. He lifted his hand to his mouth, coughed. ‘Did they say why?’
Rubio shook his head slowly. ‘Their office in Madrid just called.’ His eyes searching Garcia’s as if seeking an acknowledgement that the Inspector had understood the significance of this new development.
He understood.
The desk sergeant thumbed behind him to where Garcia could hear the sounds of muffled conversation and movement. ‘The Norwegian girl’s here. Ramos is just processing her now.’
‘Good. That’s good,’ said Garcia, scratching at his stubble. ‘I want to question her right away.’
‘Will do. And the British man? The one from Gibraltar?’
‘What about him?’ said Garcia.
‘He’s in your office.’
Garcia clenched his eyes shut, doing all he could to resist the overwhelming desire to head back into the bathroom and to dunk his face in the cold water once more. He rubbed at his forehead. ‘Alright. Listen. Get Ramos and Alonso on the radio. Tell them to round up anyone that ever met Harry Blackman. Anybody who ever spoke to him. His cleaning lady. The gardener. The woman in the post office, the girls in the grocery shop. Bar owners. That fucking lawyer, everyone. Understood?’
‘Will do’. The policeman nodded his confirmation and turned to leave.
Garcia reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out his cigarette packet, only then remembering he had smoked the last one. He launched the empty packet toward a waste basket on the floor outside the interrogation room. He missed.
‘Mierda!’ ‘And tell someone to get me more cigarillos,’ he yelled at the departing Ramos.
‘Okay.’
‘And I want Aguila de Oro. None of those shitty tar sticks you lot smoke.’
Garcia marched up the corridor to his office, took a deep breath, and opened the door to see the British man sitting at Garcia’s desk. He had a receding hairline and a flat nose, and was wearing a charcoal black three-piece suit. His trilby sat on the Inspector’s desk, and he was attempting to work a green-enamelled, metal electric fan.
‘It is broken,’ said Garcia.
The Englishman mumbled something under his breath, then stood up. ‘My name is Guy Weiland. I am from the British consulate.’ He held his hand, which Garcia shook. The Englishman’s palm’s were damp with sweat. ‘I understand you have been instructed to involve me in your current investigation?’ said Weiland, as Garcia wiped his hand on his trousers.
‘So I have.’
‘Good.’
‘You and our wonderful police commissioner must have an excellent relationship,’ said Garcia.
Weiland looked at him, his eyes narrowing slightly. ‘We’ve cooperated in the past with various… issues.’
‘Issues such as this one?’
‘Different issues,’ said Weiland. ‘So, if it’s not too much inconvenience for you, Inspector, I should like to speak with Mr Blackman right away.’
‘Your compatriot is not talking.’
Weiland shot him a quizzical look. ‘You mean he is refusing to cooperate?’
‘I mean he has a broken collar bone, amongst other injuries. He was in much pain, extremely weak and disorientated when we found him at four o’clock this morning. He required some strong sedatives. He’s currently at the doctor’s surgery, having his arm put in a cast.’
Garcia pulled open one of his desk drawers in another fruitless search of more cigarettes. A framed photograph of himself lay flat inside. He was much younger in the image, and in a military uniform. He quickly pushed it to the back of the drawer but Weiland had already spotted it.
‘From the civil war?’
‘It is,’ said Garcia.
‘You fought for the nationalists? For Franco?’
‘I am a captain in the Guardia Civil, Mr Weiland. I think it unlikely I would hold such a position if I had fought on the other side.’
‘Quite,’ said the Englishman.
Garcia slid the drawer closed. ‘Would you happen to have any cigarettes?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ The Englishman gave him a regretful smile. ‘I gave them up last summer. Doctor’s orders.’
Garcia sighed. His brandy was stashed in the other drawer, but he could not have another helping now. He would have to offer the Englishman a glass, and this brandy was far too good for the pompous prick who was currently occupying his chair. ‘It would be better if you were to wait at the hotel, I think. One of my men can update you when we know more.’
Weiland peered up at Garcia for several seconds, his hazel eyes fixed on the Inspector’s before a wry smile broke out across his pock-marked face. He rose from the seat, Garcia stepping back to allow him to leave, but the Englishman instead wandered over to the chestnut and glass cabinet on the other side of the small office.
A collection of five silver and gold medals, their multicoloured ribbons gathering dust, sat in an open display case on the middle shelf. Weiland pointed at them. ‘For gallantry?’
‘For being on the winning side.’
‘Ah,’ said the Englishman. ‘So, you are a pragmatist.’ He peered back at the medals. ‘Difficult times.’
‘For all of my country, yes. Now, if you would excuse me…’ Garcia gestured towards the open door. ‘As I am sure you can understand, I am really quite busy, and—’
‘If Mr Blackman is not yet in a fit state to communicate, then I will need to talk with the girl. Miss Johansson.’
Garcia crossed his arms. ‘And how does The British Consulate know about a Norwegian citizen, may I ask?’
Weiland gave him an innocent shrug. ‘I was briefed about Blackman and his staff before setting out this morning.’
‘How very efficient of Her Majesty’s government.’ Garcia composed himself. ‘However, Señor Weiland, I do not consider that this would be… appropriate.’
Weiland snorted. ‘Inspector Garcia, you and I both know that there is nothing appropriate about anything that has happened here. Nothing at all.’ The Englishman leaned towards the Spaniard. ‘Now, I can walk out of this squalid, little police station and make a call to my superiors in London and in less than twenty-four hours we will have an international incident on our hands.’ He glanced back at the medals. ‘Or we can be pragmatic about this.’
Garcia could feel his pulse racing. He gritted his teeth and forced his hands into his jacket pockets least they were to emerge as clubbed fists and pummel the arrogant man in front of him.
A strategically timed cough came from the open door.
Garcia looked to see officer Ramos standing there. ‘Yes?’ he snapped.
‘The woman, sir. Shall I bring her to the interrogation room?’
The Inspector nodded. ‘Yes. I’ll be there in a moment.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘And Antonio…’
The man snapped back to face his superior. ‘Sir?’
‘My cigarillos?’
‘I sent my sister out to fetch some for you.’
‘Very good.’ Garcia waited until the younger Spaniard had left, before turning back to the Englishman. ‘I will allow you to be an observer, Señor. An observer. That means you will not ask Blackman or Miss Johansson any questions. If you have such questions, you will ask me. This is how it shall be. Do you understand?’
‘Oh, I understand. But I’m not sure that you do, Captain Garcia.’
The two men stood still, Garcia glaring at the Englishman, Weiland replying with an assured, slim smile.
Garcia cracked first. ‘Why
do you want to talk to the girl? She is Norwegian, not English.’
‘She worked for Mr Blackman for several months, did she not?’
‘She did.’
‘Then I should like to hear what happened, from her.’
Garcia smacked at a mosquito at his neck. Why did the bastard things not attack the Englishman? Even the insects were against him, it seemed. ‘Like I said, you can sit in the room and observe,’ he grunted. ‘While I will ask the questions.’
‘Inspector, let me remind you that—’
‘Mr Weiland, you may well have influence enough over the police commissioner in Sevilla, a man who I know to be as receptive to valuable gifts as he is fond of good-looking young men—’
‘Are you suggesting that we have in some way extorted the good Commissioner?’ said Weiland.
Garcia leaned closer, eyes fixed on Weiland’s. ‘Oh, I am suggesting nothing. I’ve known the bastard for twenty years. I know exactly what he is and how easily he can be bought.’
‘So you would disobey his orders?’ said Weiland, still holding Garcia’s stare.
Garcia gave the Englishman a feigned look of shock. ‘Me, disobey orders? Of course not. I simply felt that perhaps you should know that some men from the La Brigada de Investigación Social are on their way here from Madrid.’
The confidence drained from Weiland’s face in an instant. ‘La Secreta? The Spanish secret police?’
Garcia nodded. ‘I think when they arrive, Miss Johansson and your countryman will be taken some place else.’
Weiland lifted his arm and glanced at his wristwatch. ‘How long will it take them to get here?’
Garcia shrugged. ‘Twelve hours, maybe? It depends on the train connections.’
‘I see,’ said Weiland. He walked to the desk and picked up his hat. ‘Best we get a move on then, wouldn’t you agree?’
10
The travel writer
Police Station, La Mesita Blanca
All Saints’ Day, 1970.
8:42am.
Inspector Garcia sat next to the metal table in the middle of the interrogation room leafing through his small notepad then reached for a grey paper folder upon which were stamped the words, “Foreigner File”.
There were no windows to let in natural light and he strained to read his own handwriting under the yellow hue emitting from the dented metal ceiling lamp above his head. An extract fan rattled away, high up on the far wall, its cover coated in a thick film of dust and desiccated insects.
Guy Weiland, the man from the British Consulate, sat at the back of the room in the shadows, a location which Garcia thought was most apt.
‘When do you expect Mr Blackman to be here?’ Weiland asked.
Garcia shrugged. ‘The doctor will call when he is lucid enough to answer questions.’
‘Is he under guard?’
‘There are two soldiers with him.’
The clank of a cell door being opened echoed from along the corridor, signalling that Liv Johansson would be with them shortly.
‘Remember what I said,’ Garcia reminded Weiland without turning to face him. ‘You are to be an observer only.’
‘As you say, Inspector.’
A moment later, Officer Ramos opened the door, his hand on the shoulder of the Norwegian woman, directing her towards the chair opposite the Inspector. She was a little under six feet tall, Garcia guessed. A slim woman in her late-thirties, her skin was pale, her hair a white blonde. Her face sported a purple and yellow bruise around her right eye. The cut to her forehead had been stitched, a yellow sheen of iodine visible around it.
‘Thank you, Antonio,’ Garcia said, still scanning his notebook. He glanced up at the woman just at the moment that she noticed Guy Weiland sitting at the back of the room. Her eyes flitted from the Englishman to Garcia and to the table in front of her. Her bosom rose as if she had taken a steadying intake of air.
Does she know him?
Garcia flipped his notebook to a fresh page and scribbled a quick note with his pencil, cleared his throat, then lifted his gaze back to the woman in front of him. ‘Miss Johansson. It seems we have much to discuss.’
She returned Garcia’s stare, offering a semblance of a smile and a nod. She swallowed and clasped her hands together in front of her.
‘Your employer, Mr Blackman, is currently having his injuries attended to by Doctor Ramirez. He has a broken collar bone. It was quite a nasty break, it seems. He required strong sedatives for the pain and will need a plaster cast.’ He brought his hands together, interlocking his fingers, mirroring her pose. ‘I will be most interested to know how this happened.’ He let the words hang, keeping his eyes on hers. Her lip twitched and her stare flicked once again towards Weiland for a fraction of a second.
They do know each other!
Garcia scratched a tick next to the note he had written a few seconds earlier. ‘Our community has suffered a tremendous shock these last few days,’ Garcia continued. ‘I have a dead man and a missing person, a fifteen-year-old boy. Conrad Navarro. You know him, yes?’
She replied with a weak nod.
‘Indeed you do. I have reason to believe that Mr Blackman is in someway involved in this.’
Her lips quivered, and she rubbed a tear from the corner of her eye with a slim index finger. ‘What do you want from me?’ she said, her voice weak, defeated.
‘We shall come to that,’ said Garcia, while pulling a printed form out of the grey folder. ‘Now, for the records. You are from Lillehammer in Norway. You were born in 1931. That makes you, what, thirty-nine?’
Johansson gave him another weary nod.
‘And your occupation is listed as Travel Writer. Is that correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘You have family here in Spain?’
‘No.’
‘In Norway?’
‘No.’
‘Somewhere else then?’
She closed her eyes for a moment, her shoulders tightened. ‘I have no family, Inspector. You know this already. It is in that foreigner’s file in front of you.’
Garcia looked into her eyes for a moment, then smiled. ‘I do like to ensure that my information is correct, Miss Johansson. To make sure that things are how they should be.’ He placed the sheet of paper back into the folder, closed it, then pushed it to one side.
‘Am I under arrest?’ she said.
‘You are being held for questioning.’
‘Then I’m not under arrest?’
Garcia sat back, crossed his arms. ‘That will depend upon your answers to my questions.’
They both sat still for a moment. He watching her, deciding how to proceed, she holding his stare. The light above them dimmed for a second. The extract fan in the far wall slowed for a moment, then continued to whir away noisily.
‘The dead man at Blackman’s villa,’ said Garcia. ‘His name was Peter Stangle. Did you know him?’
‘No. I mean, I recognised him. I’ve seen him around. But I didn’t know him.’
‘Why did he come to the villa?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Did you speak to him?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know who killed him?’ said Garcia.
‘No. I don’t know what happened.’
‘Did you kill him?’
‘No!’
‘Did Harry Blackman kill him?’
‘No,’ she replied, her tone becoming more terse. ‘I told you. I was attacked.’
‘Who attacked you?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see them.’
‘Was it Blackman?’
‘No.’
‘How can you know? You said you didn’t see your attacker.’
‘It wasn’t Harry.’
‘Stangle then?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Stangle attacked you, so Blackman killed him. Is that it? Is that what happened?’
‘No. I don’t know.’
‘You don’t know. So it
is possible that Blackman might have killed him?’
‘No.’
‘How can you know? You said you were unconscious.’
Johansson’s head leaned forward. She rubbed at her forehead, then touched at her bruised cheek. ‘I…I don’t—’
Garcia smacked the table surface. ‘Where is Conrad Navarro?’
She lifted her head, peered back at him once again with tears in her eyes. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know anything about Conrad.’
‘Did Blackman take him? Does he have him somewhere?’
She shook her head again, more desperately than before, her fingers coiling up into fists. ‘I don’t fucking know,’ she shouted. ‘I don’t know anything about Conrad. I don’t know who killed Stangle. I don’t know what happened, I swear it.’
A tear dropped from her cheek. Garcia’s gaze dropped to where it fell onto the metal table.
Three decades. So many tears.
He plucked a clean silk handkerchief from his jacket pocket, pushed it across the table and gave her a moment to calm herself.
‘Would you like a glass of water?’ he asked.
‘No. Thank you.’
Garcia leaned forward, his chin resting on the tips of his fingers, his hands placed together as if about to start praying - something he was never likely to do again, no matter how many days he had left to live. ‘Tell me about Harry Blackman.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Everything.’
She shot him a quizzical look.
‘From the beginning,’ he said. ‘Before he moved into the village. When did you first meet him?’
He heard the Englishman shuffle, then clear his throat behind him.
‘Inspector Garcia, I think the situation calls for some haste, don’t you?’ said Weiland.
Garcia peered over his shoulder to see the Englishman tapping on his wristwatch. ‘Mr Weiland, an observer observes,’ he replied. ‘They do not ask the questions. Please remember this, or I will have one of my men escort you from the building.’
He swivelled back to face Johansson. ‘The army and some of my men are searching the valley for the Navarro boy, although perhaps he has simply run away with some girl? Who knows? That, we shall find out in due course. The dead man, however, that is my concern.’ He shuffled in his chair, trying to reduce the discomfort in his lower back, turned his note book to a fresh page, before picking up his fountain pen. ‘Maybe Mr Blackman killed Stangle. Maybe he did not. I shall ask him myself when he comes here. Before that, I would like to know more about our Englishman. That means starting at the beginning, and you probably know Mr Blackman better than any of us. You were assisting him with his move and to manage his affairs in Spain, correct?’
The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies Page 5
