She nodded in agreement. ‘And you would not be alone in appreciating your privacy. Not in this village.’ She broke away from his curious stare as the waiter arrived with the bottle of wine that Blackman had ordered.
The Englishman tasted it and signalled his approval. The man poured two glasses and left. ‘To all that splendid work you did,’ he said, raising his glass.
‘It was a pleasure,’ Liv replied, while also raising her own glass but noticing, as she did so, that her employer’s gaze was now traversing the restaurant.
‘You’ve lived here for what, two years?’ he asked, while still peering across the restaurant.
Liv followed his stare to a table at which were sat three middle-aged men of north European appearance. ‘About that, yes.’
‘Do you know all these people?’
‘Not all, no,’ Liv replied.
‘Those gentlemen?’ Blackman asked, nodding towards the three fair-haired men.
‘I’m not sure. I think they have houses along the valley from yours, towards the gorge. There’s a number of private residences up there. It’s very secluded.’
Blackman nodded towards a newly arrived guest who was being escorted inside the restaurant by the head waiter. A stout man with tightly cropped, almost-white hair and searing blue eyes, he was in his late forties and accompanied by a beautiful woman in an elegant red and crimson dress. Her hair was long and black, her skin a caramel brown.
‘That is Manfred Weber and his wife, Isabel. Mr Weber owns a riding stable just outside the pueblo.’
‘Mr Weber is German?’
‘Yes, I believe so.’
‘And his wife?’
‘She is Spanish.’
She reached for the menu, began to study it. Blackman reached into his inner jacket pocket, retrieving what looked like a set of small black and white photographs. He slipped them into his side pocket. He glanced at Liv, who pretended not to have noticed.
‘Mr Navarro owns this restaurant?’ he asked.
She looked up from the menu. ‘He does.’
‘Do you see him around?’
Liv scanned through the open patio doors into the building’s interior. ‘I don’t. Why do you ask?’
‘Oh, I just want to get to know my new neighbours, that’s all.’
The waiter returned to take their food orders. The first course came swiftly and the fine wine flowed. The conversation remaining cordial, albeit Blackman seemed somewhat distracted, she observed. Every now and again, he would look at one of the other diners, then appear to glance at the photographs in his jacket side pocket.
They finished their starters, and Blackman ordered a second bottle of wine. The Englishman asked Liv about her career as a travel writer, and talked about his upbringing in Cambridgeshire, his work as an electrical engineer and the business that he had built and then sold.
‘What made you decide to sell your business and move to Spain?’ she asked. If he had heard the question, Blackman chose to ignore it. He was peering inside the building.
‘Would you excuse me for a moment?’ he said, rising from the table before strolling into the restaurant’s interior.
‘And then what happened?’ asked Inspector Garcia, his pen hovering over his open notebook once more, angling the paper towards the yellow light from the lamp above.
‘It was all a bit of a blur, to tell the truth,’ said Johansson. She coughed to clear her throat and pointed to the jug of water. ‘May I?’
‘Of course,’ Garcia replied, while reaching for the jug and pouring her a glass. He gave her time to take a few gulps, before pressing on. ‘How long was Mr Blackman gone for?’
‘About ten minutes.’
‘Were you getting concerned?’
Johansson shook her head. ‘No. Truth be told, the wine had gone straight to my head. We’d only eaten the starter course, but already polished off one bottle.’
‘And then what?’
‘That’s when I heard raised voices. And then the crockery and glass smashing on the floor.’
‘From inside the restaurant?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you get up to see what was happening?’
‘At first, no. I assumed that whatever it was, was a private matter.’
‘What could you hear?’ said Garcia.
‘Shouting.’
‘In what language?’
‘German. Mostly.’
‘And what were they saying?’
Johansson gave the Inspector an apologetic shrug. ‘I don’t know.’
‘But you speak German, do you not?’
‘Yes, but I could not hear. There was a Flamenco act playing on the street close by and, well, you know how loud Flamenco can be.’
Indeed, thought the Inspector, who had never been fond of his country’s most famous musical output. Songs with no discernible structure that never ended; the fervent slapping of hands and clattering of angry castanets, hard leather shoes pounding the floor; stern, older women dressed head to toe in black, their eye liner running down their faces, sweat and earrings flying in different directions. And that wailing. That tortured, agonised wailing. Not that Jesus Garcia had ever expressed those sentiments to another Spaniard - he didn’t like flamenco, but he wasn’t stupid. ‘It is a powerful form of music,’ he said, nodding. ‘So an argument was happening inside the restaurant, but you could not hear what was being said, and then what happened?’
‘It seemed that a physical altercation broke out, between Mr Weber and someone else.’
‘Did you see who started it?’
‘I did not.’
‘Was it Ruth Volkenrath?’ said Garcia. ‘The woman that runs the youth club for all the German kids?’ He noticed Johansson’s eyes widen and fall away from his. She adjusted her position. Most people would not have given the Norwegian woman’s reaction a second thought, but Garcia was not most people.
‘I did not see her.’
‘She was not there?’
‘I said, I did not see her.’
Garcia scribbled another note.
Lying.
‘It would not surprise me if it was Mrs Volkenrath that instigated the fracas,’ he said while scribbling away. ‘She is quite a…formidable woman. Please, do continue.’
‘Well, I heard Señor Navarro shouted something at Mr Weber, that he had “brought shame on his community and himself”, or something like that.’
Garcia fixed her with a knowing stare. ‘Dishonour.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘When I questioned another of the diners about these events in July, they said that Mr Navarro’s words had been, “Dishonour upon his people”.’ The Inspector showed Liv the note he had made a few months earlier, pointed at one of the handwritten words, then underlined it.
‘Then that is what he said,’ said Liv. ‘Inspector, please. This was a few months ago, after all.’
‘What do you think Mr Navarro meant by this?’
‘I’m quite certain that I have no idea, Inspector.’
‘Interesting. And then?’
Liv took another gulp of water. ‘Well, at that point, as I had not yet found Harry, I got up to look for him inside the restaurant.’
‘And?’
‘I saw Mr Navarro and his wife standing up, and Mr and Mrs Weber. There were several other men in suits…I couldn’t make them out properly. It was dark inside and several people were standing in the way. Two or three of the waiters were attempting to calm things down, and to clear up the mess. One of the tables had been upturned.’
‘And where was Mr Blackman during all of this?’
‘I found him at the rear of the restaurant. At the base of the stairs, being followed down by two of the staff.’
‘He had been up to the balcony?’
‘Yes. He told them he had been looking for the bathroom.’
‘That balcony affords one a view of everyone sitting at the tables below,’ said Garcia. ‘Was he spying on them?’
&nb
sp; ‘No, of course not,’ she said. ‘I told you. He was looking for the bathroom. He was trying to apologise, but the two men ushered him towards the exit. They made it pretty clear that Harry was not welcome.’
‘You didn’t get to finish your meals?’
‘What? No. No, unfortunately not.’
Inspector contemplated the previous set of exchanges. ‘¡Que Lastima! The food there is very good, albeit very filling. And after that?’
‘After?’
‘Yes, after you left. Did anything else happen?’
‘No. Nothing. We went straight back to the villa. I prepared some food for us both.’
‘What did you make?’
‘I don’t see the relevance, but if I recall correctly, I made Spanish omelette.’
‘Ah, tortilla. My favourite,’ Garcia said. ‘My mother made the best tortilla in Andalusia. Well, that’s what she said.’ He laughed. ‘Do you cook often for Mr Blackman?’
‘No, not normally. Not at all, actually. It was just on that one occasion. On account of neither of us having eaten.’
‘I see. Yes. Of course.’ He studied the Norwegian’s face, then started scribbling in his notebook, angling it so that neither Liv nor Weiland, behind him, could see.
Eggs.
Potatoes
Onion.
Bread.
Olive oil.
Salt.
Pointless, irrelevant words - an ingredient list for Spanish omelette - but it would put the young woman on edge; make her think that Garcia had deduced more than he was letting on.
He felt an inquisitive stare over his shoulder from Officer Ramos and shot his young colleague a glare. The young constable backed away.
She was lifting the glass of water again. Garcia waited until the glass had just touched her lips, then said, ‘When were you first made aware that Manfred Weber was dead?’ Johansson coughed into her glass, droplets of water splashing over her face and onto the table.
‘Inspector,’ Weiland’s voice came from the corner of the room. ‘May I have a word?’
Garcia watched Johansson for a moment, then arched his head towards the Englishman and nodded. ‘Why not. Let us have a little break, shall we, Miss Johansson?’ He pushed himself up, tried his best not to react to the lightning bolt of pain that shot up from his thigh, through his pelvis and up into his lower back, and barked an order to Officer Ramos. ‘Take Miss Johansson back to her cell.’
Garcia and Weiland watched as Liv Johansson was led from the room, then returned his attention to the Englishman.
‘You want to tell me something, perhaps?’
‘I do,’ Weiland replied. He was mopping at his forehead with a handkerchief. ‘You’ve got a missing boy, an unsolved murder—’
‘Two unsolved murders. I believe Herr Weber was killed.’
Weiland sucked in air through gritted teeth. ‘…And yet you’re talking to Miss Johansson about bloody tortilla. What the blazes are you playing at, man?’
Garcia retired backwards to lean against the table, wondering if the Englishman was about to have a stroke. It appeared not, he reluctantly concluded. ‘Mr Weiland, this is my village and my police station, and I will do things my way.’ He reached into his jacket pocket and felt for the envelope he had retrieved from the evidence locker an hour earlier. ‘As it happens, I have reason to believe that Mr Blackman went to the restaurant, intent on far more than treating Miss Johansson to a nice meal. I think he was surveilling it.’
Weiland shook his head and wagged his fingers, plainly unconvinced. ‘Ridiculous.’
‘I beg to differ. We have evidence.’
‘Evidence? What evidence?’ Weiland sneered.
The Inspector reached for the jug and poured himself a drink of water, then guzzled it down in one before wiping his mouth on his sleeve. ‘When we searched Blackman’s villa this morning, we came across an envelope. It contained several black and white photographs.’
‘Photographs of what?’
‘Of men and women. Just like the kind you might have taken for a passport or identity card, but these images are older. People in their twenties and thirties.’ Garcia had his hands on the small packet in his pocket, considered extracting it to reveal its contents to the Englishman, but decided against it. ‘These people, they were all in uniforms. German uniforms. From the war.’
The colour drained from Weiland’s face. He swallowed, took a step away from Garcia. ‘How…curious.’
‘My thoughts exactly, Mr Weiland.’
18
Eye to eye
Three months earlier.
Inspector Garcia stepped from the battered old patrol car. The driver, Officer Ramos, had killed the ignition, but the engine continued to turn over, spluttering and coughing as if a tortured creature amidst its death throes.
The younger police officer shook his head. ‘Engine’s all coked up. It’s a piece of shit. Should have been scrapped ages ago.’
I know how it feels, thought Garcia, before casting his eyes towards the black metal gates of Harry Blackman’s villa. He adjusted his collar, felt for the small notebook in his jacket pocket, then strolled towards the dwelling.
There was no bell, so he rapped on the steel door several times, then took a step backward, Officer Ramos at his side. He soon heard the crunching of boots on the gravel driveway within, the uncomfortable sound of someone working at the tight bolt on the other side. When the gate finally swung open, he found himself confronted by the unblinking face of Manolo Gutiérrez. The gardener-cum-handyman still held a grudge against Garcia over the arrest of his father for distributing socialist literature more than two decades earlier.
‘Buenas días, Manolo,’ Garcia said. ‘Still working those old bones of yours?’
‘Somebody has to do some honest work in this village,’ the gardener replied, his eyes drilling into Garcia’s.
Garcia peered up the driveway to the villa in the background. ‘I wish to speak with Señor Blackman. Is he home?’
Gutiérrez nodded, pulled the gate open wider, and thumbed towards the rear of the house. ‘He’s working on that silly car he has. In the garage around to the left.’
‘Gracias, hombre.’ Garcia gestured at Officer Ramos to follow, leaving the gardener to close the gate.
Harry Blackman’s upper body was hidden behind the open bonnet of his silver Austin Healey as the two policemen approached. He appeared to be working to loosen a stubborn bolt. ‘Bastard thing,’ the Englishman cursed.
Garcia coughed politely to alert Blackman to their presence.
He lifted his head from within the engine compartment, gave a brief look of surprise, then stepped forward. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I am Captain Garcia, from the Guardia Civil, and this is Officer Ramos.’ He held out his hand.
‘You probably don’t want to do that,’ Blackman said, revealing his grubby palms.
‘Ah, indeed no.’
‘So, what brings you to my house, Captain?’
The Inspector, conscious of the gardener’s presence nearby, said, ‘Might I suggest we go into the house and talk there?’
‘Be my guest,’ said Blackman, gesturing towards the open door at the rear of the villa. ‘Go in and make yourselves at home in the living room. I’ll just need a minute to clean up.’
‘Of course.’ Garcia wandered back to the villa, up the steps onto the porch and then inside the building. As he entered, he saw señora Marrón, the house maid, who was polishing a large circular wooden table. She looked up, recognised Garcia, paused momentarily before returning her focus to the polishing. Her differences with the Inspector dated back to the civil war. Differences, Garcia knew, that would never be resolved.
He made his way to the living room, taking in the building’s interior as he did so. The space had been tastefully decorated, retaining its Andalusian ambience, but was, he noted, completely devoid of almost any decorative or personal items. There were no ornaments. No photographs. None of the adornments which
most humans felt the need to pepper around their homes. An artificial set dressed for a Hollywood movie would have felt more welcoming.
He peeked inside the top drawer of a writing bureau. It was empty.
‘My apologies,’ Blackman’s voice declared from behind Garcia. The Inspector’s hand dropped away from the bureau and towards Blackman’s outstretched hand.
‘No need to apologise, Mr Blackman. I turned up unannounced after all, did I not?’
A brief look of intrigue flashed across Blackman’s face, but was quickly banished as he waved, open-palmed, at a low settee. ‘Please, make yourself comfortable.’
Garcia perched himself down onto the edge of the chair, sitting upright, conscious of his never-ending battle with sciatica.
‘Now, how is it that I can help you?’ Blackman said.
Garcia smiled, reached into his jacket pocket for his notepad, removed a pencil from inside the wire spine, opened the book, and thumbed to a fresh page. ‘You were at the Augustiner Tavern three nights ago, I believe?’
Blackman lowered himself onto a green leather armchair and crossed his legs. ‘I was, yes.’ He glanced at Officer Ramos who was standing at the edge of the room, and whose eyes remained fixed on the Englishman. ‘Is there a problem?’
‘You were asked to leave, I understand,’ Garcia said.
‘Ah yes,’ said Blackman, with a dismissive grunt and wave of his hand, ‘that is correct.’
‘May I ask why?’
Blackman responded with an embarrassed grin. ‘It really was nothing, Inspector. I’d left my table in search of the lavatory, accidentally wandered into a private area and got into a bit of an altercation with some gentleman. It really was a simple misunderstanding. I had a bit too much wine. They thought I was up to no good, I suppose. I probably said something I shouldn’t have…you know how these things can get. It was all a bit ridiculous.’
Garcia smiled, nodding. ‘The other men were speaking in German?’
‘They were, yes.’
The Inspector nodded again. ‘Messages lost in translation. That sort of thing?’
‘Exactly.’
The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies Page 9
