The Dark Place: A historical suspense thriller set in the murky world of fugitive war criminals, vengeful Nazi hunters and spies

by Damian Vargas

  Blackman sat hunched forward, his head arched down, staring in the direction of his bare feet - although they might have been a thousand miles away; his chest rising and falling as if the very act of breathing was causing him discomfort. His mouth hung open, his good right hand trembling.

  ‘Have you eaten?’ Garcia asked.

  The Englishman’s gaze drifted to his shaking hand, which he curled into a fist then released.

  ‘You must eat something,’ Garcia continued.

  Still no response. The Inspector glanced at one of the policemen - who nodded to acknowledge the silent order, before scuttling away - then directed a thumb towards Guy Weiland who had manoeuvred himself back to the corner of the room. ‘This is Mr Weiland. He is from…the British Consulate. He is here to check on your condition.’

  Blackman’s eyes darted momentarily towards the suited man who sat in the shadows, then to Garcia.

  ‘I’m sorry about your shoes and your belt,’ the Inspector continued. ‘It’s the regulations, I’m afraid.’ He watched the Englishman, hoping for the slightest sign of a reaction. Nothing. He scratched at the grey stubble to the side of his mouth, then rose.

  ‘You have been arrested in connection with a murder, Mr Blackman,’ Garcia said, peering at the Englishman, his arms folded. ‘A man was killed at your villa last night. He had been executed, in fact. And when we found you in your orchard, you were in possession of a loaded pistol. In most of my colleagues’ eyes, that makes you the obvious suspect.’

  Garcia watched Blackman, searching again for any reaction. There was none. Not a twitch of a finger or an eyelid. Not even a faint refocusing of his eyes. Garcia continued, ‘It seems, however, that the weapon that you had was not the one that was used to kill Peter Stangle. We found that one, a silenced pistol with a different calibre, in the wasteland outside your property. So maybe it wasn’t you that killed Stangle. Maybe it was Miss Johansson? Maybe it was someone else?’

  Blackman’s gaze drifted upwards, a look of pure disinterest.

  ‘We found Miss Johansson in her car, bloodied and dazed. She’d been tied up. She has a wound to her head. She thinks someone hit her and knocked her unconscious. That’s what she’s telling us, at least. Can you corroborate that, Harry?’

  Blackman rubbed at his bandaged left shoulder, his lower arm bound tightly to his chest with the fresh, clean sling. His skin was pale, moisture collecting on his brow.

  ‘How did you get your injuries, Harry?’ said Garcia. ‘Who did that to you?’ He stepped to his right, in an attempt to put himself in Blackman’s peripheral vision, but the Englishman’s stare drifted once again, this time towards Guy Weiland. Blackman’s eyes narrowed.

  Garcia tapped on the table top. ‘Mr Blackman. Harry. I don’t know what happened, and to what extent you are involved, but I know that you are involved somehow. You need to talk to me.’

  Blackman’s right hand returned to his lap, his gaze to the table top.

  ‘I came to your home to look for a boy that’s gone missing,’ said Garcia. ‘The Navarro kid. You remember him? He worked for you in the summer, yes? He cleaned your car. Miss Johansson told me. She said you made her get rid of him.’ He leaned forward, perched on both knuckles to support his aching back. ‘I wasn’t too concerned about him before. Kids run away from home all the time, right? But I’m not too sure, now. What with the dead man at your house. And now there’s another man missing. A German, called Krügel. Walter Krügel. Have you heard of this name? Do you know this man?’

  Still, the Englishman remained unmoved. His jaw tight, his eyes locked on the table before him.

  ‘Look, I want to help you, Harry. But I can’t do that. Not if you won’t talk to me. You must understand that, yes?’

  Blackman’s head shifted a few degrees to his left, away from the Inspector.

  Garcia moved towards Blackman. ‘Bad things happened here in the last day, Harry. I don’t know what you did, or why. Not yet. But it is better that you talk to me. The secret police are coming from Madrid to interrogate you. La Secreta.’

  Blackman’s lip quivered a little. His cheek flinched. Just the faintest of reactions, but detectable nonetheless.

  ‘You know what that is, yes? The secret police,’ Garcia said, as he placed his hand on the Englishman’s good shoulder, applying a gentle squeeze. He leaned closer towards Blackman, his back to Weiland at the rear of the room. ‘If you have something to do with the disappearance of Krügel and young Conrad Navarro, you need to tell me,’ he said in a hushed tone. ‘If it was something to do with the war, maybe I can—’

  Blackman’s face jerked towards the Spaniard and he brushed Garcia’s hand away from his shoulder. ‘If you really want answers…if you really want to know where the boy is—’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Then get his father in here. Here, in this room. Just me, him and you.’ Blackman’s stare flicked briefly to the back of the room, to Weiland. ‘Nobody else.’

  Garcia stammered, his words deserting him.

  ‘You know where the Navarro boy is?’ said Weiland, rising from his seat. Blackman ignored him, eyes still on Garcia.

  ‘Every minute you waste not doing what I ask, you risk never seeing Conrad Navarro alive again.’

  ‘You have him?’ said Garcia.

  ‘Bring his father here. Then I’ll talk,’ the Englishman snapped. ‘Now take me back to my cell.’

  Garcia hovered over Blackman, their eyes searching each other’s. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’ He motioned to the young policeman at the doorway to collect Blackman. The man strode forward, reached for the Englishman’s left wrist to reapply the handcuffs. ‘See that he gets some water and a clean towel. And some food.’

  Garcia leaned back against the table, releasing an exasperated breath; his head shaking slightly as Blackman was escorted out of the room. He glanced at his wristwatch, the police commissioner’s stark instructions replaying in his head.

  Weiland began to head to the open door, mopping his forehead with a handkerchief, then paused, gestured at the framed picture on the wall. ‘Perhaps you should have shown him your wife’s painting?’ he said, glancing at Garcia for a moment, his tone laden with an acid mirth, then strolled out of the room.

  29

  A proposal

  Bad Nenndorf, Germany.

  December, 19th, 1945.

  The building in which the Allies had located the Combined Services Detailed Interrogation Centre was of a rather drab construction. Sitting at the intersection of two minor roads, it had a curved brick facade which was partially covered in a patchwork of damaged, pebble-dashed rendering - the evidence of nearby Allied bombing. It would have resembled an insignificant medieval fort if it had not been for the three vertical strips of glazing at its main entrance.

  The man in the suit, a portly individual with a flat nose, was accompanied by two junior colleagues. He strode towards the two military policemen standing guard in the entrance hall, making only a cursory attempt to display his security credentials.

  ‘I’m here for Joachim von Ziegler,’ he said.

  The two guards exchanged confused glances.

  The man in the suit chose the larger of the two men and fixed his stare on him. ‘Is there a problem, Corporal?’

  ‘No, sir. It’s just that he’s already being interrogated by the unit that arrested him.’

  ‘Which room?’

  The MP glanced at a clipboard that sat on a desk at his side. ‘North wing, sub level one, sir. Cell three.’

  The man signalled to his colleagues to follow him and started towards the building’s interior.

  Former SS Oberführer, Joachim von Ziegler, sat straddling a solid wooden chair in the centre of the small and poorly lit interrogation room. His hands were bound to the arms of the chair. He wore a pair of green British army uniform trousers and a grubby vest. His feet were bare. He was shivering, both from the cold, and as an involuntary response to the blow that his interrogator had just delivered to h
is face.

  The German licked the blood from his split lip, then spat a mouthful of frothy pink saliva to the floor, before returning his gaze back to the British captain that stood before him, his sleeves neatly folded up to his elbows. He tried to affect a look of assured resilience, but in truth, the German had a poor tolerance for pain.

  ‘I can do this all day,’ the British officer said in perfect German, glaring down at him.

  ‘I’ve told you all I know,’ Ziegler pleaded. It was a lie - there was far more he could say, and he knew his capacity to continue to resist was almost depleted, but he had to try. If he gave the Englishman anything more than he already had, he would surely be signing his own execution order.

  The Englishman grabbed him by his throat with his left hand, his right hand held high, clenched and poised to deliver another blow to the German’s face. ‘You were responsible for the programme of slave labourers at Mauthausen concentration camp from February 1942 to August 1943.’

  The German shook his head. ‘I didn’t have anything to do with that. I was a simple clerk. I managed supplies of the prisoners’ food, clothing, bedding—’

  The Englishman landed his fist at the side of his head, sending an electric pain jolting through his teeth and lower jaw. He tasted fresh blood and fought to suppress his eyes from watering.

  ‘You know you are going to tell me what I want to know,’ the Englishman said. ‘It’s just a matter of time. Time and pain.’

  The German loathed to admit it, but he knew that the captain was right. He had feared a summary execution when the Englishman and his special unit had finally caught him in that old farm house in the Tyrol a week earlier but, it seemed, the British did not operate like that. Instead, he found himself being transported north from Austria, from facility to facility, passed from department to department, during which an endless number of forms were filled in. And they say we Germans love bureaucracy, he thought, the hint of a sardonic smile appearing on his face.

  ‘You think this is amusing?’ the captain said.

  ‘No, please. I want to help.’

  ‘Then tell me!’ The German felt the captain’s grip tighten around his neck, and he felt the urge to gag. The Englishman’s fist tightened, his knuckles white, ready to strike.

  The metal door behind him opened. ‘That’s enough, captain!’ came a bellowing voice.

  Captive and captor turned their heads in unison towards the man who had just entered the room. He wore a dark grey suit and was flanked by two men in British army uniforms.

  The captain released his grip from the prisoner. ‘Who the blazes are you?’

  ‘I am from Military Intelligence. And I’m here for him,’ the man replied, thrusting in index finger towards the German.

  ‘You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,’ said the captain.

  The German blinked repeatedly to clear the tears from his eyes so that he could witness the exchange. The British captain stood between him and the three new arrivals. The German only understood a portion of what they were saying - his command of the English language was intermediate at best - but he quickly gathered that the man in the suit was ordering the captain to hand the German over. A wave of euphoria flushed through him.

  The British captain glanced back at him, his head shaking, his finger wagging. The man in the suit moving forwards, his colleagues flanking the captain who was backing towards the German, shouting expletives now.

  ‘I’m sorry, but there it is,’ said the man in the suit. ‘Now hand him over this instant, or I’ll have you court-martialled. Those are your choices.’

  The German sat observing the captain - the man’s head shaking with fury, hands still clenched. He thrust an index finger into the other man’s sternum.

  ‘This is not over,’ the captain said before storming towards the door.

  ‘I rather think it is,’ said the man in the suit.

  The captain glanced back over his shoulder as he left. It was only for a moment, but just long enough for the German to present him with enough of a satisfied grin. The door slammed shut. The captain was gone.

  The man in the suit sighed, then turned to face the German as his two colleagues moved to his side and started to release the cords that bound him to the chair.

  ‘Herr Ziegler. I do apologise for the ungentlemanly treatment you received at the hands of Captain Blackman. These men and I work for British Intelligence.’

  The uniformed men helped Ziegler to his feet. The Englishman handed him a silk handkerchief, pointed to the German’s lips. ‘I’m glad we managed to locate you in time. I have a rather interesting proposal for you.’

  30

  The inglés

  Police Station, La Mesita Blanca

  All Saints’ Day, 1970.

  13:10pm.

  Inspector Garcia stood in the interview room, gazing at the watercolour picture of La Mesita Blanca that his long-deceased wife, Rosa Maria, had painted over twenty years earlier.

  Her beautiful face flashed in his head; her soft pale skin, those olive-green eyes bursting with life and curiosity, and her Joie de vivre. Theirs was a marriage of which many had disapproved; him from Andalusia, in the south, a former soldier of Franco’s nationalist army. Her, from a French-Basque heritage. But when two souls connect as theirs had done, it would have been a crime to let the bitterness of a nation keep them apart.

  It had taken Garcia several years to come to terms with her death from cancer, back in 1962. He had never been especially religious, but where before he had held only a benign ambivalence towards it, thereafter his disdain was plain for all to see; openly stating to the town’s priest, on one occasion, that, ‘No caring deity would have knowingly taken such a beautiful human being from her family.’ After her funeral, Garcia had never once stepped foot inside a church again.

  He had brought the watercolour - his favourite of her many such works - from his modest home to hang it in the police station a few years ago. He was spending so much time in that depressing building - mainly to keep himself occupied and out of the town’s bars - that it was the only time to get to look at it. At least then, as he sat in that room staring into the eyes of thieves, rapists, swindlers and suspected communist sympathisers, he could sneak the occasional glance up at that wonderful picture, and to think back to the kinder moments that life had granted him.

  A cough from the open door. It was Rubio, the desk sergeant. ‘Another call for you, Jesus. From Madrid. You want it put through to your office?’

  ‘Thank you, Rafa, yes.’

  The Inspector hurried through to his office, closed the door behind him and lifted the receiver. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said Diego Sanz. His voice was quiet, pensive even. ‘I can’t talk for long, Jesus, so listen carefully. La Secreta are coming to you.’

  ‘I know. What I don’t know is why,’ said Garcia.

  ‘They caught wind of something. A German, heading to your village from South America. Goes by the name of Walter Krügel.’

  ‘Yes. He was reported missing this morning. I have my men looking for him.’

  ‘This man, Krügel. He’s bad news. Very bad. He’s been hiding out in Argentina. People have been hunting him for a long time.’

  ‘What people?’ said Garcia.

  ‘The Israelis. Mossad. But listen, the people from Madrid. The secret police…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I know them, Jesus. I know how they work. You must be very careful, my friend. You understand me?’

  ‘I understand.’

  ‘And we can’t speak again about this. I can’t be involved, I’m sorry.’

  ‘You’ve been a good friend, Diego. I’ve got this from here. Adios, amigo.’

  The phone line went dead. Garcia’s hand moved towards the drawer inside of which was the bottle of brandy. He stopped himself. Now was not the time to be numbing his senses. He heard foot steps along the corridor outside, then a double knock at the door. ‘Come in,’ he called.

&nb
sp; Officer Ramos opened the door.

  ‘You have something on the missing German?’ said Garcia.

  Ramos shook his head. ‘Maybe. One of the farmers down near the river told me that he heard a group of people moving past his house late, the evening before last.’

  ‘Is that on the road with the bridge?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the officer.

  ‘The road that leads up towards Blackman’s property?’

  Ramos nodded.

  ‘And they didn’t think to report this to us?’

  Ramos gave him an awkward glance. ‘They’re the kind that like to keep themselves to themselves, sir.’

  The desk sergeant appeared in the doorway. ‘You wanted to speak to Manolo?’

  Garcia shot him an expectant look.

  ‘He’s here.’

  Garcia sighed and pushed himself to his feet, peered at Ramos. ‘Let’s see what the gardener knows, shall we?’

  They made their way into the interrogation room. Garcia reached for his notebook and perched himself on the table. He did not expect this conversation to yield anything useful, but with Sanz’s fresh warning about the secret police in his mind, he knew had to re-double his efforts. He had arrested Manolo Gutiérrez’s father in the early 1950s for being in possession of socialist literature. The man had then spent nearly a year in one of the regime’s so-called ‘political re-education facilities’. The issue still lingered whenever the two men’s paths crossed.

  Gutiérrez waved away the junior police officer’s attempts to steer him to the opposite side of the table, and plonked himself down at the Inspector’s chair instead, then poured himself a glass of water. A lack of respect for authority ran deep in that family, Garcia reminded himself.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Manolo,’ Garcia said.

  ‘Like I had a choice.’ Gutiérrez twisted the chair towards Garcia and crossed his arms. ‘So, go on. What do you want?’

  Like father, like son.