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

by Damian Vargas

  ‘I want to know more about Mr Blackman.’

  ‘What do you want to know?’ The gardener had lost several of his front teeth to decay over the years and the man had a disconcerting habit of keeping his mouth partially open even when not speaking. It was not a pleasant sight, seeing his tongue slapping around behind those grey-pink gums.

  Garcia peered at his notebook. ‘What was he like with you and Señora Marrón, the house maid?’

  ‘He was like all bosses are.’

  Garcia wondered if he might feel inclined to remove his own teeth before the interview was over. He tried again. ‘Did he treat you fairly?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. I worked hard, he paid me on time. I have no complaints in that respect.’

  The Inspector checked back to some of his previous notes. ‘You have worked there since April, correct?’

  Gutiérrez nodded, his eyes hovering around the room, making no effort to conceal his disinterest.

  ‘And did you see him act at all strangely in the few months that you worked at the house?’

  The gardener snorted, and he shot Garcia a questioning look. ‘The inglés is not a practical fellow. He often does stupid things.’

  Garcia lifted his gaze from his notes and lifted his reading glasses away from his face. ‘What things?’

  The Inspector knew he had found the right button with which to engage Gutiérrez when the Gardener uncrossed his arms and sat up. ‘Just two days ago, he flooded his olive grove.’

  ‘Why did he do that?’ Garcia asked.

  ‘Because he meddles with things that are not his concern. Things that are my job. Things what he pays me for.’

  ‘What did he do?’ Garcia repeated.

  ‘He messed with the old water tank at the top of his field. I arrived early in the morning to find it empty and the field flooded. It’s a big tank, and the water had run all through the olive grove, down into the orchard. Surely you noticed it yourself when you were there this morning?’

  Garcia thought back to the early hours of that morning, which already seemed such a long time ago. He had indeed noticed his shoes squelching on the ground as he had approached Blackman in the darkness.

  ‘That fucking tank takes two days to refill,’ said the gardener.

  Garcia made a note, then pressed on with the questions, keen to end the conversation and to then check in with the desk sergeant to find out Señor Navarro’s response to his request to attend the police station. ‘What else?’

  ‘He fired that German kid for no reason.’

  ‘Conrad Navarro? The boy who is missing?’ said Garcia. ‘Why did Mr Blackman do that, do you think?’

  ‘How should I know? Maybe he just didn’t like him?’

  ‘Because the boy was German?’

  Gutiérrez shrugged, his eyes wandering around the room once more.

  ‘Did Mr Blackman show interest in any other of our neighbours? Señor Weber, perhaps?’

  ‘Was he the fat old Kraut that croaked it in the summer? The one with the ranch?’

  ‘That was him, yes.’

  Gutiérrez shook his head. ‘Nah. The inglés never mentioned him. Not until you turned up at the house and told him that the German was dead.’

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Was there anything else? Any other strange habits he had? Did he have any visitors from out of the area? Was there anything he might have said that caught your attention?’

  Gutiérrez’s eyes wandered to the floor as he scratched at his beard. ‘Well, there was one thing…’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘He seemed very interested in the old estate. Asked me about it a few times.’

  ‘The old army compound on the plateau?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why did he ask you about it?’

  ‘He’d heard I helped build it, I suppose.’

  ‘Did you? I didn’t know this,’ Garcia said.

  ‘What a shock! The Great Owl doesn’t know everything! Why would you? You weren’t here then, and we weren’t supposed to talk about it.’

  Notepad in hand, Garcia peered at the other Spaniard who looked back at him with a toothless grin. ‘This would have been when? 1940?’

  ‘About then, yes.’

  ‘What did you do there?’

  ‘Not much. I helped build one of the accommodation blocks, but mainly I was putting up the fences.’

  Lowering his voice, the Inspector asked, ‘Were there German soldiers staying there at that time?’

  Gutiérrez responded with a subtle nod, his eyes narrowing and darting towards the door and back to Garcia.

  ‘It’s okay, Manolo. That was a long time ago.’

  ‘Not long enough, Jesus.’

  Garcia decided to return to the subject of Harry Blackman and more recent events. ‘Why do you think Mr Blackman wanted to know about the compound?’

  ‘He liked to go on long walks with that dog of his. He told me he had noticed the place on one such walk and wanted to know what it was.’

  ‘It didn’t seem suspicious?’

  ‘No. Just a foreigner asking stupid questions about something that doesn’t concern him.’ He folded his arms again.

  Garcia stood up, rubbing his lower back. ‘Ok, and there’s nothing else?’

  ‘The inglés is a very private man. I mean, look at that damned ugly wall he’s had built all around the property.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll let you get back to your day,’ Garcia said, knowing better than to offer out his hand. ‘I may have more questions for you later, though. Please stay in the village.’

  The gardener snorted with laughter. ‘Jesus Garcia, I have not left the village for more than twenty years. Where the fuck would I go?’

  Garcia watched as Manolo Gutiérrez walked to the open door, only then noticing the Englishman, Guy Weiland standing outside the room, sipping from a white cup.

  Weiland let the Spanish gardener exit before stepping back into the room. He pushed the door closed. ‘That didn’t seem terribly useful, Inspector.’ Garcia returned his gaze to his notebook, but the Englishman persisted. ‘I hear you have another missing person?’

  ‘You are exceedingly well-informed, Mr Weiland,’ said Garcia.

  Weiland looked at his watch. ‘And what of the…interested parties who are coming from Madrid? They will be here in what? Six hours?’

  ‘I am quite aware of the time factor, Mr Weiland.’

  ‘And yet you choose to waste time talking to an old fool about what he did thirty years ago?’

  Garcia sighed, looked up at Weiland. ‘Trust me, Señor Gutiérrez is no fool. And in any case, I believe that these things are likely all related.’

  Weiland shot him a questioning look. ‘Related? How exactly?’

  Garcia, his knuckles on his hips, was arching his back and turning his head from one side to the other in an effort to stretch his spine. His neck clicked with a sound akin to the snap of a small twig, and he shuddered before returning his gaze back to the Englishman. ‘That old compound. The government had it built during the war. It was a place for military personnel to use for recuperation and training. There’s a natural spring nearby. The water cuts down through a gorge to a small waterfall. It’s about five meters high and at the bottom there’s a small pool of pea-green water surrounded by tall pines and conifers. It is cool there all year round. The teenagers hang out there during the summer. It is a most peaceful and enchanting location.’

  Weiland, eyes rising to the ceiling, said, ‘And?’

  ‘The compound was used by the Germans during the Second World War.’

  ‘Because a peasant labourer says so? You know this as fact?’

  Garcia grinned. ‘After people say something so many times, it becomes a fact. Does it not?’

  ‘Not in my book,’ said Weiland, shaking his head.

  Garcia collected his notebook from where he had left it on the metal table. ‘It is said that during the war, the SS men
were always to be found enjoying themselves in the water.’ He peered at Weiland, who offered no reaction. Perhaps the Englishman really did not know of these things? Garcia wondered. Maybe he was indeed only in La Mesita Blanca to check on his compatriot?

  Or maybe he is a very good actor?

  ‘Inspector, I once again find myself having to ask why this is relevant to what occurred here these past few days?’

  Garcia cast his eyes back towards his wife’s watercolour, thoughts connecting in his head once more. ‘I am asking myself the exact same question, Mr Weiland.’

  There was another knock at the door, and Garcia saw Officer Ramos’s face through the glass. He beckoned at the younger officer to enter.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘It’s the inglés, sir. It seems he wants to talk now.’ Officer Ramos gave a nervous glance in the direction of Guy Weiland. ‘But only to you.’

  Garcia peered at Weiland, unable to suppress a smug grin. ‘Well, it seems we have a predicament, Mr Weiland. The suspect seems to have something against you.’

  ‘I can’t imagine what.’

  They stared at each other, the Englishman seemingly daring the Spaniard to say what he was going to say.

  ‘Well,’ Garcia said. ‘Whatever his reasons, I must comply, obviously.’

  ‘Now wait a minute, you were told—’

  ‘I am a Captain of the Guardia Civil. It is my job to get to the bottom of these events, and whilst I would dearly like to accommodate your requests, alas your presence in this room is preventing that.’ Garcia started towards the open door, Officer Ramos’s mouth gawping open in surprise.

  ‘I’m warning you, Inspector. You were told quite explicitly to let me observe proceedings.’

  ‘Things have changed. But, don’t concern yourself, I shall update you with any development.’ The Inspector nodded at his junior colleague. ‘Show Mr Weiland to my office, please.’

  ‘You are making a bad decision, Inspector!’ Weiland shouted as he was led away.

  31

  Evidence

  Police Station, La Mesita Blanca.

  All Saints’ Day, 1970.

  2:20pm.

  As Inspector Garcia cast his eyes over the prisoner in the cell, he could have been forgiven for seeing a man who had surrendered; a man who been taken to his physical and mental limits, and beyond. A broken soul, resigned to his fate. Certainly, based on first impressions, almost anyone could have come to that conclusion. The Englishman sat hunched at the end of the small bed; the sling wrapped over his right shoulder supporting his left arm in its plaster cast, a grey blanket draped over him.

  His hair, which had once been so attentively groomed, was now bedraggled and hanging over his forehead. His face, hands, and feet were filthy. No shoes, no socks. But as Garcia looked at Blackman, and as the Englishman lifted his bloodshot eyes to meet his gaze, the Inspector saw something else; a man who knew more than he did. A gambler who held all the aces.

  With that morning’s telephoned orders from the police governor - and the thinly veiled threat behind them - at the forefront of his mind, Garcia signalled to Officer Ramos to remain outside, and he pulled the cell door closed.

  ‘My colleague tells me that you have agreed to talk,’ he said as he lowered himself onto the room’s second steel bed, placing his notebook next to him. Almost immediately, he felt the pain starting to build in his lower spine.

  ‘So, I have to ask, is there a reason you won’t speak to me with your compatriot from the British Consulate present? After all, he is here on your behalf.’

  ‘You believe that?’ Blackman growled.

  Garcia decided not to answer the question.

  ‘Mr Weiland also seems rather interested in your assistant, Miss Johansson. Do you have any idea why?’

  Blackman held his stare but said nothing.

  ‘Perhaps it is merely out of concern for her predicament. In any case, I thought you should like to know that we have contacted Mr Navarro through his solicitor, Señor Sanchez. I do not have confirmation yet that he will comply with your demands, but I am hopeful that he will.’

  ‘He will, if he wants to find his boy.’

  Blackman’s tone had sounded assertive, determined, but Garcia noticed the Englishman’s stare falter, his lips tremble, and he tried to suppress a swallow. A less experienced policeman would not have drawn any conclusion from such insignificant physical movements. Garcia, however, read body language quite differently. The question was, did it indicate sadness and regret, or anger and malice?

  Garcia caught his hand reaching for his non-existent cigarillos and returned it to his lap, then smiled. ‘Well then, let’s talk, shall we?’

  He sat back against the wall, opened his notebook to the page marked by the black ribbon, and looked at a handwritten list. ‘When my men searched your house this morning, they found some interesting items.’ Garcia peered over his glasses at Blackman. ‘There were also several photos of people who currently live here in our village. Photos seemingly taken many years ago.’

  The Inspector held Blackman’s stare while he reached into his jacket breast pocket and pulled out a sealed plastic bag. ‘They also found this.’ He started at it, then lifted it up for the Englishman to see the small glass vial inside.

  Blackman’s eyes wavered, then widened upon recognising the small object in the bag.

  ‘The contents have long since evaporated, of course, but I think it once contained some kind of toxin. My inexperienced colleagues out there took this as proof that you are a murderer.’ He waited a moment, letting Blackman process the multiple different avenues that their conversation might now take, then continued. ‘However, I think you are a very intelligent individual. And quite rational. I don’t believe that such a man would retain the evidence of his own misdeeds. I think you kept this because it is evidence of someone else’s crime.’ He shifted forward, ignoring the burning sensation in his lower back, and fixed his stare upon Blackman’s eyes. ‘So, why don’t you tell me where you found it?’

  32

  The widow

  Three months earlier

  Harry Blackman unlocked the padlock securing the front entrance to his property and heaved one of the gates open. He was about to command his Labrador to head out onto the gravel track outside when he spotted a young man smoking a cigarette, leaning against the bonnet of a black Mercedes parked thirty yards down the hill. He was peering at the Englishman.

  ‘Looks like we’ll have to take our walk later, old boy,’ he said while looking at the man, who was wearing a brown suede jacket and blue denims. Blackman held up a finger to indicate, ‘Hold on.’ When he returned a few minutes later, he was without the dog, but was now carrying a black revolver in a shoulder holster.

  He walked over to the Mercedes. The young man was now sitting in the driver’s seat, his window wound down and chewing gum. ‘Who are you?’ Blackman asked.

  ‘My father was Manfred Weber. My mother wants to talk to you.’ The teen’s English was almost perfect, his accent a curious blend of north European and Castilian Spanish.

  Blackman considered the situation for a moment, then strode around to the passenger door and got into the car. He lifted his jacket to reveal the concealed pistol. ‘If you try anything…’.

  The teen nodded, reached for the keys in the ignition, and started the car.

  They drove down the meandering track past the two farmyards a mile lower down, neither man speaking, before arriving at the T-junction. The tarmac road to the left led westward along the valley towards the series of private houses occupied by mostly German families and, eventually, the old military compound on the plateau under the jagged cliffs that surrounded the whole area. The teen, upon checking the road was clear, pulled the car to the right and towards the road that lead down to the bridge that spanned the river.

  ‘Don’t you lot all live back there?’ Blackman said, eyes fixed on the younger man.

  ‘My father had our house built across the river
, near the village. My mother preferred it that way.’

  They made their way down to the valley floor and over the old stone bridge where it crossed the river then, with the cluster of white dwellings of La Mesita Blanca approaching, the teen took a left turn onto a track, following the contours of the hills for ten minutes until they arrived at the tall gates to the Weber family’s private estate. Blackman caught sight of the upper floor of a modern-looking house through the gaps in the conifers and above the tall metal fencing.

  The teen pulled up onto the driveway then got out of the car to open the gates, returning to pilot the vehicle inside before getting out once more to close the gates.

  ‘No security guards?’

  The young man ignored him, drove the car into the yard, before pulling up outside the front of the house; an expansive stone structure with a roof of terracotta tiles. He got out and beckoned at the Englishman to follow him. As he did so, Blackman eyed the building, guessing that it was no more than fifteen years old.

  A large maroon truck stood to the rear of the property, its rear doors open. A crew of removal men in brown overalls were carrying wooden crates from inside, depositing them at the rear of the vehicle.

  Blackman followed the youth into the house through the side entrance, stepping aside on several occasions to allow the men and their boxes to pass by.

  ‘My mother is in there.’ The teen pointed down a hallway to the large conservatory to the building’s rear. ‘I’ll take you back to your house when she’s done with you.’

  Harry made his way along the hallway to see a woman standing with her back to him, scanning the view into the gardens and the rising hills beyond.

  She looked over her shoulder at him. She was holding an empty glass tumbler in one hand.

  ‘You have a lovely home, Mrs Weber.’

  ‘I own this house, Mr Blackman, but it was never my home.’ She gestured towards a set of sofas.

  Blackman choose the couch that afforded him a view of the door through which he had entered.