He went into the garden and discovered a whole landscape of gardens, slate-roofed mansions, and television aerials seemingly capable of beaming to the moon assorted scenes of fifth-dynasty barbecues around spits of enriched iron and bronzed bronze. He could date this residential suburb from the youthfulness of most of its trees. It was to the north of Madrid, although he did not know the exact distance from the Coruña road. He walked along the edge of a swimming-pool covered with blue plastic. The bumpy seats of a swing were bathed in moonlight. He sat on one and silently began to swing himself backwards and forwards under a well-oiled frame. Forwards to a hollow-eyed moon, backwards to the diamond sparkle of the sumptuous gravel. A headstrong toad darted under the swing to the pool, vanishing into the paralytic waters beneath the plastic cover. Carvalho went up to the skies made impotently dark by the powerful moon. At Lerida prison, he had transformed the same sky into an imaginary escape-route to the reality sealed off by four cornerstones. A comrade had sent him a postcard reproduction of a magic Klee canvas, in which the moon was a red ball playing on the roofs of a cubic city. It was the moon of Lerida. The moon of Madrid twenty and more years later. As he finally brought himself to a standstill, he felt that his body had been penetrated by an excessive cold which combined the night-dew of Lerida and the dew now sparkling on the gravel of a villa turned Cheka headquarters. What the hell are you doing here? What the hell would you do anywhere else?
‘Do you know the worst torture for a prisoner? Not to be allowed to see the sky.’
Dawn was breaking. The three runaway brothers had been given rare permission to exercise with the four political prisoners from Lerida prison-farm. The brothers had tried to escape twelve times and had each accumulated a hundred and fifty years of sentences. They had claimed responsibility for crimes in every part of Spain, so that they would continually be moved and given a chance to break free. Two of them never said a word. The other accepted cigarettes and almost drank the sky.
‘I won’t speak loud in case those bastards hear and put it straight in their book. Have you people been in Burgos? It’s full of your comrades.’
‘Do you know someone called Cerdán?’
‘Cerdán. Rings a bell. A young guy, like you lot. It’s something else there. All the reds in Spain, if you’ll excuse me. I say “reds” with respect. I respect the reds. I’d like to see Khrushchev come here on a motor-bike and drive all those swine into the sea. Me and my old brother escaped from Burgos in the dust-cart. Six kilometres smelling of rubbish. And then they wouldn’t let us wash all the time in solidarity.’
A praying mantis had attached itself to potatoes recently peeled by the huge abortion of a cook who was putting his meat out to dry by the light of the waxing moon.
‘That’s the slimiest animal there is. It kills the male after fucking it.’
The escapist knew all the animals that slipped into and out of prisons. He used toothpicks and fishing thread to make splints for wounded sparrows.
‘There really ought to be a swing in this yard.’
That was absolutely right. A swing would have allowed them to go up and up, over the white cubic architecture of that country prison and ever closer to the red Klee moon-ball. Two weeks later, the runaway brothers were taken to Puerto de Santa María prison. They went into the middle of the rounded building and cast a final look of wearied disdain at the short-sighted chief warder, who used to write alexandrines in his spare time.
Carvalho clapped his hands to shake off the dust left on them by the chains of the swing. The crunch of gravel accompanied him to the over-decorated iron gate. He walked into a tidy, almost useless dawn street, typical of a choice residential suburb. He made for the first turning and passed uniform constructions in search of an exit from the labyrinth. The noise of traffic was louder to the west, and so he went in that direction until he met the Coruña road and the first strings of headlighted car-drivers. He crawled up a slope, appearing on the highway like a child of morning and the road. It took him some time to find the customary gesture of a hitch-hiker. As the cars passed, they splashed him with hurried indifference. He walked a few metres and back, repeating the gesture in the face of blind headlights. A family Chrysler stopped. The driver was a plump man with white whiskers. He was wearing a waistcoat.
‘A breakdown?’
‘No. A party that went on too long.’
‘Parties are never too long if you’re having a good time.’
‘The girl I went with had gone to sleep.’
‘Women only think of themselves.’
He was barely touching the wheel, as if it made him sick.
‘Do you know the name of the place you picked me up at?’
‘Las Rozas. It’s a very posh area. I own the little hotel higher up.’
‘That is also a very nice part, but quite different. It’s called the Almendro Heights, a development I’m doing up with some of my pals. Do you know how much our patch cost us fifteen years back? Twenty-five pesetas. No kidding. What’s left is now going for a hundred and fifty or two hundred. It depends.’
‘On what?’
‘On how much sun it gets.’
The sun was establishing itself over the city roof-tops.
‘One day I’ll sell the lot and never be seen again. Can you imagine their faces?’
‘Whose?’
‘My wife’s, for example. Look here, they’ll say, your husband sold me this house. Where is my husband? At the other end.’
‘Of the world?’
‘Of whatever. But at the other end. Are you Basque? Good. Because I’d like to go to the other end, but only if there aren’t any Basques. They thought they had more guts than anyone else. It’s all because of that beret. It flattens their brains. True. I love my wife and kids, but they eat me up. Where are you from?’
‘Barcelona.’
‘Shake!’
He shook his hand.
‘That’s another story. They’re smarter than anyone. More money and more education. And they don’t set off bombs like Basques. That’s another story: it’s Europe.’
‘About time too!’
At first he had the Hollywood-type suspicion that it was the wrong room. He stepped back. But the blue files open on the bed, and the inviting smile of the stout man hunched in the little hotel armchair, confirmed that he had made no mistake and that he ought to enter without taking his eyes off the hand stuck in an over-size jacket.
‘I’ve spent the whole night here waiting for you.’
‘We hadn’t arranged to meet.’
‘You’re the man of the moment. You have an appointment with everybody.’
His head was raised towards the ceiling and one hand gripped the arm of the chair to control the seismic laughter of his body.
‘I don’t hold grudges. I had a few winks in the chair, but then I couldn’t resist making some room on the bed. No, I didn’t move your files. That’s how they were.’
‘Are you Russian, American, German, Czech? Your accent seems Central European, and I’ve had my fill of Central Europeans this morning.’
‘What is a Central European? Who are we Central Europeans? We’re crossroaders, people of the road. Even I don’t know what I am. Shall I order breakfast for two?’
‘What about my reputation?’
This time he used his free hand to hold down the epicentre of laughter, the third fold of heaped flesh lying precisely over his flies.
‘Did you lose the other hand at the siege of Stalingrad?’
He piled up more roars of laughter, but without taking out the invisible hand.
‘You’re very funny, the funniest detective I’ve ever met. Yes, sir, that’s a good start. If we have some breakfast, our humour will get even better. I’d like to eat here.’
It was an instruction. Carvalho lifted the telephone and ordered breakfast for two.
‘I don’t think I’ll have anything. Hotel breakfasts fill me with horror.’
‘I’ll eat them both, the
n. It’s the ritual that’s important. The sound of cups, pouring milk, a butter-knife on the toast. It calms the mind.’
‘Your comrades aren’t as friendly as you.’
‘What comrades?’
‘I spent the night with two gentlemen who were very skilful at interrogating me.’
‘You see! You have an appointment with everybody. They got there ahead of me, curse them. What time was the meeting?’
‘Two in the morning.’
‘I was here long before that,’ he sighed with relief. ‘In fact I was first, but you didn’t keep my appointment. I’ll point it out.’
‘Who to?’
‘Señor Carvalho, I have nothing to do with your morning rendezvous. Let’s say it wasn’t people from my company. I work for a serious company, and we don’t get in each other’s way. Everyone has a clearly defined area. What did they want?’
‘The same as you.’
‘I haven’t asked anything yet. I’ve come to offer you something.’
‘What?’
‘Protection. I know you already have an escort of noble and loyal communists. I also know that the Spanish police can protect you. But this is too complicated a game, Señor Carvalho. Please describe your companions from last night.’
Carvalho described them.
‘I know the Latin American. He’s a dangerous type: a recent convert who wants to get on. I don’t know the other one. They must have brought him in specially. Everything’s become too complicated, Señor Carvalho. At times, even I had to stop and say to myself: right, who are you with and who are you against? Have you read Le Carré’s novels? I always get confused with Le Carré. Does Smiley really work for the Intelligence Service? He never knows the origin of what he finds or where it will end. Imagine that Smiley one day discovers he is working for the KGB. What would be his first concern? To find out whether the five-year postings count towards his pension. I’d like to retire soon. I’ve got thirty-five years service behind me.’
‘Serving whom?’
‘Humanity.’
‘Where will you retire to?’
‘To a little house that’s already awaiting me by the sea. I won’t tell you which sea.’
‘How can you protect me?’
‘That depends on the interest we have in protecting you, on what you give in return.’
‘You want to know from time to time how my investigation is going.’
‘Exactly.’
‘And above all, you want me to tell you the name of the murderer I propose to my client.’
‘Very clever.’
‘I suspect that both you and my recent interrogators already know who did it, but that you’d like time to take a position on the official murderer.’
‘It’s a very unusual murder. Obviously it’s damaging to the Communist Party of Spain and the Workers’ Commissions. But who stands to gain? International monopoly capitalism? Moscow and its strategy for Southern Europe? Well, both of them benefit. Have you noticed?’
‘And the whole world. Sounds like an El País editorial.’
‘But that doesn’t mean that either of them is behind the crime. International politics is full of outsiders: every petty ruler starts by setting up his own secret service and goes on to develop the atom bomb. That’s the only way they can win respect. It’s not like before. When I first started, only the big powers were in a position to make such efforts. Working then was a pleasure. Now the market is full of bungling amateurs. For example, Gadafy is doing the unspeakable, subcontracting agents from other secret services. That’s right. So you can find yourself working in the same cause as agents of either side. It’s not serious.’
A waitress divided her shifty look between the two men and left the trolley exactly in the middle.
‘My nephew isn’t hungry, but I’ll eat it all.’
The girl wished him a good meal and left the room.
‘Your reputation is safe. I’m very thoughtful with my partners.’
‘How many are there on my tail? After you, who else is going to ask me the same thing?’
‘I doubt whether anyone else will dare to approach you so directly. But a lot of people seem to be following the case at a distance, and an outsider may step in at any moment. We have an interest in protecting you. The jams you get nowadays are such rubbish. It’ll be very simple for you. The window of this room looks onto the street. When you have something to communicate, lean out and move an object up and down. Any object you like.’
‘What if it’s night-time?’
‘Just the same. We follow you day and night.’
‘Last night also?’
‘Also. I didn’t care that my rivals were one jump ahead. I wanted to have a good stretch in this room looking at your files. Have you worked out the distance from the other tables to Garrido’s or the length of time during which the lights were out? That narrows the suspects to the first three rows, and still more to those seated at right angles to Garrido. Strange that the criminal could find his way round in the dark. Has that struck you?’
‘Tell me the name you’re interested in.’
‘I don’t even know the murderer I’m interested in. I don’t control the whole game. But I’m an old hand and all I’ll tell you is objective facts. Won’t you even have some coffee?’ He poured a cup out for Carvalho. ‘I suppose that now you’ll get in touch with Fonseca and tell him about your two meetings.’
‘As soon as you leave.’
‘Go ahead. Don’t mind me.’
‘I’d like to have a shower and then ring on my own.’
‘Individualism is the ruin of the Spanish.’
He stood up with the help of both hands.
‘Thank you very much for being so amicable. Your colleagues weren’t quite the same.’
‘They’re young and raring to go. Experience is an important quality. I don’t need to resort to violence. But watch out, Señor Carvalho. If necessary, I’ll put a bullet between your eyes without losing a minute’s sleep.’
He seemed to turn his back on Carvalho as he went out, but one of his eyes stayed on the detective until the door was between them.
‘Las Rozas. Leandro Sánchez Reatain. We’ll soon find out who that gentleman is.’
Fonseca passed the sheet of paper to Sánchez ‘Dillinger’ Ariño, who took it with great interest and sped from the room like a motor-launch. Fonseca noted with satisfaction the diligent attitude of his assistant.
‘You see? There’s real concern to get to the bottom of the matter. Did they do you any harm? The savages!’
Carvalho held his stare to see whether there was a glint of irony in his watery eyes. But Fonseca did seem about to cry at the thought of Carvalho’s sufferings.
‘Apart from anything else, it was a violation of our sovereignty.’
Pilar nodded her head over the typewriter. Fonseca dialled a number.
‘The minister, please.’
‘Minister, we’ve just suffered a violent attack on our sovereignty.’
He related what had happened to Carvalho.
‘The minister is at your service,’ said Fonseca, tapping the microphone with his hand.
‘Thank you very much.’
‘He’s deeply grateful. We’ll work together till the end. Of course, minister. The good name of this office and of Spain stands higher than anything else.’
He put down the receiver and stood up with a flurry of abstract indignation.
‘I can’t stand any foreigner laying his hands on a Spaniard. I can’t bear it.’ He sobbed and covered his face with his hands. ‘They’ll end up pissing in our shops and shitting on our tombs.’
‘Can you tell from the leads I gave you which secret service they belong to?’
‘What are you asking, my boy? In Madrid there are regular agents from twenty-four intelligence services and international organisations. You say one was fat, very fat? Did he hold his mouth like this?’
‘No, he held it like that.’
‘You’re sure?’
‘Sure.’
‘Then it’s not the one I was thinking of.’
Sánchez Ariñó came in and handed him a note.
‘Good God! Good God!’
Carvalho jumped up in alarm, but Fonseca looked at him with a relaxed, witty smile.
‘Well, how about that! It turns out that the house exists but not the owner. Sánchez Reatain died four months ago in a road accident and the house is up for sale.’
‘Some of the food in the fridge had been bought recently, and the swing in the garden had been oiled not long before.’
‘Did you have a swing on it?’
‘Yes.’
Fonseca and his assistant looked at each other.
‘You had a swing,’ Fonseca repeated, as if trying to convince himself.
‘Strange. The house is still owned by the Sánchez Reatain family and hasn’t been let to anyone. Very strange.’
‘Is it possible to talk to the family?’
‘No point. It’s split up. The wife is at a brother’s house in Switzerland and the sons are studying abroad. They even discharged the servants and hired the services of an agency to clean it once a week.’
‘Which agency?’
‘Which agency?’
Dillinger left the room once again, assuming a fastidious responsibility for the question.
Murder in the Central Committee Page 14
