‘Why don’t you just go away? What are you looking for—weak victims for an easy victory? Is that the way you like it?’
‘What can I say? I’ll admit to the role you’re casting me in. I’m my masters’ servant, just like you are. But I don’t like victims, easy or otherwise. They are simply the consequences.’
‘They’re people—and in this case, they’re people I love and people who could be destroyed. Sometimes I can still see my brother as a child, when he didn’t know that he carried the guilt for my mother’s humiliation. I can see his little face, and then I suddenly see it twisted out of shape by all the brutality that he’s had to go through.’
‘It’s in the logic of the case for me to meet your brother, and I always follow my cases through to the end—to what I regard as the end. When I’ve finished, I leave things in the hands of my client. I tell them what I know, and the client decides. The police would take him before a judge. But in my work, the client is the judge.’
‘A rich, hysterical old woman who doesn’t know the meaning of the word suffering.’
‘She’s rich, but not old. And everybody knows what it means to suffer. You have a lot going for you. You belong to the social class which has right on its side and spits it in everyone’s face.’
‘I tried to help him. I used to tell him don’t do this, Pedrito … don’t do that …! When I was away from home, I was always in fear. What would Pedro do? And when I returned, he’d always done it. They always found some reason to hound him into a corner. I used to wait for him outside school, so that he’d go straight home and not do something stupid on the way. Can you imagine how the police treated him when they came about the motorbike business? How they treated us? To make things worse, I had a political record. Do you know how they treat delinquents at the police station? In prison?’
‘I didn’t create the world, and I don’t want to be everyone’s conscience. That’s too big a role. I presume you didn’t call me just because you wanted to tell me your brother’s life story.’
‘I wanted to stop you meeting him.’
‘You won’t succeed.’
‘Do you know what will happen?’
‘I can guess.’
‘Isn’t that enough to stop you? Why don’t you wind your investigation up? Tell your client whatever you like. It’s in her interest too, for me to keep my mouth shut.’
‘You can sort that out between the two of you.’
She caught him by the arm and shook him vigorously.
‘Don’t be stupid! Something terrible could happen. If I talk to you and tell you everything … would you still go and see my brother?’
‘I want to hear it from the horse’s mouth. He’s the one who has to tell me. Don’t be silly—your conscience would never forgive you.’
Carvalho walked ahead, while she stood frozen at the crossroads, one hand held out towards him and the other clutching her jacket pocket. She ran level with Carvalho, and they walked on in silence.
‘How easy it would be, just to clear out of here!’
‘This place and its people would go with you, like the tortoise carries its shell.’
‘I’m not thinking of leaving. You might find it strange, but I don’t think I could manage anywhere else.’
‘If it’s a boy, don’t give up hope. Some men have produced excellent results. In the future, men will be better than women. I’m sure of that.’
‘I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. I’ll love it just the same.’
‘One of my first jobs was at a local primary school. It was an old neighbourhood with quite a history, but the people were a lot like the people who live here. One of my pupils was a dark, sad-eyed boy, who had the gestures of a wise old man. He always talked as if he was excusing himself. One day, I met his mother at the school gates. She had the gestures of a wise old woman. She also always talked as if she was excusing herself. She was very beautiful, even though she had white hair. The child could have come out of any part of her body: from her arm, her breast, her head … She was a single mother at a time when there was no longer any reason. The war had been over too long to serve as an alibi.’
‘And what happened?’
‘Nothing. I left the school and never saw them again. But I often remember them, and I sometimes have an odd feeling that the boy had white hair too. I was still young then and masturbating a lot. Some nights, I masturbated thinking of that woman.’
‘What a pig!’
‘Nature is nature.’
He was wearing denims and a black plastic jacket decorated with rings, zips and metal studs. Shoes with heels that gave extra inches to his nervous body; hands stuck deep in large jacket pockets; a neck arched high as if to spy on a threatening world; short, sleeked hair and the face of a young stallion. He looked at Carvalho and bent his head in a way that suggested he did not want to see him. A movement of his shoulder beckoned Carvalho to follow.
‘We can’t talk here. Let’s go somewhere quiet.’ He walked ahead in sudden spurts, as if every step were a whiplash. ‘Take it easy. No need to rush.’
Carvalho did not reply. Pedro Larios turned back every so often and smiled: ‘Not far to go.’
As they turned a corner, the dark loneliness and San Magín backstreets fell around them. A church was outlined against the moon. The voice of Julio Iglesias came from a nearby jukebox. Carvalho and Pedro Larios stopped in a pool of light from a street lamp that swayed in the breeze. Pedro kept his hands in his pockets. With a smile, he looked left and right, and two young men emerged from the shadows to stand beside Carvalho.
‘It’s better to talk in company.’
Carvalho sized up the body of the man on his left. He was strong, and his eyes were opaque, as if he had no wish to see what was around him. He wasn’t sure where to put his hands. The one on the right was more like a child. He looked at Carvalho with a curled lip, like a dog before it bites.
‘Have you lost your voice? It was loud enough in my folks’ place. Too loud.’
‘Did these two help you?’
‘Help me what?’
‘Kill the guy who was going around with your sister?’
He blinked. The three looked at one another.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Don’t go too far, mister,’ said the kid on the right. ‘Watch what you’re saying.’
‘Listen, I don’t know what my dad told you, but you’d better believe what I say. You were snooping too much for my liking, because I don’t like snoopers.’
‘He’s got a snooper’s face,’ said the kid.
‘Let’s finish him off,’ interrupted the Hulk.
‘I don’t like guys who stick their noses where they’re not welcome. My friends don’t either.’
They took two steps forward. Carvalho was now within reach, and behind him lay the wall of a building site. The kid was the first to take a knife out. He waved it under Carvalho’s nose. Pedro’s seemed to be open even before it came out of his pocket. The Hulk threw back his shoulders, lowered his head, and made ready with his fists. The kid lunged at Carvalho with his knife. The detective ducked back to dodge it. While Pedro attacked from the front, the Hulk threw a punch at Carvalho that just grazed him. Carvalho managed to kick the youngster, who howled and doubled up in pain. He parried the thrust of the Hulk’s body, and pushed him against the advancing Pedro. He had no time to reach for his revolver before the kid blindly returned to the charge, hurling a stream of insults. Carvalho caught his arm and twisted it until it cracked. The kid screamed in pain:
‘The bastard! The bastard! He’s broken my arm!’
The other two looked at the useless arm. Pedro rushed wildly forward and left a fine cut down Carvalho’s cheek. The Hulk then found new courage and rejoined the fray. With clasped fists and a flash of his knuckledusters, Carvalho dealt him a backhander that immediately opened four gashes on the Hulk’s face. Carvalho toppled him, punching his head and face with a swift one-two a
ction, but as he went over, the big one grabbed Carvalho’s legs and brought him down.
‘Kill him! Kill him, Pedro!’ shouted the youngster.
Pedro tried to plunge his knife among the writhing bodies. Carvalho emerged on top, pulling the Hulk’s head back by the hair, and put his knife to his throat.
‘Get back or I’ll kill him.’
‘Kill him, Pedro, kill him!’
The Hulk tried to speak, but Carvalho’s arm was choking him.
‘Get the brat out of here. You, you little arsehole, beat it!’
Pedro signalled to him to obey. The kid disappeared from the pool of light and began throwing stones from the darkness.
‘Don’t do that, idiot, you’ll hit us!’
The stones stopped. Carvalho loosened his grip, rolled the Hulk over and began battering at his face, chest and stomach. When he had him on his knees, he pummelled his head into the ground. Then he leapt over the body and stood facing Pedro. The boy retreated, using his knife to mark a distance between them. As he moved forward, the detective shed his knuckledusters and pulled the gun from his pocket. Legs astride, he steadied the gun across his right forearm and targeted Pedro’s face. He wanted to speak, but for some time his gasping lungs wouldn’t let him.
‘Down! Get on the ground or I’ll blow your head off! Throw the knife over here. Careful what you do.’
The knife detached itself from Pedro’s hand. The boy sprawled to the ground, supported on one arm so as to watch Carvalho’s movements.
‘Kiss the ground, baby! Kiss it! Spread your arms and legs.’
Pedro stretched out beneath the streetlamp. The Hulk hobbled off in search of darkness. Carvalho let him go. Then he drew slowly closer to Pedro, trying to calm his breathing. He kicked at Pedro’s legs.
‘Spread them wider.’
The prostrate Pedro obeyed, and Carvalho began kicking at him furiously. The body wriggled like an electrocuted animal, but the blows homed in on his stomach and kidneys and feverishly sought out his face. From the ground, Pedro heard the wild and weary animal-panting coming from Carvalho’s half-open mouth. A kick to the temple stunned him. The impact of the blows that followed seemed duller and somehow ineluctable. Carvalho pulled Pedro’s head up by the hair. He made him kneel down, and then forced him to his feet.
Pedro had a moment to see the detective’s face at close quarters, with blood flowing from the cheek, before he was dragged to a wall and battered against the brickwork. The detective was again panting like a weary animal, as if the air was shouting with pain as it left his lungs. Pedro heard him cough and retch violently. He tried to turn round, but his body wouldn’t obey the command. His legs were trembling, and his brain told him that he had lost. Once more, he felt the damp heat given off by Carvalho’s body. The detective’s voice sounded almost calm.
‘Now get going to the place where your sister lives. Don’t forget the gun. It’s a miracle you’re not a stiff by now.’
Pedro began to walk. When they reached the main streets of San Magín, he followed Carvalho’s softly spoken instruction to keep close to the shopfronts. This was what his instinct already told him, because he knew he looked pretty bad and he didn’t want to create a stir.
‘It’s not very deep.’
Ana Briongos applied a small amount of antiseptic cream to Carvalho’s wound. She had told her flatmates to make themselves scarce. Her brother lay curled on a folding bed, and Carvalho told her not to let him fall asleep. Ana bent over to listen to what her brother was saying. She felt his finger joints, and Pedro let out a scream.
‘This finger’s broken, and the rest of him looks like mincemeat. Did you do this all alone? You’re a big man when you’re dealing with kids.’
‘He was with his pals.’
Ana didn’t know where to start. She cleaned the swellings on Pedro’s face with hydrogen peroxide. She tried to remove his jacket, but he groaned for her to stop. The door opened, and their father appeared.
‘Pedro! What have they done to you, boy?’
He stopped dead at the sight of Carvalho.
‘Good evening.’
‘Good evening.’
The man’s voice was choking.
‘I told you, Pedro. I told you, boy.’
He began to weep, and moved neither forward nor backwards, as if all his faculties were required for the business of crying.
‘You didn’t need to come.’
‘Is he badly hurt?’
‘A good beating. He asked for it.’
The father looked at Carvalho as if he were a god on whom his fate depended.
‘What will you do with him?’
Carvalho sat down. For a few moments, he saw the scene as from a distance. He saw Ana from afar, as she nursed a wounded man who was not Carvalho but somebody else. The old man seemed to be standing in someone else’s doorway, not daring to ask if he might enter. Carvalho was thirsty and heard himself asking for water. Ana brought him some. It was cold, but it tasted of chlorine.
‘Give a glass to the gentleman. It’ll bring him to.’
Briongos senior was still waiting for Jove’s decision.
Carvalho stood up, took hold of a chair, and went to sit beside Pedro’s bed.
‘If you can’t talk, just listen and answer yes or no.’
‘I can talk if I want to.’
‘Fine. So, you three went after Stuart Pedrell to kill him. You and your two pals.’
‘We didn’t know that was who he was.’
‘You went out to kill him. Why?’
‘Don’t you know what he did to my sister?’
‘You idiot!’ shouted Ana Briongos, momentarily exasperated.
‘They didn’t mean to do it,’ added Briongos senior. ‘They didn’t mean to go that far.’
‘We only meant to put the wind up him. But then he started getting all excited. The dirty bastard put his hand on my shoulder and started lecturing me. The Shrimp—the kid whose arm you broke—let him have it with his knife. And then I got angry, and I had a go too.’
Briongos senior covered his face with his hands and was shaking visibly. Ana looked at her brother.
‘You’re a fool. Nobody asked you to do it!’
‘You’re my sister.’
‘You see, sir, she’s his sister.’
Briongos gestured expansively, as if to express the depth of the family bond that united his two children.
‘If he hadn’t started getting all wound up, nothing would have happened. But he began shooting his mouth off, telling me that I had to do this, that I had to do that, that my sister was a free woman, and that he wasn’t the only man in her life. That’s what he said, Ana, I swear it!’
‘So what, you idiot? It’s true, isn’t it?’
Carvalho looked at Ana and her father.
‘So, you found out what had happened and ended up becoming accessories to the fact.’
‘I wasn’t going to turn my own son in.’
‘And you?’
‘What was I supposed to do?’
Briongos senior summoned up his little remaining courage.
‘He didn’t belong here. He was an intruder. It was just a game to him.’
‘Shut up, Dad.’
‘So, you took him to a derelict building site at the other end of town.’
‘No one took him to no building site.’
Carvalho looked at Pedro, bemused. The faces of the other two seemed to testify to the truth of his statement.
‘Say that again.’
‘Nobody took him to no building site. We left him bleeding, and he must have scarpered.’
‘Pedro came home and told me that there’d been a fight and that he’d wounded Antonio badly. My father and I spent the night searching around, but we couldn’t find him anywhere.’
‘Sure. He took the subway, because he preferred to die on a patch of waste ground in Holy Trinity. You expect me to believe that?’
‘I don’t expect anything, but it’s the p
lain truth.’
Briongos junior’s eyes glimmered with one last hope.
‘So you’ve still got to find out what happened to him after that.’
‘Stuart Pedrell died from the two stab wounds that he got from these two trainee butchers. Don’t think you’ll get out of it that easily, Sunshine. That Shrimp of yours is a maniac who kills for kicks, and the Hulk’s got about as much guts as he has brains. Al Capone kept better company.’
‘Bad company, Pedrito. What has your father always told you?’
Pedro was still flat on his back. When his eyes met Carvalho’s, the detective saw in them a deadly and unrelenting hatred. Carvalho left the room, followed by Ana and her father.
‘Señor, please. Don’t bring any more misfortune onto this family. I’ll try to sort him out. I’ll tell him to go into the Foreign Legion. They make a man of you there. They’ll soon take him in hand.’
‘Shut up, Dad. Don’t talk rubbish.’
Briongos lingered while Ana went with Carvalho to the door.
‘What are you thinking?’
‘I can’t work out what the man did with two stab wounds in him. He wouldn’t have lasted long. He didn’t have a car. He couldn’t get a taxi for fear of discovery. Why didn’t he ask someone to help him get to a hospital?’
‘Maybe he thought that by not asking he was helping me.’
‘The question is, who took him and dumped him on the building site?’
Carvalho didn’t wait for an answer. As he went down the street, the evening cool soothed his aching face and body. He left behind him the cement islands of that Polynesia into which Stuart Pedrell had ventured to search out the far side of the moon. The natives he had found there were a hardened race—the same hardness that Gauguin had discovered in the Marquesas, where the natives had come to know that the world was a huge market in which they too were up for sale.
He crossed the frontier and drove at full speed back to his den. He stood, lost in thought, staring into the hot embers in the fireplace. He stroked Bleda’s velvet ears and scratched her belly, the dog pawed the air. Who did Stuart Pedrell turn to that night? He would have scanned his former kingdom to find a safe haven. He couldn’t have gone home. If he had, this investigation would never have been necessary. Nor could he have expected much help from Nisa. The choice must have been between his business partners and Lita Vilardell.
Southern Seas Page 20
