Finisterre

by Graham Hurley

  ‘Sol was a shy guy. No way would he have shared any of that stuff.’

  ‘Not even with his wife?’

  ‘Especially not with his wife. All his life he wanted to protect that woman. Mission number one. And you know what? He was damn good at it.’

  ‘Fooled her?’

  ‘Sure. And fooled her good.’

  The cigarette was cupped in his hand, as if he was protecting it from a high wind. He took another drag, tipped his head back, expelled the smoke in a long blue plume.

  ‘I understand you live alone.’ Gómez this time.

  ‘Sure. Is that indictable?’

  ‘Not at all. Were you ever married?’

  ‘Twice. Drew the wrong ticket both times.’

  Gómez nodded. Merricks had shown him Schiff’s file.

  ‘Your first wife?’ he asked.

  ‘Greta. She died.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Disappointment, I guess. Greta expected Clark Gable. What she got was me.’

  ‘There was a police investigation. Care to tell us about that?’

  ‘Sure. They were disappointed, too. Thought I’d poisoned her. Never buy a week-old chicken in Milwaukee. The poor woman died of salmonella. It was there in the autopsy report, plain as daylight.’

  ‘And you? You ate the chicken, too?’

  ‘I was a vegetarian. Still am. Think what you like but it probably saved my life.’

  Gómez glanced at Merricks. This was going nowhere.

  ‘You’ve been seeing a lot of Marta Fiedler.’ Merricks glanced down at his pad. ‘Trips down to Edith Warren’s place? The tea room? Excursions out to the Canyon? Am I right?’

  ‘Sure. So where does this stuff come from?’

  Merricks wouldn’t tell him. Just wanted to know how come.

  ‘Because we click,’ Schiff said. ‘Because she gets lonesome sometimes. No kids. No pets. Sol working his ass off. A woman like Marta needs a little stimulation and company does that.’ He took a last suck at the roll-up and pinched the end. Then he looked up at Merricks again. ‘So where did you get all this bullshit?’

  ‘That doesn’t matter. I’m asking you whether it’s true.’

  ‘Of course it’s true. I’m not denying it. And here’s something else. You know who asked me to take care of Marta? To call by when I dropped a shift? To drive her round a little? Go down to Edith’s place? Share a little of that fine apple strudel together? That was Sol. Sol’s idea. Why? Because he loved the woman, wanted the best for her.’

  ‘Meaning you?’

  ‘Meaning a different face in her life. And maybe a little laughter.’

  ‘You’re telling us Sol was a depressive?’

  ‘Sol took life seriously. Sol took everything seriously. That’s why he was so easy to beat at chess. The guy thought too hard most times. Other times he didn’t think at all. Queen to rook seven. And I’m watching him, I’m there, inside his head. Idiot move. Insane move. Bam.’ He paused, his hand straying towards his breast pocket again. Then he changed his mind and sat back in the chair, eyeballing them both. ‘Hey, guys, I just got it. You think I shot him, right? You think I’m in love with his wife and you think my life and maybe hers would be sweeter if old Sol wasn’t around. Call me impulsive, call me what you like, but that’s the way it sounds.’

  Neither Gómez nor Merricks said a word. The accusation hung in the air. Schiff’s huge eyes drifted from face to face.

  ‘Well?’ he said. ‘Am I right? Am I halfway right? Is this why I don’t get coffee? Only pretty soon I’ve got to be back with my buddies, saving the free world. Any clues, guys? Maybe just one?’

  Gómez had been watching him closely. He detected no signs of guilt or anxiety or even irritation. Here was a man who was happy to acknowledge that he knew the Fiedlers well, even intimately, who understood their little foibles, their daily routines, the countless ways they’d developed to make it through their years on the Hill. That was important. That made him a key witness.

  Gómez told Merricks to put the coffee on. Then he turned back to Schiff.

  ‘There’s a chance this thing isn’t quite what it seems,’ he said carefully.

  ‘You mean Sol shooting himself?’

  Gómez nodded. He wanted to know whether he’d ever talked to Fiedler about politics.

  ‘Sure. All the time.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘The guy was bright. A thinker. Also a worrier.’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About the Soviets mainly. Sol had a theory and he was probably right. He thought the Gadget wasn’t for this war at all. He thought it was for the next one.’

  ‘Against the Russians?’

  ‘Sure.’

  ‘And that worried him?’

  ‘Not at all. He thought the Russians were trouble. He’d read a lot about what happened in Spain and he never bought the line about Stalin riding in to the rescue. His take on Stalin was simple. The guy was a gangster. The thought of world domination under the Commies bothered him somewhat. The word he used was evil. What we needed was a big stick and then the Gadget happened by.’

  Merricks was back with three cups and a percolator full of hot coffee. Jennifer, Gómez thought. Mr Coupon knows no shame.

  Merricks poured the coffee. They’d run out of milk but Schiff said it didn’t matter. Gómez was happy to accept that Fiedler hadn’t been running nuclear secrets to the Russians. Now he wanted to know how many other buddies he’d had in his life.

  ‘None,’ Schiff said.

  ‘None at all?’

  ‘Not that I know of. The guy was popular the way quiet guys can be. No trouble. Super-conscientious. Heap of stuff to do? Give it to Sol. Impossible deadline? Calcs that won’t resolve? Sol knows a way. But buddies? Real buddies? Never.’

  Gómez said nothing. Watched Schiff tip the mug to his lips, take a sip, then another, then wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.

  ‘I forgot,’ he said. ‘There was one guy he did get on with. His name was Frank.’

  ‘Frank who?’ Gómez was reaching for a pen.

  ‘I don’t know. This wasn’t a scientist, not a guy like us. He wasn’t in the military, either. He drove a red truck. Beaten-up old thing. He must have been some kind of contractor. I only met the man a couple of times but it struck me that Sol liked him.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘The way they were together. Sol was a sports nut, believe it or not, crazy about football. Coming down from Chicago, he was a big Bears fan. Turned out Frank felt the same way. There’s a quarterback, famous guy, Spud Murphy. Apparently Sol had a framed picture up in the bedroom. Marta told me about it. He must have shown Frank the picture one time because Frank made him an offer for it but Sol said no.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Recently. Back in the summer.’

  ‘So he saw this guy a lot?’

  ‘I guess so.’

  ‘But you don’t know?’

  ‘No.’

  Gómez nodded and made a note. Marta? he wrote. Frank?? When he looked up again, Schiff was on his feet. He drained the remains of the coffee and then checked his watch. There was a war on. He had to go. Gómez thanked him for his time and hoped not to bother him again. Schiff shrugged, said no problem. When he got a moment he’d call by Marta, check she was OK. Then he was gone.

  Gómez glanced down at his notepad. These last few days Marta had been keeping herself to herself, entertaining few visitors, hiding her grief behind her friend’s locked door. This afternoon, to the best of Gómez’s knowledge, she intended to return home. If Schiff was right about Frank being a contractor then Gómez needed to narrow the field. There were hundreds of these guys on site every day, driving up from Santa Fe and God knows where else. The man in the red truck, he suspected, might be one of them.

  *

  Stefan awoke with a start. It was pitch-black outside, not a hint of light. The window was creaking in the wind and from downstairs he could hear someone practising on
a piano. It was the same phrase, over and over again, different speeds, different emphasis, few mistakes. Whoever was sitting at the keyboard – Tomaso? His daughter Eva? – was feeling for an interpretation, seeking a way into the music, looking for a particular door. It was a classical piece, Schubert or maybe Mozart, full of sadness and regret. If you were dying of emphysema, Stefan thought, this is exactly what you might play.

  Both Stefan’s parents had been musical. His father had been crazy about jazz, his mother less so. She’d sung in the choir in the Lutheran church a mile away towards the centre of Hamburg. She could read sheet music and she loved Brahms. Brahms came from the city and before the war, and the arrival of the English bombers, she’d taken her young sons to the house where the great man had been born.

  All Stefan remembered from that afternoon was the patter of rain against the mullioned windows and sharp looks from a particularly fierce official when he reached to finger through one of Brahms’ musical scores but later that same year an elderly couple had moved into the neighbouring flat. Their names were Anton and Gretel and they’d quickly become family treasures, not least because they were more than happy for Stefan’s mother to use their piano. Brahms had long been her favourite composer and it was a rare afternoon not to return from the school along the street and hear chords of a capriccio or a sonata muffled by the intervening wall.

  Werner, Stefan’s older brother, had no time for Brahms. He thought all that stuff was old-fashioned and boring, but Stefan, to his slight embarrassment, had always understood why his mother had loved it so much. The music spoke to him, too. So wistful. Yet so strong.

  Stefan shifted his weight in the bed. His ribs still hurt when he breathed and there was a dull ache from his leg but the sleep had done him good. Reaching up for the Bakelite switch, he turned on the light. The bulb was tiny, casting the dim shadows to the corners of the room, but there was something standing beside the light and when he inched himself upwards on his elbows he found himself looking at a bowl of coffee. There were sodden little shreds of bread in the coffee but when he touched the bowl with the back of his hand it was still warm.

  Someone’s been up here recently, he told himself. Someone’s stood by the bed and maybe watched me for a moment or two. The thought intrigued him. Maybe it was Eva. If so, what did she make of this sudden presence in her house? Of this echo of a faraway war? Of one of the hated Germans who’d turned Europe upside down, sparing only the continent’s remoter corners, too insignificant – or perhaps too difficult – to be worth conquering?

  He lifted the bowl to his lips and sipped it. The coffee was sweet and under the gaze of the plaster Madonna on the pine table it felt a little like a taste of the Eucharist. He took another sip, and then a mouthful, realising how hungry he was. The last day or so seemed to have telescoped beneath the tumult in his head, a passage of time that no longer made any sense, and he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten. They’d grounded on the rocks late at night. Normally, the crew ate around half past six. Two weeks into the voyage, they’d have exhausted the fresh supplies and started on the tins of sauerkraut and the jars of pickled fish.

  Had he and his officers gathered round the tiny table? Elbow to elbow? Glad of the sudden collective warmth? Had he eaten his fill? Washed it down with the malted milk the cook had mistakenly ordered instead of coffee? He didn’t know, couldn’t remember, but a sudden pressure at the very base of his belly told him that he needed to urinate.

  The need was pressing. He began to panic, looking hopelessly around. He had no idea where he might find a toilet. Worse still, he doubted whether he could even get himself out of bed. The obvious thing to do was shout. But he was determined not to be a burden to these people.

  Putting the bowl aside, he did his best. His good leg, mercifully, wasn’t on the wall side of the bed. He pulled back the blankets and the sheet and extended the leg over the edge of the mattress, feeling for the floorboards with his toes. They were rougher than he remembered. Half out of bed, he tried to coax his other leg to follow but the suddenness of the pain swamped him and he collapsed backwards on to the pillow. Scheisse, he thought, bracing himself for another attempt.

  This time, if anything, the pain was worse but he was determined to make it to the corridor. Inch by inch, he swung his bad leg out of the bed. Bending it was out of the question. The knee, he realised for the first time, had also seized up. What next?

  He sat on the edge of the bed, eyeing the door. The door was half open. A single lunge and he’d have the support of the doorframe. Then he could plan his next move. He stared at the door. The pianist downstairs had moved on from the repeated phrase but had come unstuck several bars later. Whatever Tomaso lacked it wasn’t patience. He backed away from the mistake and tried it again. And again. And again.

  Staring at the door, listening to the same sequence of notes, Stefan was reminded of his last precious seconds on the submarine, clinging on to the rail in the conning tower, trying to judge the intervals between the cresting waves, when best to trust his judgement, when best to jump. Tomaso, at last, was riding the music to the end of the bar. Then came a tiny pause and the lightest rustle of paper before he started on the next page. Now, Stefan thought. Just do it.

  He tried to make it to the door – and failed completely. His bad leg collapsed and he hit the floor sideways. He felt the floor shudder under the weight of his body and he heard a sharp gasp of pain which became, all too shamefully, a scream. Me, he thought.

  The music had stopped. Then came footsteps on the stairs. Stefan shut his eyes.

  ‘Puta.’

  A woman’s voice. Stefan groaned, partly pain, partly humiliation. He opened his eyes to find bare feet inches from his face. He did his best to look up. Looking up hurt.

  ‘You speak English?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He managed to raise an arm, offered a hand for her to help him up. She didn’t move. She asked him what had happened. He gestured at his groin, doing his best to explain.

  ‘You need the toilet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You need to piss?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why not shout?’

  ‘Someone was busy down there. Playing the piano.’

  ‘That was me.’

  She was frowning. In a single movement, she scooped the dish from the top of the cupboard and stationed it beside him.

  ‘In there.’ She nodded at the dish. ‘I come back.’

  Then she was gone. Stefan stared at the door, trying to disentangle the jumble of images she’d left behind. The way her hair hung around her shoulders. The sharpness of her features. The wide, generous mouth. Her inexplicable pallor, after a summer of Spanish sunshine. And a silver ring on her left thumb.

  There was still a dribble of coffee in the dish. Stefan stared at it then fumbled with his underpants. Rolling over to urinate hurt but there was no way he was going to ask for help. Not after an introduction like that. His bladder was bursting and he missed the dish completely. Cursing, he tried to reposition himself but there was piss everywhere. He could smell it, swelling rivulets heading for the open door. Everything in the house was built on the slant. At last the flow slackened enough to direct it into the bowl. A cupful at the very most. Pathetic.

  He lay back, exhausted, trying to work out something to say, some clumsy apology that might repair the damage. Maybe he should make a joke of it, put the whole episode down to bad luck and over-ambition, but something in this woman’s face told him it wouldn’t work. The pallor and the silver ring were interesting and the music was further proof. Of what? Of the fact that she didn’t really belong here? That she wasn’t just another peasant – good-natured, generous, eking out a life from this savage landscape? He told himself he couldn’t possibly know, and, worse still, that his days in this house were probably numbered. And then she was suddenly back.

  She was carrying a cloth and something else. She moved the dish carefully to one side and on her hands and kne
es she began to mop the floorboards dry. Stefan, watching, caught the scent of lemons. Finished with the floorboards, she put the wet rag in the dish. The other object turned out to be a pair of underpants. They looked enormous.

  ‘You’re wet.’ She nodded at his own pants. ‘Take them off.’

  ‘It’s OK.’ Stefan shook his head.

  ‘I said take them off.’

  ‘I can’t.’

  ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘It’s true.’ He shrugged. ‘Just leave me alone. I’ll be fine.’

  She studied him for a long moment. Her face was in shadow but everything about her told Stefan that Agustín had been right. This woman hated Germans, and everything she most loathed about them had probably come true, right here, in her own house. Then, without warning, her hands were tugging at the waistband of his pants, pulling them down. She was deft and strong and she knew exactly what she was doing.

  ‘You’re a nurse?’

  ‘Once. You can lift your body? Help me a little?’

  Stefan did his best, grateful that she spoke such good English. Another gasp of pain. Then she was easing his pants down over his thighs and lower legs, taking care not to dislodge the bandage. Naked now, Stefan had never felt more helpless. Maybe surviving hadn’t been such a great idea. The notion, for whatever reason, made him laugh.

  ‘You think this is funny?’ She was staring at him.

  ‘I think I’m very lucky.’

  ‘You’re right. You are.’

  His pants had joined the rag in the bowl. Now she was coaxing the replacement underpants up his bare legs. He managed to lift his bottom again while she pulled the garment into position. Then it was done. She got up and stepped back, examining her handiwork, and as she did so the throw of light settled on her face. Maybe, just maybe, she was tempted to smile.

  ‘You look like my father,’ she said. ‘When he was much younger.’

  ‘They’re his?’ Stefan nodded down at the huge underpants.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Tell him thank you. Tell him I’m grateful.’

  She didn’t reply. She was looking at the bed. Then, without a word, she stooped for the dish and disappeared. Moments later, Stefan heard the scrape of a door opening downstairs and footsteps vanishing into the night. Was there a policeman in the village? Had he worn this woman’s patience out? He lay still, starting to shiver, wondering whether he dared to try and make it back to the bed by himself. Then the footsteps returned and the door to the street opened again and he found himself looking up at two faces. The woman – Eva? – and Enrico.