Finisterre

by Graham Hurley

  Between them they lifted him up and lay him carefully on to the mattress. They worked well together, no need for conversation, and Stefan guessed that this was the boyfriend. Stefan’s Spanish didn’t extend beyond a couple of words but he lost count of the number of times he muttered gracias.

  Enrico gave him a grin and a pat on the shoulder. No importa appeared to mean what it sounded like. Then he was gone.

  ‘You’re Eva?’

  The woman nodded, said nothing. She rearranged the blankets and adjusted the pillow beneath Stefan’s head. Then she turned to go. Only by the door did she pause and look back.

  ‘Soon you will need the toilet again.’ She nodded at Stefan’s backside. ‘This time you must tell me.’

  *

  Marta Fiedler was trying to make a cake when Gómez and Merricks knocked on her door. Her forearms white with flour, she led them into the kitchen. Dusk was falling earlier and earlier up here on the mesa and the kitchen at the back of the duplex was in semi-darkness. Only when Gómez switched on the light did he realise Marta had been crying.

  He threw a look at the mixing bowl and the brown bags of ingredients scattered beside the sink.

  ‘We intruding here?’

  ‘Nein.’ She shook her head.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She was watching Merricks fill the kettle. Gómez marvelled at the boy’s touch around women. Never made a fuss. Never showboated. Just came up with exactly the right gesture at exactly the right time.

  Marta turned back to Gómez. She wanted to know why he’d come. Did he have news? Or was this yet another of those interminable interviews?

  ‘I’ve told you everything I know,’ she said. ‘Everything I can remember. There’s nothing left.’

  She began to cry again. Gómez told her the interview wouldn’t take long. Then she could get back to cake-making.

  ‘I don’t want to make the damn cake,’ she howled. ‘Who’s going to eat it? Me?’

  Merricks said he loved cake. Smelled great already. If she was looking for a home for it, he was happy to help out.

  ‘It’s not even ready for the oven. It’s not even mixed. You know how long I’ve been trying to figure this recipe out? Since lunchtime. Your brain goes. It’s hopeless.’

  She turned away, apologising for her outburst. Getting through this thing was hard, harder than anyone could possibly imagine. One of the reasons there’d never be another Sol was that she couldn’t bear to part with him again. It was a pain she couldn’t describe, a pain that never seemed to leave her.

  Gómez settled himself on a stool. His years as a cop had taught him never to be distracted by grief. In the end you have to move on.

  ‘There’s a guy called Frank we think you might know,’ he said.

  Marta was standing by the window, staring out at the darkness stealing across the distant frieze of mountains.

  ‘Frank Donovan,’ she said at once. ‘Nice fella. Very pleasant. Good to us, too.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s the coyote man.’ She turned round at last, wiping a tear from the corner of her eye.

  ‘Coyote man?’

  ‘Ja. He comes up to the Hill every week. His job is to shoot coyotes. They worry the women. Especially the ones with babies or pets. Frank gets rid of them.’

  ‘He calls by? He knows you?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘How did that happen?’

  The question put a frown of concentration on her face. Finally she said she thought it was way back last year. Frank had been working near the duplex. It was a Tuesday and for once Sol had been in the house.

  ‘He had the flu,’ she explained. ‘He wasn’t well.’

  Gómez nodded. The first sign of the flu and a suspect was banished from the Tech Area. An epidemic could bring the Project to a halt.

  ‘So what happened?’

  ‘Sol heard gunfire, single shots, bang bang. He went out to take a look.’

  Frank, she said, was working in the scrub a couple of hundred yards away. When his work was done, Sol invited him back to the house.

  ‘I was at the school with the little ones on Tuesdays. When I got back they were talking football. Like I say, Frank was a very nice man, easy to talk to. He was good for Sol, too. Opened him up. That wasn’t such an easy thing to do, believe me.’

  The friendship, she said, had deepened. A couple of times on Tuesday evenings Frank would stay for a meal. He loved her pickled herrings with mashed potato, served Berlin-style. Another reason Sol had warmed to his presence.

  ‘You know where this guy lives?’

  ‘Ja.’ She looked round, then left the room. When she came back, she was holding a scrap of paper. Gómez glanced at it.

  ‘Albuquerque’s a three-hour drive. At least.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘He comes all that way? To shoot wild dogs?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘You know anything else about him? Is the guy married?’

  ‘Ja. A lady called Francisca.’

  ‘Kids?’

  ‘Three. Two girls and a boy. He showed us pictures once. Lovely.’

  ‘And this is his address?’

  ‘Ja.’

  ‘He gave it to you?’

  ‘Sure. There’s a photo of Sol’s he wanted to buy. Some footballer. Sol always said no but now …’ She shrugged, turning abruptly away.

  Expecting more tears, Gómez tried to change the subject but she managed to control herself. She said she’d wrapped up the picture and once she found the energy she intended to give it to Frank as a present, or maybe a keepsake. Something to go with the photos he’d taken.

  ‘Photos?’

  ‘Frank took some photos once.’

  ‘Of Sol?’

  ‘Of both of us. He wanted to show his wife.’ She tried to force a smile. ‘Nice.’

  ‘You were that close?’

  ‘We were friends, good friends, especially Sol and Frank. Sol loved Tuesdays. Couldn’t wait for another one to come round.’

  Gómez stole a glance at Merricks. Merricks nodded. Sol Fiedler had died yesterday. And yesterday was a Tuesday.

  Merricks broke the silence. He told Marta the coffee was ready. Did she take cream? Sugar?

  ‘Neither, thank you.’ She turned away. ‘You mind if we skip the coffee?’

  5

  With dawn in Galicia came the sound of hammering. At this time of the morning the sun was low, emerging above the line of roofs across the street and washing the room with light. Stefan lay back, enjoying the warmth on his face. Someone was stirring downstairs – footsteps, the odd chink of china, the fall of water into a sink – and his eyes closed as the memories from the previous night came flooding back.

  He’d been a stranger to shame for most of his life. As a kid, he’d largely avoided the humiliations of getting caught out in a prank or even a lie. At sea, the pressures of war – of simply staying alive – had levelled the ground between him and his men. But last night, broken and helpless, he’d truly earned this woman’s anger. He imagined her now, downstairs, maybe in the kitchen. Brisk, neat movements. Hints of impatience. And somewhere nearby the slowly drying evidence of his vagabond bladder. As a good German, he’d invaded her territory. And as a Spaniard – passionate, proud – she wouldn’t be in the business of forgiveness.

  He awoke again hours later. The sun had left the bedroom but the hammering, if anything, had redoubled, a small army of men and maybe women busy on some collective task. Eva appeared within minutes. She was carrying a glass of water.

  ‘I make you churros later,’ she said. ‘Agustín wants you to drink the water.’

  Stefan hadn’t a clue about churros. He assumed it was food.

  ‘He’s here? Agustín?’

  ‘Downstairs.’ She nodded. ‘He says eating is not good. Afterwards maybe but not now.’ Her hand settled briefly on her stomach.

  ‘He wants to stitch me?’

  ‘Sí.’


  ‘Soon?’

  ‘Now.’ There was something in her face that spoke of satisfaction. They think I might vomit from the pain, Stefan thought. And they’re probably right. His eyes strayed to the open window.

  ‘And the noise?’

  ‘Coffins. Many coffins. For your crew.’

  Stefan nodded. Obvious, he thought. A small place like this, safe in neutral Spain, would never expect so much death, so many bodies. Another thought occurred to him.

  ‘Are there Germans here? Has anyone come from outside?’

  ‘You have a small office in Coruña. It’s by the harbour. The man in charge is called Otto. He says he’s a diplomat but maybe he’s a spy as well.’

  ‘You’ve met him?’

  ‘Once. He was here yesterday. He speaks English like you, like me. Not so good but enough. I make the translation for the ayuntamiento and for the priest.’

  ‘Did you tell him about me?’

  She looked down at him, giving nothing away. In a different mood, thought Stefan, this woman would be very beautiful. He asked the question again. What might have been a smile ghosted across her face.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘Why not?’

  She ignored the question, holding out the glass, insisting he drank the water. Stefan struggled up on to one elbow, spilled most of it on the sheet. He felt the wetness spreading across his chest. Then Agustín appeared at the bedside. He wanted to know about the wound.

  ‘It’s good.’ Stefan gulped the last of the water. ‘Muchas gracias.’

  ‘De nada.’

  Stefan returned the glass to Eva. Agustín’s case was back on the pine table. When he returned to the bedside he laid a surgical needle and a length of thread on the whiteness of the sheet. Stefan stared at it. The needle looked huge. It was curved. It reminded him of a fish-hook, the curve slightly flattened after hours of struggle with some monster shark. He turned his head away. He’d always hated the attention of doctors or nurses. Their presence, in his experience, always guaranteed pain.

  Agustín threaded the needle, holding it up against the light from the window. Eva folded back the blankets and the sheet, exposing Stefan’s leg. She unknotted the bandage, and then stood back while Agustín scissored through the stained, crusted layers of thin gauze. He peered at the wound, muttered something to himself, then his fingertips were exploring the swollen flesh on either side. Stefan lay back, his head on the softness of the pillow, trying not to wince. There followed a brief conversation between the two of them before Eva obliged with a translation.

  ‘I will hold the wound together.’ She mimed the action with her thumb and forefinger. ‘Agustín will do the stitches. Too much pain, you shout. Comprende?’

  Stefan nodded. The implications were obvious. No shouting.

  ‘We start, OK?’ This from Agustín.

  ‘OK.’

  Stefan shut his eyes. He might have been back at sea, racing away after a successful attack, aware of enemy escorts in pursuit as he dived and fled, bracing himself for a volley of depth charges. The parallel was far from exact but there was solace in this thought because the reality was seldom as bad as you’d feared. Boats, like bodies, were stronger than you’d ever imagined.

  Wrong.

  Eva was pinching the wound together. The pain was indescribable. Stefan wanted to kick the leg free, roll over, scream, anything to make the pain stop. Instead he gritted his teeth, wondering what had happened to the corks.

  ‘OK?’ Agustín again. The first stitch was already in and knotted tight. Then came another one, and another. For some reason the pain seemed to have receded, just the way the thunder of prop shafts and engines from the sub hunter overhead would magically fade to a distant rumble.

  Stefan had one hand tightly bunched around the top of the sheet. The other was out in thin air, clenching and unclenching, a gesture that came deep from nowhere. It meant get on with it. It meant close the wound. And then it meant leave me alone.

  Minutes later, an eternity, it was done. Stefan was aware of the sweat beading on his forehead. His jaw ached. His leg was throbbing again but the scalding pain had gone. He let go of the sheet and wiped his face while his other arm dangled off the side of the bed. Then, from nowhere, came the soft touch of another hand in his. It was Eva. She was bending over him. She gave his hand a squeeze, mopped his forehead with a damp flannel.

  ‘Good.’ There was a hint of approval in her eyes. ‘Brave.’

  Later, after the hammering had stopped, Stefan received another visitor. He was sitting up by now, the blankets heaped around his neck. The sun had gone in completely and there was a chill in the draught through the still-open window. He’d thought of asking Eva to close it but had resisted the temptation. One step at a time, he told himself.

  The stranger at his bedside was a man in his thirties, tall, well-built, with a mop of black curls and a three-day growth of beard. He was wearing an open leather gilet, much scuffed, and there were curls of wood shavings in the folds of the shirt beneath. He stared down at Stefan’s legs, one huge hand cupping his chin, while Agustín described what he wanted done.

  When Agustín had finished, the man nodded and left the room without saying a word.

  ‘Ignacio,’ Agustín said. ‘A friend of Tomaso.’

  ‘He makes the coffins?’

  ‘Many. All day.’ Agustín rubbed his finger and thumb together. Money, Stefan thought. Fat wads of Reichsmarks from the agent in Coruña.

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Now he makes a house for your leg.’

  The thought put a smile on Stefan’s face. He liked Agustín. He liked the sharpness of his wit and the way he never bothered to soften the truth.

  ‘So how long do I stay here?’

  ‘A month. At least. Probably more.’

  ‘And Eva?’

  ‘Eva will look after you.’

  ‘And the lavatory?’ Stefan gestured at his belly.

  ‘Ignacio will take care of everything.’

  ‘How?’

  Agustín shook his head, wouldn’t say. Then the carpenter was back, clumping noisily up the stairs. He brought with him two wooden trestles and went back downstairs for a saw and lengths of what looked like thick pine beading. He set up the trestles and then measured one of the lengths of beading against Stefan’s injured leg, marking the wood with a stub of pencil.

  Four sawn lengths of beading made the ribs of a cage to serve as a splint. At the open door, he shouted down to Eva. She appeared with a leather belt. He grunted something Stefan didn’t catch, then wound the belt around the top of Stefan’s thigh. Producing a knife, he cut the belt in unequal halves, then hooped it around the lengths of beading top and bottom, driving nails through the leather and into the wood beneath. Eva, still in the room, watched him without comment.

  Ignacio took the whole contraption and, with Agustín’s help, slid it beneath Stefan’s leg before securing the leather straps. His hands were rough against Stefan’s skin but the fit was perfect. Ignacio stood back, assessing his work. Then he nodded at Stefan’s knee. He needed another belt for a third bracing.

  Eva shook her head. She hadn’t got one. Ignacio asked again, louder. This man has no patience, Stefan thought. No manners, either.

  The two of them had locked eyes, Eva and Ignacio. Then Ignacio shrugged, his hands finding his own belt, loosening it from his trousers. Moments later, his knife had slashed through the leather, a gesture close to contempt, and he was measuring the shorter length against the purple flesh beneath Stefan’s swollen knee. Again, perfect.

  He was bent over the bed, tightening the leather straps, grunting as his fingers dug beneath Stefan’s thigh. This close, Stefan could smell the man’s sweat and the garlic on his breath. Then he stepped back and Stefan tried to thank him but he paid no attention, pursuing Eva as she left the room.

  Agustín was carrying the trestles out into the corridor. When he came back Stefan asked about Ignacio’s belt. He wanted to buy him an
other one.

  ‘No need.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You’ve paid him already.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Eva gave him one of your coins. Solid gold? For a belt? And this thing?’

  He stepped aside with a weary flourish, gesturing at the cage around Stefan’s leg. Then Ignacio was back. This time he was carrying an old chair, the kind that belonged to a table. In place of the seat, crudely balanced on the rim of the chair, was a bowl. He put it in the very middle of the room and made a dismissive gesture with his hand as if he wanted nothing more to do with it.

  Stefan stared at the chair, at the bowl, at the wisps of rush plaiting still hanging from the frame.

  ‘I shit in that?’

  ‘You do, my friend.’ Agustín nodded. ‘And if you are very lucky, Eva will take it away.’

  *

  Hector Gómez looked up to find Arthur Whyte at the door of his new office. The office was twice the size of the cubby hole that Gómez had called home for more than a year. There was comfortably room for two desks and a filing cabinet that looked almost brand new.

  Despite his best efforts to pretend otherwise, Whyte was impressed. He nodded at the filing cabinet.

  ‘Where did you get that?’

  ‘No idea, sir. If you want one of your own ask Merricks.’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  Whyte wanted to know about an FBI manager called O’Flaherty. He’d had the man on the phone first thing, yelling about a submission to the Bureau Crime Laboratory in Washington.

  ‘That would be mine, sir.’ Gómez was busy. He wanted Whyte gone.

  ‘You sent them a single slug, according to O’Flaherty.’

  ‘That’s right. Plus the gun. You’ll recall we dug the bullet out of Fiedler’s brain during the autopsy. We need a match.’