by Jack Treby
‘I know a place where he could hide. With my family, up in the mountains, far from here. They will take care of him.’ None of Lolita’s relatives had any fondness for the Junta. Her family had been one of the last to be moved under El Hombrito’s controversial land reform programme. New territory had been provided for them on a mountainside near Verdura but it was proving impossible to farm. They relied on Lolita now for the income she provided.
It was agreed. Dick would take Father José up into the mountains of Sierra Sangrienta. Lolita was sure there was a doctor nearby who could tend to his wounds properly. But she would not be going with them. ‘I must go back to work. Madam Fulana, she worries very much.’ Toronja was nearly twenty-five kilometres away. Amable offered to lend the girl a bicycle. Dick and Father José would wait until the farmer’s wife returned and then Amable would drive them up into the safety of the mountains.
Chapter Nine
Throughout most of Monday, I was left to my own devices. After the second interview, the authorities seemed to lose all interest in me. The murder charge was still hanging over my head, however, and I fell into an uncharacteristic depression. I had come to San Doloroso to interview politicians and file a story. So far, the only political leader I had actually met was Antonio Fracaso. Admittedly, I’d spoken to Emilio Títere on the telephone and had only just missed Juan Federico Pelele, but I’d had no contact at all with Luis Cuerpo, the SFA candidate. And I only had four days left in which to file my article. For goodness’ sake, I was meant to be flying home at the end of the week.
My original intention had been to complete the interviews within the first five days and then drive across to the coast to scatter my mother’s ashes. The likelihood of that happening was now close to zero. From the confines of a prison cell, it seemed unlikely that I’d be going anywhere any time soon.
At six o’clock, I heard the jangling of keys outside the door. The sergeant popped his head in. ‘You’ve got a visitor.’
A tall, thin Englishman entered the room. I had never seen him before. He had short ginger hair and a handsome, symmetrical face only blemished by the deep frown etched into his forehead. As the door closed behind him, he spent several seconds examining the inside of the cell.
‘There are no windows!’ he exclaimed. ‘And the place is filthy. It’s not fit to house an animal.’ The man shook his head, in obvious distress. As yet, he hadn’t bothered to acknowledge my presence.
‘It’s just a cell.’ I shrugged. ‘Erm...?’
The man glanced at me now with pity in his eyes. ‘You poor bastard. What have they done to you?’
‘Well...nothing,’ I admitted, somewhat alarmed. Perhaps I looked more tired than I felt. ‘They’ve interviewed me a couple of times...’
‘They torture some people. They’re thugs. Absolute thugs. You’ve been very lucky if they haven’t beaten you up.’
‘One of them did say he was going to take me out and shoot me,’ I joked.
The man stared. ‘My God. You know, I honestly think they would. And a British citizen, too.’ He brought his hands up to his face in despair.
I still had absolutely no idea who this person was. ‘Look...erm, I don’t mean to be rude but...the sergeant didn’t actually tell me who you were.’
He shrugged. ‘Probably just as well.’ He extended a hand. ‘David Finch. I’m the British Ambassador. But don’t get your hopes up.’
‘British –?’
‘I’m afraid so. Do you mind if I sit?’
‘No, no, be my guest. How did you know...?’
‘Saw your photo on CNN last night. They knew who you were before the police did. Bloody Yanks.’ The Ambassador took out a cigarette and lit it rapidly. As an after thought, he offered me one. I shook my head.
‘Did they say what’s happened to Dick?’ I asked. ‘Is Father José still alive? They haven’t told me anything in here.’
‘Father José was wounded. He was asking for it really, the stupid sod. But the body hasn’t been found. He’s probably lying dead in a ditch somewhere. The Americans are furious. Bloody hypocrites.’
‘And Dick?’ The Ambassador looked blank. ‘Dick Carter. He was the other journalist.’
‘Oh yes, the AP man. I’ve met him a couple of times. Bit scruffy. No, he’s gone to ground as well. Probably dead too for all I know. Bloody country.’
‘So what’s going to happen?’
David Finch sighed. ‘I dread to think. If Father José is dead all hell will break loose. There was a mini riot in the Plaza Mayor this afternoon. Had a hell of a job just getting here. And the Yanks are demanding the government arrest the assassins.’
‘But surely the government was responsible...’
‘They’re denying everything. And no one’s got the guts to contradict them.’
I was beginning to feel confused. ‘What about this murder charge?’
‘It doesn’t look good. I’m told there were fingerprints on the knife.’ The results must have come back from forensics. ‘We can’t protect you. We don’t have much influence in this part of the world.’ David Finch shook his head. ‘Not like in my father’s day.’
‘But they can’t charge me with murder. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Well, that has to be a matter for the courts. I wouldn’t get your hopes up. The judges are all in the government’s pocket. It’s appalling. London will do what they can, but they really don’t have a clue what’s going on over here.’
~ ~ ~
The only man who did have a clue was Dick Carter. With the help of Señor Amable’s truck and Lolita’s directions he had soon found his way to the small farmstead belonging to Lolita’s father. She had written a short note for him to give to the family. Her parents couldn’t read, but her younger sister, Conchita Corazón, had been to school and could translate for them.
‘Of course we will help you,’ the girl said.
Father José was put to bed and a local vet – a friend of the family – came by to give him the once over.
The Corazóns were somewhat overawed at having a national figure like Father José sleeping under their roof. ‘He is a great man,’ Lolita’s father informed Dick solemnly.
The Corazóns were a large family but the farmstead where they lived was tiny. Dick had been able to see the whole estate at a glance as Jaime’s red truck had crawled up to the farmhouse. The meagre land stretched down the badly scorched slopes of a remote mountainside. It was poor compensation for the fertile ground they had been forced to relinquish.
Ever the journalist, Dick interviewed Fernando Corazón, Lolita’s father, who told him the whole story of their forced relocation. He spoke to Conchita too and she broke down in tears at the memory of General Malvado and the death of her fiancé Paulo. Malvado had killed him in cold blood when the family had tried to resist the move. Now the general was a member of the five man provisional government.
The family had a radio, but the farm was too remote to pick up Radio Libertad or any foreign channels. The regional stations still carried reports on the assassination attempt, but the newsreaders seemed keen to stress that Father José may well have survived. The government was clearly getting a lot of flack over the incident. But there were no specific details regarding the aftermath of the shootings and Dick was getting anxious
‘I’ve got to find out what happened to Patrick,’ he told Fernando. ‘I haven’t heard a dicky–bird from him since we got away from the roadblock.’
‘I am sure he is well.’
Dick grinned. ‘Yeah, probably. It’d take more than a baseball bat to finish him off.’
‘And Father José will be safe here with us.’
That at least was true. The priest was in good hands with the Corazóns and the vet had assured them that the father would make a full recovery. ‘He couldn’t ask for a nicer place to rest up. I’m going to head back to Toronja first thing tomorrow, if you can get me a lift into Lejano.’ Jaime had already departed to spend the night with relatives in Ve
rdura.
‘I take you. You go find your friend?’
The journalist smiled again. ‘I’m certainly going to try.’
But it would be a long journey back to Toronja.
Chapter Ten
The capital city was in chaos. Sirens screamed across the streets. Rioting and looting were rife. The Junta, it appeared, had badly miscalculated. No one had believed the death of Father José could have such an impact. He wasn’t dead, of course, but a CNN pundit had said ‘almost certainly’ and everyone was assuming the worst. And now the people were giving full vent to their collective rage. Buildings were burning throughout the province. Government buildings, even post offices, were considered legitimate targets by the mob. The police were unable to cope and the army had been called in to restore order. The authorities were now desperate to produce Father José alive and well.
Lolita Corazón was in bed, listening to the sounds of the city. Madam Fulana had been very worried about her. She had missed two important clients on Sunday night. She was making up for it now, though. Inspector Lopez always called in on Monday evenings.
The inspector was a large, sweaty man with an unpleasant bodily odour. Most people disliked him on sight, even if they didn’t come into direct physical contact with him. Lolita was not so lucky. She closed her eyes, as she always did when dealing with her least favourite clients, and tried to think about the money she was making for her family.
The Corazóns relied on her now, more than ever.
Other thoughts crowded into her head; the incident at the roadblock, where Father José had been shot by the Azulitos. Dick had asked her to find out anything she could about me. What had happened to Patrick Malone, he had asked? She already knew I was alive. My photograph had been displayed on the international news and Madam Fulana had cable TV installed at the Casa. But she had no way of determining the extent of my injuries.
When Lopez had expended himself and rolled off onto the mattress, Lolita turned to him and started stroking his hair. ‘You like me, no?’ He grunted non-committally. She took that as a ‘yes’. ‘You have a friend of mine in prison. Patrick Malone, an Englishman. If I allow you to come twice next week, will you let me see him?’
Chief Inspector Lopez pulled himself up abruptly.
Fires were still raging across the city centre on Tuesday morning as Charlotte McBride drove into town. Looters were continuing to break open shop windows to the north of the Plaza Mayor, but Charlotte was not about to let such mindless violence disrupt her plans for the day. She had learnt from a young age the value of ignoring anything remotely unpleasant. If daddy wanted to spend his time shagging anyone in a skirt and mummy wanted to pretend she didn’t know, what right did Charlotte have to interfere? It was an attitude that had served her well, especially since her arrival in the Americas. And just now the sun was shining, her time was her own and, with a fifty thousand dollar platinum credit card in her pocket, life was good.
There were a couple of decent department stores in uptown Toronja that had escaped the mob and a passable shopping arcade connecting them together. It was nothing compared to London or New York, but there were still hours of amusement to be had. And shopping was one of life’s greatest pleasures.
That afternoon, laden down with goods, she set aside a few minutes to pop into the post office. The building had been fire-bombed the previous evening, but no one stopped her when she went to retrieve some correspondence from a badly singed PO Box. She didn’t really need to collect the letters – Freddie had a secretary who came by on a regular basis – but Charlotte wanted an excuse to pop into the PRD building. She was dying to show off her new clothes. She had had a particularly good haul: two dresses, three skirts, half a dozen tops, two bikinis, three pairs of shoes, an evening gown, some lingerie, a pair of shorts, some sunglasses and an emerald ring for her belly button. All told, she had spent $8721 Cambures (about $2,357 American dollars) in less than four hours.
At the office, when she arrived, Freddie was busy on the telephone. The secretaries had already gone home. Charlotte placed her bags on the sofa and pulled out some of the lingerie for him to see. Freddie smiled. She leaned across and kissed him on the cheek. When he had finished the call, Charlotte handed him his letters and told him she’d be driving back to the ranch.
‘I might be a little late this evening,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a couple of meetings to attend.’ The election campaign was about to begin in earnest. The deadline for registration of candidates would expire at midnight and the campaign proper would begin the following day. Juan Federico still had a lot of things to arrange.
Charlotte kissed him goodbye, retrieved her shopping and pulled open the door of the office. The phone was ringing behind her. She heard Freddie pick up the receiver.
‘Lopez?’ he said. He didn’t seem to recognise the name.
Charlotte walked down the stairs and out into the street. She had parked her Renault nearby. A grubby kid had been paid to keep watch on the car. He opened the door for her and she slipped him another twenty Cambures; then she dumped the bags in the back and clambered into the driver’s seat. She turned the key in the ignition and drove off down the street.
Back at the PRD office, Freddie continued to talk on the telephone. The caller was probably Chief Inspector Lopez. Three quarters of an hour earlier the body of Luis Cuerpo, the leader of the SFA, had been found in a ditch half a mile from his country retreat. The man had been dragged from his home and beaten to death. The inspector must have been calling Juan Federico to warn him. Unbeknown to either of them, Rodriguez Smith, the deputy leader, had also been murdered. A sniper had shot him dead as he had emerged from a restaurant on Avenida 53 Oeste.
At around the time Freddie was talking, three men were seen entering the PRD building from behind. Juan Federico must have heard a noise, as he placed the receiver down on the desk and went to investigate. The assassins pounced as he strode out onto the landing. His throat was cut open and his body was hurled down the stairs.
Chapter Eleven
Nobody paid me any attention after the departure of the British Ambassador. I had scarcely spoken to another human being in twenty-four hours. Even in the depths of the Central Police Headquarters, however, I could hear the sounds of rioting in the streets and police sirens screeching off in every conceivable direction. It was anarchy outside and much of it – if David Finch was to be believed – was the result of what had happened at the roadblock two days earlier.
I still didn’t know if Father José was alive. Or Dick. Or Lolita. I sat on my bed and stared at the graffiti on the walls. If the murder charge stuck, I might end up spending the rest of my life in a cell like this.
Perhaps it would have been better if I had never come to San Doloroso. My enthusiasm at getting the chance to visit my mother’s birthplace had overwhelmed my usual good sense. It had been a disaster waiting to happen. My father would have warned me, if he had not been off sunning himself on a beach in Tenerife somewhere. Edward Malone had rarely had a good word to say about the country. It was only now that I was beginning to understand why. History seemed to be repeating itself. Another Malone was up to his neck in it in San Doloroso.
The rioters were making a lot of noise, but there was plenty going on inside the police station as well. Raised voices could be heard echoing along the corridors throughout the afternoon. Policemen kept scurrying past the cells, their keys jangling provocatively against their thighs. A small grill in the door allowed me a glimpse out into a gloomy passageway and more than once I saw Chief Inspector Lopez clomping past. Thankfully, he didn’t stop to talk. I don’t think I could have faced another demonstration of his subtle interrogation techniques.
David Finch had been kind enough to send along some magazines and a week old copy of the Times, courtesy of the British Embassy, but I had still not been granted access to a lawyer. There were no windows in the cell and I had to strain to read anything under that forty–watt bulb. Not that I minded too much. I couldn�
�t really bring myself to care about last week’s opinion polls or the latest advances in Welsh dentistry.
Happily, the constable who brought me my food at lunch time had also provided me with some paper and a pen, though only after I had donated my digital watch to the Metropolitan Police Benevolence Fund. Scribbling down a few notes about recent events might help me makes sense of things, I thought. I could even make a start on my election article. Admittedly, there was little chance of it ever being published – and in any case my interview notes were back at the Casa – but the effort at least served to pass an hour or two; though in the dim light I could barely see a word I was writing.
More sirens were shrieking outside on the street. There were footsteps in the corridor. I put down my pen and stood up to look out through the grill. I blinked in surprise.
Charlotte McBride was making her way down the passageway in a shiny black cocktail dress.
~ ~ ~
The body of Juan Federico Pelele was laid out on a metal slab.
Chief Inspector Lopez had sent a car to collect Charlotte, who would be needed to formally identify her lover.
The woman had been trying on her new clothes back at the ranch. The servants were out, so when the phone rang she had answered the call herself, dressed in nothing but a pair of French knickers and some six–inch stilettos. Inspector Lopez broke the news in a typically blunt fashion. Charlotte didn’t know how to react. She had dated some extraordinary men in her life, but none of them had ever been assassinated before. She had not been in love with Juan Federico but she had certainly liked the man. And now he’d gone and got himself killed. She dressed quickly, slipping into a brand new evening gown, which – since it was black – was suitably sombre, even if it did feel a little tight around the bust. A car arrived to bring her to the police station.
She had not met Chief Inspector Lopez before. She found him coarse and unpleasant. He scarcely looked at her as he ushered her towards the mortuary. He didn’t even think to offer his condolences.
