The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  Galíndez cringed as the letter became increasingly garbled. It would undoubtedly have been dismissed as the product of a disturbed mind. Adelina Solano repeatedly emphasised the vast wrong done to her, but each time omitted to mention the evidence she’d been collecting.

  For fuck’s sake. Galíndez shook her head. Adelina’s suspicions had been right all along. Working alone, she’d somehow managed to find her daughter. And then, before she could give the information to the police, her daughter was dead. Galíndez looked down at her clenched fist. The bastards killed the girl because she crossed them in some way. Killed her as if she was nothing, gutting her like an animal in the slaughterhouse.

  Galíndez continued her search in Adelina’s bedroom. She imagined Adelina in this musty box, spending long nights agonising over who she could write to next for help. As if it mattered. No one was prepared to help her. No one except Galíndez, and she hadn’t done much. Why didn’t she tell me about the girl?

  There were two cardboard shoeboxes by the wardrobe, one on top of the other. Galíndez took the boxes and sat on the edge of the bed to examine them. Inside were more letters, with the letterheads of medical companies. The first was a sheet of thick vellum with a pale blue letterhead: GL Medical Group, Caring for the Health of Spanish People since 1957. Dated a few weeks earlier, the letter informed Señora Solano that GL intended to take legal action if she continued to sully their company’s name. It was signed by the chief executive, Jesper Karlsson. There were other letters from different companies, but all carried the same message, spelled out in indignant and threatening tones. We strongly deny your insinuations... a matter of conjecture... you provide no proof of your unfounded and libellous claims... your letter is now in the hands of our legal team... legal action... defamation... we must warn you... None of the letters expressed sympathy or offered any sort of advice.

  Galíndez checked the rest of the flat to make sure there was no more correspondence hidden amongst the few possessions Adelina Solano had possessed. She found only a few cheap pens and several pads of writing paper. Adelina had spent almost half her life writing letters to people who had never read them, Galíndez thought sadly. But she’d been right and she’d stuck to it. And in the end she’d found her daughter. Galíndez admired her for that. And then she’d died in an accident. How unlucky could you get?

  Galíndez took a deep breath. You couldn’t let cases like this get to you, that was what they told her when she first joined the guardia. You couldn’t let them work their way under your skin until every spare moment was taken up agonising over minute aspects of the case. That way, you ended up like Adelina Solano: lonely and obsessed, pursuing a hopeless quest. But it wasn’t hopeless. She knew she was right. Galíndez picked up the cardboard boxes and left the flat. Back in her car, she called Mendez at HQ.

  ‘Hey, Ana, how did Señora Solano take the bad news?’

  ‘She’s dead.’ Her voice was flat.

  Mendez was as sarcastic as ever. ‘What happened? Did the shock kill her?’

  ‘She died a couple of days ago in a traffic accident,’ Galíndez said, heading for the city centre. ‘Will you do me a favour?’

  ‘Under the circumstances.’

  ‘Check out the report on her death for me? You’ve got her details there, haven’t you?’

  ‘Let me have a look. Yes, I’ve got them. Do you want me to email you the report or are you coming back to HQ?’

  ‘Email it, will you?’ Galíndez said. ‘I’ll work on it at home.’

  ‘The luxury of secondment,’ Mendez muttered. ‘OK. It’s on its way.’

  Galíndez drove back, deep in thought about Adelina Solano. And the more she thought about it, the more she realised how much she and the late Señora Solano had in common. It was not something that cheered her.

  MADRID 2010, CALLE DE LOS CUCHILLEROS

  Galíndez paused in the entrance hall to check her mailbox, finding only circulars and junk mail. The projector she’d ordered from Amazon still hadn’t arrived, so Ochoa’s spool of film would have to wait. In any case, she knew it was almost certain to be a let-down, a movie of his family perhaps, or some ancient porn film. She ran up the stairs and opened the triple-locked door. Inside, she checked the answering-machine. No call from Isabel.

  After she’d made a coffee, she sat at her desk by the window and opened her laptop. The screen flickered into life and a message told her she had mail. It was the report from Mendez. No comments, just a cryptic header: Not quite what you thought?

  Laughter drifted up from the bar downstairs and she leaned forward to concentrate on the report into Señora Solano’s death. The preamble said Adelina was forty-seven. That was a surprise, Galíndez would have guessed she was in her sixties. She was divorced and though her ex-husband had been located by the guardia civil in Zaragoza, he declined to have anything to do with the funeral arrangements. Even in death, no one wanted anything to do with Adelina.

  She moved on to the main report. After a paragraph, she understood what Mendez meant in her cryptic header. Adelina Solano hadn’t died in a traffic accident.

  The report said that at 8.40 on the night of her death Señora Solano was walking along Calle Polvoranca at the junction with Calle Joaquin Turina. As she turned left, passing the Cooperativa Nueva Carabanchel, a car mounted the pavement, dragging her under the vehicle for about three metres. A passer-by, Señor Adebayo Olowanyi, ran to help. As he approached, the car reversed over Señora Solano. The witness said this seemed deliberate since the car then drove over her lifeless body again before speeding away down Calle Guitarra. The witness was traumatised and unable to give a description of the vehicle.

  There was no other evidence. No traffic cameras, no CCTV in shops overlooking the site of the accident, no other witnesses. A patrol car reported seeing a light blue car driving fast down Calle de la Duquesa de Tamames coming from the direction of the church of San Pedro Apóstol. Since they were on their way to a domestic violence incident, the officers had not stopped the car and only later became aware of its involvement in the death of Señora Solano.

  Galíndez finished her coffee, relishing the feel of caffeine in her system as she tried to picture the driver’s escape route after he killed Adelina Solano. She closed the report and opened a map of Madrid, examining the location where Adelina was killed. These were narrow roads in the suburbs, and many were one way. For the car to be going along Calle de la Duquesa de Tamames away from San Pedro Apóstol, it had to have left the scene of Adelina’s death down Calle Guitarra and then turned left into Carabanchel Alto before taking a right near San Pedro Apóstol. There was no other route that would place them at the point where the municipal police saw them at the time they did.

  The bastards had planned this carefully, Galíndez thought angrily. They ran down and killed Adelina Solano and then took a route as if heading for the city centre before they doubled back towards the suburbs. They must have thought they were smart, planning the escape route like that. But they didn’t realise the drive down Carabanchel Alto would take them past the entrance to the Metro. And Metro stations were good things for people like Galíndez. Lots of people coming and going. Busy places. All those people needed a lot of management, you couldn’t just rely on staff to keep an eye on thousands of passengers every day. That was why they had CCTV.

  She picked up the phone and dialled. ‘It’s me,’ she said when Mendez answered.

  ‘Did you read the report, Ana? There’s not much to go on.’

  ‘It’s a long shot, but is there a chance you can get access to the CCTV at Carabanchel Alto Metro station?’

  A long sigh. ‘I suppose you want it tonight? I’ll make a call. Stay by the phone.’

  An hour later, Mendez called back and instructed Galíndez to log into the guardia network. Mendez had been busy. She’d isolated the incident on the camera footage and made a copy, which was now on the forensics department’s server. The rest was up to Galíndez. Once Mendez hung up, Galíndez made more co
ffee and returned to her laptop. She saw the blue hypertext: CCTV Footage of suspect vehicle and selected the link. The screen filled with a grainy image of the view from the station entrance to the road three metres away. Two red bands appeared on either side of the video, a warning the incident was coming up.

  Galíndez saw a sudden blur of movement across the camera’s limited viewpoint, gone in a second. She slowed the replay and watched again before slowing it some more, repeating the operation until the real-time trajectory of the vehicle was reduced to a block of imprecise detail crawling across the screen. She saw a dark stain along the front passenger door, possibly blood though it could just as easily have been shadow. There wasn’t much to go on. The darkened glass windows hid the identity of the occupants and the angle of the camera made it impossible to get a glimpse of the licence plates.

  She drank the last of her coffee, watching the slo-mo movement of the car until her eyes ached, seeing the same uncertain detail repeated again and again. There was only one thing she could be certain of and that was the colour of the vehicle, a light metallic blue, glinting in the garish light of the street lamps.

  19

  SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN

  Dawn was a faint hint of light on the horizon as Guzmán knocked on the front door of Magdalena’s apartment building. The bleary-eyed sereno scuttled to the entrance, his face dull with sleep as he peered at the identity card pressed against the smeared glass. One glance was enough and the door opened at once. Before the door closed, the nightwatchman was back in his dingy cubicle, wrapping his tattered blanket around his shoulders. If the police wanted to enter the building it was not for the likes of him to enquire about their reasons.

  Magdalena opened the door, fastening the belt of her dressing gown. ‘Dios mio, you look terrible.’ She stepped back to let him in.

  ‘I’ve been to France,’ he grunted as he slumped into a chair. ‘It didn’t agree with me.’

  She went into the kitchen and Guzmán let his eyes close, hovering on the edge of sleep. From the kitchen, he heard her making coffee. Real coffee too, from the aroma.

  Magdalena returned with two cups and sat across the table from him.

  ‘What happened, Leo?’

  He shrugged. ‘A disagreement with the Çubiry.’

  ‘It must have been serious. What was it about?’

  He lifted the cup to his lips, savouring the smooth coffee. ‘We had a difference of opinion on whether I should stay alive.’

  She got to her feet and came to him, running her hand over his hair, a spontaneous gesture of affection that ended as she drew her hand away, staring at the blood on her palm.

  ‘Don’t worry about that, I have a hard head.’

  ‘What were you doing with the Çubiry?’ Magdalena watched him over the rim of her cup. Large blue eyes, a sleepy tendril of blonde hair hanging over her brow. It made him even more aware that he looked like shit.

  ‘I was investigating their smuggling,’ he said. ‘We want to put a stop to it.’

  She laughed. ‘You’d ruin a large part of the economy in this region if you do.’

  ‘Never mind them.’ Guzmán took a cigarette from his pocket, careful to keep the black tobacco from spilling. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said about Mellado.’

  ‘I don’t want to make trouble for him, if that’s what you’re thinking, but it’s a fact that Mellado kills women in those little games of his.’ A slight shrug. ‘But as you said, these things happen every day in this country.’

  He kills women. An image of a bitter night. The relentless drumming of rain. He blinked, trying to concentrate.

  ‘What if I take a look at the intelligence reports on those women?’ Guzmán placed a hand on the table, noticing the broken skin on his knuckles. ‘If I can prove to you they’re traitors, would that set your mind at rest?’

  ‘Well,’ Magdalena said, cautiously, ‘if they’ve been breaking the law, then clearly one couldn’t object to him...’ she paused, choosing her words, ‘...mistreating them.’ She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. ‘What would those files tell you?’

  ‘They contain all the evidence that led to the arrest. It’s collected very carefully,’ Guzmán said, speaking from experience. ‘Everything is recorded in detail.’

  Magdalena breathed out a halo of smoke. ‘Can you get access to his files?’

  ‘Of course.’ Guzmán nodded.

  ‘I’d be much happier knowing the general was acting in the public interest rather than just gratifying his own desires.’

  He looked at her, admiringly. When she talked like that, she sounded like a general’s daughter.

  Magdalena got to her feet. ‘You really need to go to bed for a while.’

  ‘I could use a couple of hours’ sleep.’

  She arched an eyebrow. ‘That’s not at all what I had in mind.’

  Guzmán took the cigarette from her and inhaled deeply before letting his head fall back on the pillow. ‘I could sleep for a week,’ he muttered, watching the smoke rise into the light slanting in through the shutters.

  ‘Only a man could say a thing like that after what we just did.’

  He frowned. ‘I am a man.’

  Magdalena changed the subject. ‘I’m having lunch with my godfather this afternoon – would you like to come? We’re going to the Luna Negra near the harbour. The food’s excellent.’

  ‘Do you want me to come?’

  ‘Don’t look so worried, it doesn’t mean you have to marry me. You must have met your other girlfriends’ families in the past, surely?’

  ‘Of course.’ Though Guzmán recalled that most of his other girlfriends had expected him to leave ten pesetas on the bedside table and be out of the room before the next client arrived.

  ‘You’ll like him. He has an important job with the government.’

  ‘Really? Have I heard of him?’

  ‘Probably.’ She nodded. ‘But you’ll have to be there at three if you want to find out.’

  ‘Three o’clock it is.’ Meeting the family now. An unfamiliar sense of respectability.

  She rested her head on his chest, her breath soft and warm, on the verge of sleep.

  But Guzmán was restless. An idea kept nagging him. ‘Did you hear from Jiménez?’

  ‘I think seeing my father killed terrified him so much he’s gone into hiding.’ She raised herself on her elbows and plucked the cigarette from his lips. ‘I sent a note asking him to contact me but he hasn’t. It’s terribly inconvenient.’

  ‘I’d like to have a word with him. Someone told El Lobo your father was going to be at the hunting lodge and I think it could have been Jiménez.’

  ‘I can’t believe that. But you’re the policeman, naturally I’ll give you his address.’

  Guzmán noticed her look of sudden concentration. ‘What is it?’

  ‘You know I mentioned he was...’

  ‘A maricón?’

  ‘He has a gentleman friend,’ she said, carefully.

  ‘That’s hardly surprising.’

  ‘I suppose not, but it might be that Esteban’s staying with him.’

  Guzmán smiled. ‘You’d make a good detective.’

  ‘His friend’s quite a bit older than Esteban. He’s very respectable. I’m sure he wouldn’t let him engage in any criminal activity.’

  Guzmán scowled. ‘On the contrary, they probably commit a criminal act every night. Sodomy’s a criminal offence, as is being homosexual. If you were to read a few books on criminals you’d know that’s how it works: they start with petty crimes and then work their way up to much more serious ones. For God’s sake, Jiménez could be an accomplice to murder. That’s hardly innocent, in my book.’

  She looked down for a moment. ‘Of course, one can’t excuse his perversion. Though I have heard it can be cured these days.’

  ‘It’s a long process with drugs and electric shocks,’ Guzmán said. ‘Even then, there’s no guarantee
they’ll live a respectable life after they leave prison.’

  ‘But Esteban’s friend works in a bank, Leo. You can’t get more respectable than that.’

  Guzmán stared at her. ‘Which bank?’

  ‘He’s senior clerk at the Banco de Bilbao.’ She saw his expression. ‘Why?’

  ‘Nothing. You’re right, that is a respectable position.’

  ‘I know you have a job to do, but could you not be too hard on Esteban until you have proof about him helping El Lobo?’

  ‘Of course. I only want to have a quick word with him.’ And it would be quick, Guzmán knew, because it wouldn’t take him long to kick the truth out of a pair of maricas like Jiménez and his friend.

  He slid from the bed, blinking in pain as a shaft of sunlight hit his eyes.

  Magdalena watched him dress. ‘Take a siesta later, you really do look bad.’

  ‘I’ll call at a barber’s shop and get a shave, that will perk me up.’ He went to the bed and kissed her. ‘I’ll see you at the Luna Negra. I won’t forget about Mellado’s files, either.’

  He was halfway down the stairs when the door opened and Magdalena called his name. With the light behind her, her sheer dressing gown was transparent as she came down the stairs.

  ‘There was something else I wanted to ask when you go to see General Mellado. There’s a lady who works in the typing pool at our depot. Her daughter’s missing. She’s awfully worried, Leo. Could you check to see if she’s been arrested?’

  Magdalena was worried too, Guzmán heard it in her voice. ‘Of course I will,’ he said. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘María Vidal.’ She held his arm for a moment. ‘Her mother will be so grateful.’ She paused. ‘And so will I.’