The Exile

by Mark Oldfield

  ‘That’s a strange trinity.’ Gutiérrez’s voice was faint down the crackling line. ‘Did you deliver the message?’

  ‘I did but he still hasn’t made contact.’

  ‘I need to think about this,’ Gutiérrez grunted. ‘Keep me informed if anything else happens, Capitán.’

  22

  MADRID, JULY 2010, GUARDIA CIVIL CENTRO DE INVESTIGACIÓN, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE

  The office was empty, though the waste baskets overflowing with Styrofoam cups and empty bottles of sports drinks hinted there had recently been life here.

  Galíndez sat on a table, surrounded by the cardboard boxes full of letters. The pain of thousands of parents now transformed into numerical data on her laptop.

  No one would ever know how many children were stolen over the years, she thought, staring at the boxes. She had been right to give Jesper Karlsson a hard time. The smug bastard hadn’t been vaguely interested when she’d confronted him with her findings.

  She got up and went over to the small kitchen area at the back of the office, relieved to find no one had used her last few spoonfuls of Colombian roast. A few minutes later, the smell of fresh coffee filled the room.

  The phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Capitán Fuentes.

  ‘Hola, jefe, what can I do for you?’

  ‘Ana, this is very short notice but I’ve got a favour to ask.’ He sounded embarrassed.

  ‘Are you in need of a sitter again, by any chance, jefe?’

  ‘You got it in one. Can you do tomorrow night? Merche’s mother is going into hospital for a minor operation and she wants to be there when her mama wakes from the anaesthetic.’

  ‘No problem. What time?’

  ‘Could you get over here by six?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘You’re a star,’ Fuentes said. ‘We really appreciate it.’

  ‘Hasta mañana.’ She took a mouthful of her coffee. It was far too strong, just how she liked it, and she lifted the cup to her nose and inhaled the dark aroma.

  ‘You’re supposed to drink it, not sniff it.’ Isabel was standing in the doorway.

  ‘Dios mio, Izzy. You made me jump.’

  Isabel looked round at the empty room. ‘Isn’t it quiet without the students?’

  ‘Very quiet,’ Galíndez agreed, ‘although I think I could get used to it. Now they’re gone, could you order some proper office furniture? Let’s spend some of that budget.’

  ‘I’ll be happy to,’ Isabel said. ‘What happened with GL yesterday?’

  Galíndez wrinkled her nose. ‘The CEO didn’t want to know. He even claims not to know who the company’s owners are.’

  ‘So he won’t cooperate?’ Isabel frowned. ‘That’s a pain.’

  ‘I think he’ll be more cooperative now the pressure’s on.’

  ‘By the way, this package arrived for you yesterday, special delivery.’ Isabel took a thick envelope from a shelf and handed it to her.

  Galíndez saw the crest of guardia HQ on the envelope. ‘These are the photographs of the Luminol spray I did in the Basque country.’

  Isabel wrinkled her nose. ‘Luminol sounds like something our students drink.’

  ‘It’s a chemical we use to identify the presence of blood. You mix it with an oxidising agent and spray it over the crime scene. Any traces of blood glow in the dark.’

  ‘Nice.’ Isabel sat down and opened her laptop.

  Galíndez tore open the cardboard envelope and slid the photos onto her desk, though without much interest. What could they tell her that she didn’t know already? The only reasonable conclusion was that the killings were carried out by Guzmán, since his name was on the sword. The same old story: he killed with impunity and then erased the traces, obscuring his own bloody role as he went. Just as Papá’s murderer had.

  Her phone rang and she glanced at the screen as she answered. An unknown number.

  ‘Buenos días.’ A cold humourless voice, immediately recognisable.

  ‘Hola, Señora Calderón.’

  There’s something we need to discuss.’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I mean face to face.’

  ‘By all means. Where do you want to meet?’

  ‘The Retiro Park this afternoon at one thirty. You know the Palacio de Cristal?’

  ‘Of course,’ Galíndez said, wondering why the minister wanted to meet outdoors. She was left wondering: Calderón hung up.

  Galíndez twisted a lock of hair around her finger. Something in Calderón’s voice troubled her. ‘That was the Minister of the Interior,’ she told Isabel.

  ‘I never realised you were so important.’

  ‘I must be,’ said Galíndez. ‘Because I didn’t give her my mobile number.’

  She turned to the photographs from Legutio, undecided what to do with them. One last look wouldn’t hurt. She pushed her papers to one side and arranged the photographs on her desk.

  The first picture was taken before she applied the spray. The darkness of the cellar, grainy stone steps descending into shadow, four chairs arranged in a line from left to right, the one on the far left overturned, empty. Pale scattered bones around the other three. She could have sketched all this from memory. She slid the photograph to one side, replacing it with the next in the sequence, taken after she applied the spray.

  Glimmering blue light glowed in the darkness, marking traces of blood invisible to the naked eye. More blood than she remembered. Much more. Luminous filigrees of intricate lines, thick trails and isolated splashes illuminating Guzmán’s butchery in all its ghastly detail. Long streaks from severed arteries, wide pools around the chairs where the victims’ lifeblood spilled into the rubble as Guzmán continued his gruesome work with the sword.

  She wiped a hand across her brow, trying to imagine it: the helplessness of being tied, the smell of fear. The realisation of what was about to happen as they saw Guzmán coming towards them, holding the sword. And, judging from the decapitations and scattered limbs, they died in a savage frenzy as Guzmán turned the cellar into a charnel house.

  She turned to the last photo. Similar to the others, taken from lower down the stairs. Her eyes narrowed. Something was different, something she hadn’t noticed at the time. There had been so many blue trails glittering in the cellar that day. And, of course, she’d been distracted, angered by the Basque construction worker. Because of that, she’d failed to give these blood patterns the attention they deserved.

  She leaned closer, peering at a glittering blue smear on the far wall, behind the row of bodies. Almost horizontal, running along the wall towards the pile of debris on the far side. The pattern didn’t appear to be spatter from a severed artery. It was a contact smear, made by someone whose wound had touched the bricks, the slight undulations indicating the person had been unsteady, undoubtedly injured. Here and there, small irregularly spaced patches above and below the smear. She opened a drawer and took out a magnifying glass.

  Lost in concentration, she peered through the glass at the trail of blood along the wall, seeing the small marks clearly now. Seventy years old and still discernible thanks to the Luminol. Their shape unmistakable through the magnifying lens. They were handprints.

  Now she understood. When Guzmán had killed the prisoners, his murderous rampage must have been interrupted when the shell had exploded outside, blowing a hole in the wall above the cellar, half burying the nearest prisoner in rubble. By then it was possible the three prisoners were already dead. But the prisoner on the far left wasn’t. In the confusion of the blast, the chair had fallen backwards and, somehow, he’d managed to get loose and then, staggering and bleeding badly, he’d placed a steadying hand on the wall as he’d made his way to the sloping pile of debris and climbed up through the gaping shell hole, escaping Guzmán’s slaughter.

  Isabel’s voice broke her concentration. ‘Did you find something, Ana? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’

  Galíndez looked up, still deep in thought. ‘One got away.�
��

  ‘Very cryptic.’ Isabel nodded. She went back to her work.

  Galíndez felt suddenly elated. Guzmán operated in total secrecy, and yet she’d discovered something he wanted kept hidden. Wanted it so badly he’d had the cellar sealed up in the middle of an offensive. She put her hand on the back of her neck, kneading the tense muscles, trying to think why these prisoners could be so important they’d had to be killed and entombed like this. Guzmán had even discarded his sword, presumably thinking no one would ever find it. He thought sealing up the cellar was enough to hide his monstrous crime. But he was wrong, there was something he hadn’t anticipated: her.

  She glanced at her watch. ‘I’d better get going, I’m meeting the minister at one thirty.’

  ‘Maybe she’ll offer you a job in the government,’ Isabel said, without looking up.

  Galíndez went over to Isabel’s desk. ‘Listen...’

  Isabel looked up. ‘Why the long face?’

  ‘The other night...’ Galíndez began.

  ‘I thought we agreed to forget it?’

  Galíndez hesitated. ‘I overreacted.’

  ‘Well, you’re allowed to.’

  ‘The thing is,’ Galíndez said quietly, ‘I’ve had a lot of stuff going on this last year.’

  ‘That’s an understatement.’

  ‘I don’t like talking about it,’ Galíndez went on. ‘I just wanted you to know why I reacted that way.’ She looked down. ‘It’s hard for me to talk about stuff like this.’

  ‘There’s no need to tell me anything, Ana. You almost died in an explosion, you were in hospital three months, spent several more on sick leave and then you worked in Vice, pretending to be a prostitute.’ Isabel’s smile faded. ‘And you’re still grieving for Natalia.’

  Galíndez looked at her, wide-eyed. ‘What are you, psychic?’

  ‘It doesn’t take much figuring out.’ Isabel shrugged. ‘In any case, from 2000 to 2002 I had a late night show, Tell it to Isabel. If you ever want an agony aunt, here I am.’

  ‘It’s not easy. The thing with Natalia was more complex than you think.’

  ‘Well, if you want to talk about it, I’m here for you,’ Isabel said. ‘Meanwhile, you’d better get going, you don’t want to keep the minister waiting.’ She turned back to her laptop.

  Galíndez picked up her bag and went to the door. ‘Hasta luego.’ She opened the door and turned, seeing the top of Isabel’s head as she ordered their new desks. ‘You give up too easily,’ she said and hurried out into the corridor.

  Isabel looked up sharply. ‘Ana?’ She jumped to her feet. ‘Ana, wait.’ As she passed Galíndez’s desk she saw a yellow plastic tube of pills on the floor and snatched it up before continuing her pursuit.

  Isabel came out of the faculty building just in time to see Galíndez’s car reach the gate, waiting to edge into the city-bound traffic. She waved the container above her head, trying to catch Galíndez’s attention in the mirror, but her view was suddenly blocked as a blue Nissan pulled out from the visitors’ car park and followed Galíndez into the heavy traffic.

  MADRID 2010, PALACIO DE CRISTAL, PARQUE DEL BUEN RETIRO

  The afternoon was humid and ominous dark clouds were gathering over the city as Galíndez walked along the gravel drive of Paseo Ferrian Nuñez towards the elegant nineteenth-century palacio. As she approached, she saw Rosario Calderón waiting near the palace, watching the fountain. The minister was smoking, moving her cigarette in impatient gestures as she watched Galíndez approach.

  Rosario didn’t waste time with pleasantries. ‘You were going to arrest Jesper Karlsson?’ Her pale eyes were as cold as her voice. ‘Are you out of your mind?’

  ‘I still might arrest him,’ Galíndez said, immediately defensive. ‘I also notice the chairman of the GL Board just happens to be your husband. I want to speak to him too.’

  ‘You have been busy.’ Calderón scowled. ‘What led to you to GL Sanidad?’

  ‘There was a high incidence of child theft at clinics owned by GL during the dictatorship. When I told Karlsson about it, he wasn’t interested and tried to go over my head. I think he knows more than he’s letting on.’

  Calderón gave a contemptuous wave of her hand. ‘Coincidence.’

  ‘There was also a high death rate amongst complaining parents,’ Galíndez said. ‘Far too high to have occurred by chance. Señor Karlsson didn’t seem to take it seriously. He will now.’

  ‘This isn’t what I asked you to do,’ Calderón said, staring at her.

  Galíndez felt her anger growing. ‘I did exactly what you asked. I’ve uncovered large-scale homicide linked to the theft of children.’

  ‘I say a lot of things,’ Calderón snapped, ‘I’m a politician. It doesn’t necessarily follow that I mean any of them.’

  ‘I did everything I could to complete the brief you gave me,’ Galíndez muttered, trying to keep her anger in check. ‘Just what did you expect?’

  Calderón smiled. ‘I expected you to fail, Ana. Just like you did last year.’ She threw the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with her heel. ‘Everyone would have been happy then.’

  ‘You thought I’d fail?’ Galíndez asked, incredulous.

  Calderón looked straight through her. ‘It’s time I told you the facts of life.’

  ‘I think I’ve got a grasp of those, thanks.’

  ‘I’m sure, from what our background checks turned up.’

  ‘You ran checks on me?’ Galíndez’s dark eyes flashed, furious.

  ‘The secret service is part of my little empire,’ Calderón said. ‘I always like to be sure I know who I’m dealing with. Though, to be honest, all those one-night stands and broken relationships don’t make exciting reading.’

  The humid air was suddenly oppressive. ‘Fuck you,’ Galíndez said, angry.

  Calderón glanced round, suspiciously. ‘You have to drop the investigation.’

  ‘Drop it?’ Galíndez echoed. ‘Why?’

  ‘You’ve pissed off people who take a great deal of interest in the fortunes of GL Sanidad. They’d rather no one went poking around in their archives. Leave the skeletons in the closet, so to speak.’ She smiled, maliciously. ‘No offence there, querida.’

  ‘Who are these people?’

  Calderón pursed her lips. ‘You might call them an interest group, I suppose. They have a simple aim: to get on in life without worrying about some young guardia civil like you rummaging around in their secrets.’

  Galíndez stared at her. ‘Does this group have a name?’

  Rosario Calderón snorted with impatience. ‘Haven’t you ever heard that old saying, “Speak of the devil and he’ll appear”? You really don’t want to know, señorita, believe me.’

  ‘Tell me who you’re talking about.’

  ‘I’m not talking about anyone, because this conversation never took place,’ Calderón said, lowering her voice. ‘Let me give you a little background. I became a Member of Parliament at thirty-six. I was hard-working with a reputation for attention to detail. Despite that, I was passed over for promotion for the next four years, no matter how much I worked. Eventually, I realised the only way I could make any impression on my party was on my back.’ She laughed. ‘Not always on my back, but you get the idea.’

  ‘Too much information.’

  Calderón ignored her. ‘I only focused on people who could help my career.’

  Galíndez looked at her with disdain. ‘You know what that makes you?’

  ‘Pots and kettles. You haven’t exactly lived the life of a nun,’ Calderón sneered. ‘Anyway, back to the story, one day I was approached by the group I mentioned.’

  ‘Don’t tell me. They made you an offer you couldn’t refuse?’

  ‘They made me an offer all right. One that I didn’t want to refuse. They saw my drive and ambition. I was—’

  ‘Corrupt?’

  ‘Open to new ideas.’ Calderón frowned. ‘I did things for them in Parliament, made sure votes went in c
ertain ways, introduced new legislation, weakened resistance to their projects.’

  ‘And you were paid, no doubt?’

  ‘Money was only part of it,’ Calderón said, lighting another cigarette. ‘Suddenly, doors started opening for me. Before I knew it, the Prime Minister wanted me as Minister of the Interior.’ A brittle laugh. ‘I have control of the police and civil guard.’ She looked straight at Galíndez. ‘You work for me, querida. How’s that for irony?’

  Galíndez didn’t speak.

  ‘When I asked you to investigate the niños robados,’ Calderón went on, ‘you had those great ratings in popularity polls despite that air of being so fucking holier-than-thou. The public like their experts to be good looking, so those big brown eyes made you ideal for my purpose. Or would have, if you hadn’t done such a good job.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  Calderón shrugged. ‘We’re in trouble. My friends aren’t happy about you drawing attention to GL. That medical group is important to them.’

  ‘Why?’ Galíndez frowned. ‘They aren’t stealing babies any more.’

  ‘A great deal of money passes through GL,’ Calderón said. ‘It makes it easy to shift money from EU grants, channel it into research funds and then transfer it around the system until it reaches a point where it disappears into a Swiss bank account.’ She saw the look on Galíndez’s face and mistook it for bewilderment. ‘Don’t worry, Ana. I’ll still help you. As long as you do the right thing, of course. You do want to do the right thing, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Galíndez agreed, thinking hard.

  ‘Think strategically,’ Calderón advised. ‘Just think of this moment in your life as a battle. You’re surrounded and outnumbered. No chance of reinforcements. What do you do?’

  It was a good question. One Galíndez had heard before. She saw herself twelve years earlier in the dojo. Barefoot, in her white karate tunic and trousers, holding a long wooden stick. A couple of metres away, her friend Fran, also armed with a stick. Watching them was their instructor, Mendez, alert and ready. This is a battle, she told them. Just me against your army. Two against one. Good odds, no?