They reached the first-floor landing. There were four doors; that meant their target was on the third floor. Guzmán detached two men from the squad to guard the landing and did the same on the second floor, taking the last six men with him to the third floor. A cracked metal plaque announced ‘Pisos 9–12’ in faded lettering. Guzmán pounded with the butt of his pistol on the door of number ten.
‘Open up. In the name of the Spanish State. Policía. Abra la puerta.’
There was a faint commotion inside the apartment. Guzmán took a step back and then kicked the door against its lock. He staggered back, clutching his leg. The door remained unmoved. Guzmán glowered with incandescent rage as he rubbed his leg. ‘Break the fucking door down. Vamos, coño.’
The door took some breaking down. It was thick and heavy and clearly bolted in several places. Several of the guardia civiles tried ineffectually to shoulder-charge it open while another kicked it with little success. There was a great deal of noise but the door remained unmoved.
A door on the left of the landing opened and a fair-haired woman in a dressing gown looked out at them disapprovingly. ‘Qué pasa?’
‘Back inside, now,’ Guzmán barked. ‘Policía.’
The woman retreated into her flat, her face showing her disgust. Behind her, Guzmán saw a thin child, stick legs in threadbare shorts, eyes wide with concerned interest.
‘For fuck’s sake.’ Guzmán realised the men were getting nowhere with the door. ‘Stand back.’ He pointed the Browning at the door lock. ‘Watch this. Just like Hollywood.’
The blast in the confined hallway was painfully loud and accompanied by a sudden cry of pain as the bullet ricocheted from the lock, taking off a piece of the nearest civil guard’s ear as it went. The man swore and clutched his head, bleeding copiously. Guzmán scowled at the lock and cursed it. He kicked the door again, though more carefully than before, but it remained firmly closed.
‘Fucking tough lock,’ one of the men muttered.
‘Five rounds through the door,’ Guzmán barked, ‘on my command. Aim…’ the guardia eagerly aimed their weapons at the wooden door, the sound of the rifle bolts hard loud and metallic.
Inside the flat a woman screamed. Footsteps came towards the door. The voice of an elderly man: ‘Don’t shoot, we surrender.’
Guzmán gave the wounded guardia an ‘I told you so’ look, although it was lost on the man, who was now trying – without success – to bind a field bandage around his head.
‘Stop bleeding, that’s an order.’ Guzmán’s sense of humour blossomed at times like these. The civil guard didn’t share it.
The bolts on the door slid back and a key turned in the lock. The door opened inwards. Guzmán thrust himself forward, still limping slightly, pistol in hand. He was confronted by a grey-haired man of about seventy, wearing glasses, and a dressing gown that had seen better days.
‘Can I help you, señores?’ He was clearly shaken but attempting to maintain his dignity. ‘Santiago Mendoza para servirles.’
Guzmán smashed his pistol across the man’s face, shattering his glasses and knocking him to the floor where he lay groaning as Guzmán and the guardia civiles crashed into the house, trampling the old man underfoot.
A woman’s voice, ‘Santiago? Santiago, que pasa?’
Guzmán stormed through the entrance hall and into a well-furnished, if shabby, living room. Every wall covered in books. Books reached up to the ceiling, shelf after shelf. Against the window two people sat on a divan, an elderly woman, and a somewhat younger man, wearing a polo-necked sweater under a sober tweed jacket.
‘Señora Mendoza?’ Guzmán asked. The woman nodded.
‘And you will be Ernesto Garcia Mendoza, also known as el Profesor,’ Guzmán said. ‘We have a long-standing appointment, señor.’
The man stood up, releasing the woman’s hand. ‘That’s me,’ he said in a controlled voice. ‘These people have nothing to do with any business you have with me, officer. I can assure you they have only helped me because I—’
‘Joder. Coño. I know who you fucking are. You’re a traitor and these people are traitors as well. You’re all under arrest.’
The woman shrieked as a guardia dragged her husband into the room, blood running down the old man’s face.
Christ almighty, why is everyone is bleeding today? Guzmán wondered. ‘Take them to the comisaría,’ he ordered. ‘Arrange prison places for them.’
‘We would like to remain together,’ Mendoza said quietly.
‘No you wouldn’t,’ Guzmán said, ‘not where you’re going.’
The couple were led away. El Profesor turned to Guzmán, ‘I’d like to speak with your superior officer. ‘I have information I’m prepared to exchange for their freedom.’
Guzmán’s face reddened with fury and his big fists clenched as he pushed his face towards the professor, his words accompanied by a spray of angry spittle. ‘I report to the fucking Caudillo directly, you little prick. Generalísimo Francisco Franco himself. I’m not some half-arsed copper come round to tell you you’ve parked in the wrong place.’
‘The Brigada Especial? the professor said calmly. ‘Clearly I underestimated my own importance.’
‘You’ll see how important you are,’ Guzmán growled, turning to the remaining guardia civiles. ‘Take him down to the truck. If he tries to get away, shoot him. It’ll save time later.’
‘I’m glad to hear Franco’s justice remains so consistent in both its assumptions and its application,’ el Profesor murmured defiantly.
Guzmán’s reply was immediate. He smashed his fist into the professor’s belly and the man crumpled, exhaling noisily. The two guardia kept the professor from falling to the floor. Even in pain, the man tried to make a last impotent protest, but failed. Taking his weight between them, the two guardia civiles frog-marched him down the stairs.
‘Tie him before he goes in the truck,’ Guzmán called after them. He waited on the landing until their footsteps died away and then knocked on the door of number eleven. No answer. He put his ear to the door. Nothing. Number twelve didn’t answer either. Guzmán sighed. He pulled the shattered door to number ten closed as best he could. No doubt the place would be looted by tomorrow, and then the Falange would allocate the flat to someone else – friend, lover, relative, it didn’t matter as long as you were connected to the elaborate mechanisms of power permeating every aspect of Spanish life. Still, that was how it worked and, for Guzmán, it worked very well. He knocked on the door of number nine. There was someone in there, at any rate.
The fair-haired woman opened the door. She looked at Guzmán with contempt. ‘Yes?’
Guzmán ignored the tone of her voice. ‘I want to talk to you about your neighbours, señora. We’ve just arrested them.’
‘Ah. The old couple. That would explain why you needed so many men.’
‘They were harbouring a dangerous criminal, Señora…?’
‘Martinez.’
‘Señora Martinez.’ Guzmán pronounced her name slowly as if he were writing it in his notebook. ‘Well, Señora Martinez, I want to know what you can tell me about those people.’
She looked at him impassively. ‘There’s little I can tell you. An elderly couple, very quiet. They have the odd visitor but other than that, they keep very much to themselves.’
Guzmán pushed the door. The woman resisted for a moment and then gave up as the door forced her back into her own apartment. The room was furnished plainly, the cheap furniture and the darns in her clothing evidence of her poverty.
‘There’s no need to force your way in, officer,’ she protested. ‘I’m giving you all the help I can.’
Guzmán sneered. He ran his eyes over her and watched how she backed away from him, how she squirmed uncomfortably under his blatant, hungry assessment of her body.
She was in her late thirties, he guessed. A long pretty face, high cheekbones, slightly lined and drawn from work and a lack of food. That was normal. His eyes ran o
ver her breasts, her hips and then back to her face. She coloured slightly at his belligerent scrutiny.
From the back room a child’s voice piped up. ‘Quien es?’
‘No one, mi vida. Just a policeman. Stay there.’
Guzmán looked over to the door and saw the dark haunted face of a boy aged somewhere between six and ten. Like many kids, the boy was far too thin, his skin sallow and pale. He stood there like a little scarecrow, gangly and awkward.
‘Are you a policeman?’ he asked, unable to check his curiosity.
Guzmán looked at him. ‘Yes. Are you a good boy?’
‘Si, señor. Me llamo Roberto.’
‘Then go back to your room and close the door, Roberto,’ Guzmán said firmly. ‘Like your mamá told you.’
The boy reluctantly went into his room and closed the door, his dark eyes still fixed on Guzmán as the door closed.
‘Nice boy,’ Guzmán observed. ‘Just the one son, then?’
‘He’s not my son, my husband’s dead. He’s my nephew. I’ve had him since my sister died of cancer five years ago.’
Guzmán nodded. He could have offered condolences, but that was not his way. Besides, he didn’t care.
‘Look, I have things to do, is there anything else you need to know, officer?’
Guzmán looked around the flat. ‘In my line of work you have to know everything. Sometimes it takes a while to get a feel for what it is you actually need to know.’
Señora Martinez looked confused. ‘I have nothing to do with that couple next door, if that’s what you are thinking. Only to say good morning now and again.’
‘Really? Nothing else? Did you ever fetch their shopping, for example?’
He saw the answer from her expression. She struggled to answer and when she spoke, there was an element of sincerity, an attempt to convince, to justify. But for Guzmán there were just lies and the truth. And he could recognise both.
‘A few times. As I said, they are elderly. The lady sometimes had problems with her knees: there are so many stairs in this building. I only collected a few groceries.’
Guzmán was again looking at the neckline of her dress, at her breasts. It was a predatory gesture, one of a cat to a mouse. She reddened, and he was pleased to see a thin line of sweat on her upper lip, despite the cold of the apartment.
‘Groceries,’ Guzmán repeated flatly.
It was very quiet in the flat. Quiet and cold. Guzmán towered over Señora Martinez. He reached into his jacket and pulled out his notebook. Without asking permission, he sat down at the cheap battered table with its faded lace tablecloth.
‘Do you have a pencil?’ Guzmán watched the woman’s hips as she went to a cupboard and bent to a drawer. She handed him the pencil, avoiding eye contact, conscious of the fierce intensity of his gaze, aware of her own complicity in supplying him with the means of condemning her. He wrote in the book at length and without looking up, knowing her attention was now fully on him. There was something he enjoyed about committing people to writing, inscribing them into official memory, condemning their actions, their words, their entire being into the immutable history of a police file. He looked up, straight into her pale eyes which were, as he expected, riveted on the battered leather notebook and the chewed pencil in his hand.
‘Full name?’
‘Alicia Isabel Martinez.’
‘Age?’
‘Thirty-three.’
Guzmán looked up from writing as if needing to verify her age with his own eyes. He had thought she was nearer forty, but no matter. She was still attractive. At least attractive enough for him.
‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ Señora Martinez asked, annoyed by Guzmán’s tone.
‘Yes I do. Stand there. I want to get a good look at you.’
He stared at her. She tried to meet his eye, wringing her hands together in discomfort. Guzmán stared back. She looked away, flushed.
‘Keep still,’ Guzmán said. She froze. ‘Well, señora,’ he closed the notebook, ‘let’s just have a look at what we have here.’ He sat back, never taking his hungry eyes from her. He saw her shiver. Not from the cold, he imagined.
‘Firstly, you live next door to a couple with anti-Spanish sentiments. Traitors. Possibly agents of international Freemasonry or Communism. Possibly both of those.’
She started to protest, but shrank back under the threatening weight of his look.
‘These traitors harboured a dangerous enemy of the State, a man who’s been evading the law for years. A man condemned by the courts for his crimes during the Crusade.’
She raised her hands helplessly. ‘The War ended fourteen years ago. Can’t you stop fighting it now? Why can’t you just let it all be forgotten? How can we ever have real peace if we stay locked in the past?’
Guzmán snorted. ‘We don’t forget, señora. There can be no forgetting because to do so would betray the great works achieved by the Caudillo and the people of Spain who rose up to destroy the Red menace. We don’t forget, al contrario, we remember. We remember everything. Everything.’ His voice was an angry growl as he got to his feet. He stepped towards her and slapped his notebook across her face. She gasped, shocked. ‘It’s all here. In files, books, ledgers, records, all manner of documents, all over Spain. The memory of what happened, who did it and when. And each time we catch another of these traitors, another obstacle to the greatness of Spain falls – like that Marxist bastard we arrested next door. We don’t forget. We won and we have to maintain the victory. Even if we have to kill all of them. I’m surprised at you, señora, frankly, asking a question like that. Very surprised indeed.’
She was on the verge of tears now, afraid of Guzmán’s huge presence, his malevolent intimidation, the barely controlled violence inflecting his voice. She stepped backwards as he advanced towards her. He came closer, forcing her against the wall. She was shaking violently. He could feel it.
‘Be quiet,’ Guzmán said. ‘I have more questions.’
She nodded, her arms folded across her chest defensively.
‘I notice you don’t have a crucifix in the apartment. No sign of devotion, in fact. Not one.’
‘I can’t afford one. I can hardly make ends meet as it is.’ Her voice trembled.
‘And how often do you attend mass, señora?’
She stared at him, horrified, not knowing where this was going but knowing it was going very badly. ‘Not very often. I work on Saturdays and so on Sundays I—’
‘You don’t attend mass. You have no trace of our Lord or His blessed mother in your house. I’d say you lack religion.’
‘I know, I should go more often. I will go. I’ll go this week. It’s been hard.’
‘It’s hard for the ungodly, perhaps. But not for good Christians.’
‘I’m not a bad person.’ She was on the verge of tears. Guzmán was pleased.
‘No?’ His voice rose in the thick choked tone of the habitually violent. ‘What the hell is that then?’ He pointed to a small framed photograph on a shelf. A young man in uniform smiled at the camera, frozen in faded sepia on some day long gone. His hair shone with brilliantine beneath a summer sun. In the background there were blossom trees. But it was the uniform Guzmán noticed most. The Republican uniform. The enemy uniform.
‘My husband.’ She was starting to cry.
‘Where is he?’
‘Dead.’ Tears fell down her face. ‘He died in the war.’
‘No one dies in wars,’ Guzmán said sharply. ‘They’re killed. Who killed him?’
‘He was a prisoner in Andalucía,’ she wept. ‘He was shot by the soldiers of Queipo Llano.’ Her head dropped. Tears fell onto the threadbare rug.
‘General Queipo de Llano,’ Guzmán corrected her. When she didn’t respond, he poked her with his index finger between her breasts. She recoiled, flinching back against the wall. Trapped.
‘General Queipo de Llano,’ she repeated obediently. He ran his finger slowly across her breast in casual exploration.
She pressed herself against the wall more tightly.
‘General Queipo de Llano. May he rest in peace,’ Guzmán persisted, his finger probing again. He felt the pounding of her heart through the coarse fabric. He rested his hand on her breast. He squeezed.
‘General Queipo de Llano. Que en paz descanse,’ she parroted, gasping with fear and pain. He felt the violent rhythm of her heartbeat and squeezed again, harder. She choked back a cry of pain and bit her lip.
‘You were a fool to think I wouldn’t notice that photograph. A man in Republican uniform.’ Guzmán shook his head. ‘A fool to even have it on show. God knows what else you’re hiding.’
She whimpered, unable to speak through her tears.
‘Stop crying.’
She tried unsuccessfully.
‘Listen, señora, this looks bad for you. The neighbours, their traitorous nephew, your ungodliness. I’ve got enough here to send you to prison.’ Guzmán’s tone softened, the largesse of the victor to the vanquished. ‘Look, even if I don’t arrest you, and believe me, I don’t want to because, frankly, I don’t have the time, but there’s still the issue of the Falange.’
She looked up, red-eyed. ‘What about them? You’re the law, surely…’
‘The law, yes. But in civil terms, the Falange keep an eye on morality, they police public probity. Ensure children are well looked after in good, Christian households.’
He saw her eyes widen with sudden apprehension.
‘Some of those people are cretins, señora, yet they hold positions of power. And when they consider a child isn’t being brought up in the True Faith, or there’s a history in the family of sedition, or radical politics…’
She looked at him with horror. He knew her worst fear now.
‘They’d naturally intervene, take the child away – probably to a Jesuit orphanage, away from the moral contamination of the home. Where the child’s habits can be undone and corrected. Where the rod won’t be spared. Where the priests can remind him he comes from contaminated stock, that he bears the parents’ guilt.’
The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) Page 10
