The Butcher Beyond

by Sally Spencer

  López held out his hands in front of him, as if attempting to balance his choices. On the one hand, he still did not want to cross an alcalde who would soon be Governor. On the other, he did not want to bring the wrath of Madrid down on his head – and the dispatch made it clear that it would be wrath – because even Durán would not be prepared to protect him from a Captain-General who was eager to have his balls served up on a silver platter.

  Perhaps he could appear to co-operate with the English policeman while, in fact, leading Woodend on a wild-goose chase. In that way, he could contrive to make it look as if the failure of the investigation was not his own fault, but that of the Englishman.

  But what if that didn’t work?

  What if Woodend turned out to be as smart as he looked – and started to make real progress?

  Madrid would be happy enough if the case were solved – but Antonio Durán would be furious, and a furious alcalde was the very last thing he wanted to have to deal with.

  He needed a power base of his own, López told himself. He needed leverage which did not depend on the influence of other people. But where could he pluck that power – that leverage – from?

  He reviewed his meeting with Durán. The Alcalde had said that he was worried about the effect of his investigation on the tourist trade, but even at the time – even before he had seen the photographs on the desk – that had seemed to López to be a very weak argument.

  So why had he gone along with it?

  Because that was the way things worked under the Dictatorship. Because individual progress was made not by showing initiative, but by learning to bend with the wind.

  He thought back to the case which had made his name – which had allowed him to first put his foot on the ladder of success.

  He had been home on leave in Leon when the local captain had called him into his office.

  ‘Your uncle has a printing press,’ the captain had said.

  ‘Yes,’ López admitted. ‘That’s because he is a printer.’

  ‘We suspect he is using the press to produce radical pamphlets,’ the captain told him, ‘but the old man is being very cunning about it, and when we raid his workshop there is nothing there.’

  ‘What has this got to do with me?’ the young López wondered.

  ‘You are family,’ the captain told him. ‘You have access to the workshop day and night. Perhaps you can find something we have missed.’

  There hadn’t been anything in the workshop – at least, not when López had searched it on his own. But by the time he led members of the local Guardia Civil into the place, there had been evidence aplenty.

  And that was how things were done, López reminded himself. You found out what your superiors wanted, and you gave it to them. Thus, rather than questioning the Alcalde’s aim, he had turned his mind to ways of implementing that aim. But now, trapped between the Alcalde’s ‘devil’ and Madrid’s ‘deep blue sea’, he began to wonder just what Durán’s game really was.

  ‘Why should the Alcalde wish to see the murderer escape?’ he asked the empty room. ‘What’s in it for him?’

  And then, in a blinding mental flash, he had what he could only have called an inspiration.

  The Alcalde already knew who the killer was, and for devious reasons of his own, had decided to protect him.

  He began to follow this new insight through to its logical conclusion.

  If Durán knew who the murderer was, then Durán was implicated – at least on the fringes – in the murder itself.

  And if he himself could find out the killer’s name, then he would also come to understand the motives behind the Alcalde’s involvement.

  Then he would have Durán by the balls!

  It wouldn’t matter, under those circumstances, what Madrid did or did not choose to do. The Captain-General could hang him out to dry for all he cared, because the new Provincial Governor would look after him. The new Provincial Governor simply wouldn’t have any choice.

  What a difference his flash of insight had had on his total view of the situation, López thought. A few minutes earlier he hadn’t known whether he wanted the crime solved or not. Now he did want it solved. But only by him – and for his private use alone. Which meant that while seeming to work with Woodend, he must ensure that the other man was kept well away from anything which might lead him to a solution.

  It was going to be a delicate balancing act. But then, he reminded himself, his whole career had been nothing but a balancing act.

  He looked out of the window and saw that the gates had been opened and an official car was entering the compound. The hijo de puta of an English Chief Inspector had arrived.

  Woodend looked around López’s office – at the expensive desk, at the deep leather armchairs, at the huge and imposing picture of Generalissimo Francisco Franco on the wall.

  ‘It doesn’t have quite the same kind of feel about it as the last room we met in, does it?’ he said.

  ‘Yes, I must apologize for that unfortunate occurrence last night,’ López said. ‘You must understand that, at the time, I did not know we were going to be colleagues.’

  ‘We were both policemen then, an’ we’re both policemen now,’ Woodend said dryly. ‘We’ve always been colleagues, at least in theory. The difference is that then you didn’t know you were goin’ to have to extend any professional courtesy to me, an’ now you do. So why don’t you stop pussyfootin’ around an’ say what you really mean?’

  ‘The truth?’ López asked.

  ‘The truth,’ Woodend agreed.

  ‘We are like two polecats that have been put in a sack together,’ López said. ‘We do not like it – we do not like each other – but, given our situation, it would be pointless to fight.’

  Woodend grinned. ‘That’s better,’ he said. ‘Now we’ve got things out in the open, we can start to establish some sort of workin’ relationship. What have you got on the case so far?’

  I have selected the man I was going to arrest for the murder, but now that Madrid has decided to take a closer interest in the case that option is no longer open to me, López thought.

  ‘I have questioned the hotel receptionist,’ the Captain said aloud. ‘He did not see Holloway enter the hotel in the company of the man who was to be his murderer. But that tells us very little, since the receptionist admits that he left his post to visit the toilet, roughly ten minutes before the murder took place.’

  ‘Very convenient,’ Woodend said dryly. ‘Have you carried out a house-to-house?’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Have you had your men out on the streets, lookin’ for witnesses who may have seen Holloway an’ the other man together?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘An’ have they come up with any leads?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Can I see their reports?’

  ‘They are in Spanish.’

  ‘Can you get them translated for me?’

  ‘It will take some time.’

  ‘Are there any reports for me to see?’

  ‘We do not do things in Spain in exactly the same way as you do them in England.’

  ‘In other words, no,’ Woodend said. ‘Have you questioned the American who spoke to Holloway a couple of hours before he died? Have you questioned any of the other men the American met – again, just before Holloway died?’

  ‘I know nothing of that.’

  ‘Do you know, I rather thought you wouldn’t.’

  ‘Do you have the names of these people? Do you know where I can find them?’

  ‘I know the American’s name, but before I tell you what it is, we’d probably better lay down a few ground rules,’ Woodend said. ‘These men will have to be questioned – you can even call what happens an “interrogation”, if you feel more comfortable with that – but they’re not to have any accidents.’

  ‘I don’t understand,’ López said.

  ‘Oh, I think you do,’ Woodend countered. ‘It’s strange how many prisoners all over the
world – includin’ some in England – seem to have this tendency to fall down stairs. Well, I don’t want anythin’ like that to happen durin’ this investigation. If there’s stairs for them to go down, I want somebody with them, holding their hands, when they do it. If there’s doors to “accidentally” walk into, I want your officers to ensure that they don’t. In other words, before I set you on the trail of these men, I want your promise that no physical harm is goin’ to come to them.’

  ‘I would not come to your country and tell you how to do your job,’ López growled.

  ‘An’ I won’t tell you how to do yours – as long as you do it properly,’ Woodend said. ‘Do we have a deal? Or do I have to tell the Consul that I can’t work with you?’

  ‘We have a deal,’ López answered reluctantly.

  Woodend stepped through the big wooden gates of the Guardia Civil barracks, and out on to the cobbled street.

  Strange that a police force which was entrusted with protecting the public should feel the need of so much obvious protection itself, he thought.

  Or maybe it wasn’t. The Guardia Civil’s main interest, after all, was to guard the state, rather the people who constituted that state – López had made that quite plain during their first meeting – so seen from that angle the Guardia wasn’t really a police force, as he understood the term, anyway. What it actually was, he decided, was no more and no less than an army of occupation.

  He had gone just far enough down the street to be out of sight of the barracks when the headlamps of a parked car flashed at him. He was not really surprised. Truth to tell, he had been half expecting it.

  ‘I’ll drive you back to your hotel,’ Paco Ruiz said, as he opened the passenger door.

  Woodend squeezed his large frame into the tiny car.

  ‘This is very kind of you,’ he said, though he was well aware that if kindness was one of Ruiz’s motives, it was – at best – a very secondary one.

  ‘Are you willing to tell me about your meeting with Captain López,’ Paco asked, as he pulled the car away.

  If there’d been room in the small vehicle to shrug, Woodend would have shrugged. As it was, all he said was, ‘There’s not much to tell.’

  ‘I wouldn’t trust López,’ Paco cautioned.

  ‘I don’t. I’ve seen snakes I’d rather go into partnership with. But whatever my personal feelin’s on the matter, the Captain an’ I are still goin’ to have to work as a team, because that’s what the powers that be want to happen.’

  Behind the wheel, Paco stiffened. ‘And where does that leave me?’ he asked.

  ‘Out in the cold, I’m afraid.’ Woodend sighed. ‘Look, Paco, I know you really wanted to work on this case, but you have to see that it’s just not possible any more. I’ve got to use the Guardia Civil in my investigation – there’s simply no choice in the matter. An’ you know the way they work – if you get in their way, they’ll stomp on you. They might even lock you up. You don’t want Cindy to go through all that again, do you?’

  ‘You talk about Cindy, but what about Joan?’ Ruiz countered. ‘You’re supposed to be on holiday together, yet now you’ll abandon her while you go chasing a killer.’

  ‘She’s used to it,’ Woodend said awkwardly.

  ‘And Cindy is used to living with the possibility that one day I will do something which will cause the police to take me away again. She knew what I was like when she married me and – just as with you and Joan – she accepted me for what I was.’

  ‘I’m really sorry, Paco,’ Woodend said.

  There was a difficult silence for a few seconds, then Ruiz said, ‘Well, I suppose I must be philosophical about these things. Can you at least tell me what stage the investigation has reached?’

  ‘It doesn’t seem to have gone very far at all,’ Woodend admitted. ‘López says he’s had his men out on the streets lookin’ for possible witnesses, but I don’t believe him.’

  Paco shook his head, wonderingly. ‘That is very strange,’ he said. ‘López is an ambitious man. This case could quite make his reputation. And yet you say he seems to have made very little attempt to solve it?’

  ‘That’s how it looks to me.’

  ‘Politics!’ Paco said decisively.

  ‘What?’

  ‘In this country, everything is down to politics, in one way or another,’ Paco said. ‘If López is being lethargic, it is because he has been told—’

  He stopped, suddenly, as if he had just decided that to say more would be a very bad idea.

  ‘Go on,’ Woodend encouraged.

  Paco laughed. ‘Franco grabbed power through a conspiracy, and conspiracies have been endemic to government here ever since. But that is not to say that every action of every man who works for the government is driven by his involvement in some conspiracy. No doubt I have misjudged López. No doubt his apparent laziness is no more than real laziness.’

  ‘I’d still very much like to hear what it was that you were goin’ to say,’ Woodend told him.

  Paco slowed the car down to a halt. ‘Here is your hotel,’ he said, pointing to the main entrance. ‘In your situation, I would go straight up to my room. Because, as the old proverb says, only a fool – or a man of great courage – dares to keep his woman waiting.’

  Woodend smiled. ‘Is that really an old proverb?’ he asked. ‘Or did you just make it up as a way of changin’ the subject?’

  ‘The truth of a saying is not to be tested only by its antiquity,’ Paco said enigmatically. ‘Go to your wife, because – God knows – she will be seeing very little of you in the next few days.’

  Woodend struggled out of the car. ‘I’m truly sorry things turned out the way they did,’ he said.

  ‘Think no more of it,’ Paco Ruiz replied.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Really. It was a disappointment, naturally, but part of being a man is learning to live with disappointments.’ Ruiz paused. ‘I would still like to see Joan again. Perhaps the four of us can get together before you leave for England, and have another meal.’

  ‘I’d like that,’ Woodend said. ‘An’ I’m sure that Joan would like it, too.’

  ‘Well, then, we must stay in contact,’ Paco Ruiz said.

  He closed the door and slammed his car into reverse. As Woodend watched the tail lights disappearing down the street, he found himself wondering again exactly what it was that Paco had been about to say.

  Eleven

  There were two police officers sitting opposite the still-distraught Jessica Medwin in her sunny lounge that morning.

  One of them was a man – handsome, early thirties, with an air about him which seemed to suggest more of the high-flying businessman than a detective inspector. The other, the woman, was blonde, a little younger, and had a slightly larger than average nose which hinted at her Central European origins but in no way detracted from her obvious appeal.

  They seemed to know each other very well, Jessica thought, even through her grief, yet they did not look entirely comfortable about being together.

  She was right. They did know each other very well. They had once, in fact, been lovers – but now were trying to put all that behind them.

  ‘What I don’t see is why I should be talking to officers from Whitebridge,’ Jessica said to the man. ‘Surely, if I needed to speak to anyone, it should have been a local policeman.’

  ‘Normally, that would have been the case,’ Bob Rutter said gently. ‘But it’s our Chief Inspector who’s in Spain, you see.’

  ‘He’s flown out already?’

  ‘No. He’s – he was – on holiday in the place where your husband met his tragic death …’

  ‘Where my husband was murdered!’ Jessica Medwin said firmly.

  ‘Where he was murdered,’ Rutter agreed. ‘And because Mr Woodend was already there, it’s been decided that he’ll be the one who conducts the investigation on behalf of the British government.’

  ‘Is he good at his job?’ Jessica asked, her lower lip trembli
ng slightly as she spoke.

  ‘He’s better than that,’ Rutter assured her. ‘He’s the best I’ve ever worked with, and the best I will ever work with. But he’s going to need your help. Can you think of any motive for his murder?’

  Jessica Medwin suppressed a sob. ‘I’ve been racking my brains to think of anyone who might have wanted to kill Peter,’ she said. ‘And I can’t come up with a single name. He was a lovely man. Ask the people who knew him. Ask the people who worked for him.’

  ‘We will,’ DS Monika Paniatowski promised. ‘But you must realize that there are some details we can get only from you.’

  Jessica Medwin nodded. ‘Of course.’

  ‘How long were you married?’

  ‘How long were we married?’ Jessica asked, as if she thought she’d slightly misheard. Then she nodded sadly. ‘Yes, it is “were” now that he’s dead, isn’t it? We were married for nearly twenty years.’

  ‘So you must have been childhood sweethearts.’

  Jessica Medwin managed a small smile. ‘It’s kind of you to say that, but I’m older than I look,’ she told Paniatowski. ‘We were both well into our twenties when we started going out together.’

  ‘So you’re not the one we should talk to about his early years,’ Bob Rutter said.

  ‘Why should you want to talk to anybody at all about Peter’s early years?’ Jessica Medwin wondered. ‘How can that possibly help you to find out who killed him?’

  ‘It probably won’t,’ Monika Paniatowski said. ‘But we’re asking the questions because that’s the way we work.’

  ‘I’m not sure I understand.’

  ‘We collect all the information we can, even though most of it is eventually rejected as irrelevant.’

  ‘I see,’ Jessica Medwin said. ‘Well, even though I didn’t know him then, I can tell you something about Peter’s youth, if you think it might be helpful.’