The Butcher Beyond

by Sally Spencer

  ‘Them were tears of anger in his eyes. He said to me, “I were good enough to get in, our Reg. I were more than good enough. The only reason I’ve not got accepted is ’cos they’ve given it to some toffee-nosed lad who speaks as if he’s got a plum in his mouth.” An’ he were right. The powers that be didn’t want folk from here educated. They wanted to keep us in our place, so they’d have enough poor buggers to send down the pit.’

  ‘Which is where Pete went,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘Which is where Pete went,’ Reginald Medwin agreed. ‘The day he left school, our dad signed the agreement bindin’ him to be an apprentice mechanical engineer. Fancy title, isn’t it? Mechanical engineer! But the mechanical engineers still ended up down the bloody pit, bent double or else up to their knees in water, just like the rest of us.’

  ‘But Peter didn’t stay down the pit, did he?’ Rutter asked.

  ‘Depends what you mean by that,’ Medwin said. ‘If you mean that he found a magic carpet to waft into a management position, then you’ve got it all wrong. It took years of hard graft at night school before he was ready to make the leap. He was twenty-four when he come out of his apprenticeship, an’ nearly thirty before he got to wear a collar an’ tie at work. So don’t go thinkin’ our Pete didn’t know what it was like to get his hands dirty.’

  Rutter knew too little about industrial life to see the need to do any calculations. He’d been brought up in a leafy London suburb where apprenticeships were not something anyone ever went into. Paniatowski, on the other hand, had been raised in the shadow of the Whitebridge mills and engineering works, and she latched on to the discrepancy immediately.

  ‘Did you say he was twenty-four when he finished serving his time?’ she asked.

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ Medwin agreed.

  ‘Why so late? He started work when he was fourteen, so he should have been a craftsman by the time he was twenty-one.’

  ‘Normally, yes,’ Medwin said, with some reluctance.

  ‘Then why wasn’t it true in Pete’s case?’ Paniatowski continued.

  Medwin shifted his weight from one foot to the other. ‘We’ve never been ones for washin’ the family’s dirty linen in public,’ he said.

  ‘He didn’t go to prison, did he?’ Rutter asked.

  Medwin flushed angrily. ‘Go to prison! No!’ he said. ‘It was nothin’ like that.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t,’ Paniatowski said hastily. She turned to Rutter. ‘There’s times when you can make even a Tory member of parliament seem almost intelligent, you know.’

  Medwin laughed, and Rutter tried not to resent Paniatowski for pulling him out of a sticky situation.

  ‘He went away, did he?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Aye, that’s right,’ Medwin agreed. ‘One day he come home from work an’ when he’d had his bath he told our dad that he was goin’ to go south an’ seek his fortune. Well, our dad was furious, just as you might expect, considerin’ how it was goin’ to reflect on him.’

  Rutter looked blank.

  ‘Mr Medwin had signed Pete’s indenture documents,’ Paniatowski explained. ‘He’d given his word that Pete would serve his full apprenticeship. He lost a lot of face by Pete backing out like that.’

  ‘You’re right there,’ Medwin agreed. ‘They had a blazin’ row, the two of ’em. Dad even hit Pete a couple of times, an’ he’d never raised his hand to any of us before. I couldn’t understand why Pete was doin’ it to him. I had a go at Pete myself. Asked him what it was he wanted to do that was so important he’d make a liar of our dad.’

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said he was sorry, but he just had to go. An’ he went. I spent three years hatin’ him. I thought I’d never forgive him. But when he did come back, an’ I saw the state he was in, I just had to.’

  ‘What was wrong with him?’

  ‘Nothin’ you could put your finger on, but he looked like a complete wreck – as if he’d been to hell an’ back. Even our dad couldn’t stay angry at him, an’ he wasn’t a man who found it easy to forgive an’ forget.’

  ‘Do you have any idea what had happened to him while he was away – what made him look like he’d been to hell and back?’

  ‘I didn’t at the time, but I think I do now. We know more than we used to, you see. We’ve got a television set nowadays, an’ we can see what’s goin’ on in the rest of the world.’

  ‘How do you mean?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘I saw this documentary on the down-an’-outs in London. A terrible life they lead. Worse than bein’ a miner. Anyway, it was the look in their eyes that got to me. They were full of despair. That’s how Pete’s eyes looked when he come back home. Full of despair.’

  ‘So you think he was a down-and-out himself?’

  ‘I do. The way I see it, he went off to London thinkin’ the streets were paved with gold, but soon found out that it wasn’t like that at all. He’d have been too proud to come back home at first, you see, but in the end he must have realized he didn’t have any choice. An’ credit where credit’s due, once he had decided to pull himself together again, he made a bloody good job of it. Within a week he was up at the pit office, askin’ if they’d take him on again. I wouldn’t have said he’d have a cat in hell’s chance myself, but somehow he managed to talk them into it. An’ he’s never looked back from that day to this.’ Medwin’s jaw quivered a little. ‘At least, not until … not until …’

  Paniatowski stood up. ‘We’d better go,’ she said.

  ‘Our Pete was a wonderful feller,’ Reginald Medwin said. ‘He never forgot where he come from, an’ he’d time for anybody who needed it. He’s helped half this village, in one way or another. Only last year, he offered to buy me a bigger house in a nice area – out of his own pocket, mind – but I’m too set in my ways to think of movin’ now.’

  There were tears forming in the corners of his eyes – the tears of grief that he probably thought no man should ever display.

  Paniatowski urged Rutter to his feet. ‘We really do have to go,’ she said. ‘We’re running very late.’

  ‘Catch him, will you?’ Medwin pleaded. ‘Catch the bastard who did that to our Pete.’

  ‘We’ll catch him,’ Paniatowski promised. ‘And don’t bother about seeing us out. We can find our own way.’

  The two detectives were already by the front door when Rutter stopped and turned around again.

  ‘Can I ask you one more question, Mr Medwin?’ he said.

  The miner sniffed. ‘Aye, you might as well.’

  ‘Your brother Peter was away for three years. Could you tell us roughly when that was?’

  ‘It were a bit less than three years, actually,’ Medwin said, with a choke in his voice. ‘He left the village in the autumn of 1936, an’ he come back in the late spring of ’39.’

  Fifteen

  In his time, Woodend had watched hundreds of men enter dozens of interrogation rooms, and knew that Roberts would look around him just as all the others had done. But it was the way he looked around which was particularly telling. He didn’t look into any of the corners of the room, as if he thought he might find some clue as to what was about to happen to him hidden there. He didn’t search for some unguarded exit through which it just might be possible to make a dash for freedom. Instead, he looked coolly around, assessing the place as if he were considering buying it.

  ‘Why don’t you sit down?’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘Might as well, now I’m here,’ Roberts said jauntily, lowering himself into the chair opposite the English inspector and the Spanish police Captain.

  ‘What is it?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘What’s what?’

  ‘What’s the question you’re just burstin’ to ask?’

  Roberts grinned like a naughty schoolboy who’s been caught out cheating in a test.

  ‘Oh, I was just wondering what’s happened to Ham-’n’-Eggs,’ he said. ‘We all saw him come in, but nobody saw him come out again.
Haven’t thrown him in a deep dark dungeon, have you?’

  ‘Ham-’n’-Eggs?’ Woodend repeated.

  ‘Yes. You know – what’s-his-name – Mitchell.’

  ‘Why do you call him that?’

  ‘Ham-’n’-Eggs? It’s a nickname, isn’t it?’

  ‘But where does it come from?’

  ‘From the fact that he likes eating ham and eggs so much. You see, back in the old …’

  ‘Go on,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘What you were about to say was that back in the old days, all he ever talked about was ham-’n’-eggs. Isn’t that right?’

  ‘Didn’t know him in the “old days”, whenever they were. Only met him the night before last.’

  ‘I’ve been responsible for lumberin’ a few people with nicknames in my time,’ Woodend said. ‘But I don’t think I’ve ever done it after I’ve known them for less than two days.’

  ‘You would have done if you’d been with Mitchell, like I was. He spent half the night talking about ham-’n’-eggs. You can just imagine it, can’t you?’

  ‘Can I?’

  ‘Of course you can. Now what was it exactly he said?’ Roberts pursed his brow for a second, and then began talking out of the corner of his mouth. ‘“I don’t like this Spanish muck.” Spanish muck! He hadn’t even tried it. “Wish I had some ham-’n’-eggs.” “What I wouldn’t give right now for a plate of ham-’n’-eggs.” He couldn’t seem to stop going on about it.’

  Roberts was making a pretty poor job of trying to cover up his gaffe, Woodend thought. His American accent was unconvincing and – more importantly – his tone of his voice carried no conviction with it. Besides, Mitchell didn’t look as if he had the appetite for much food any more – especially anything as rich and fatty as ham and eggs.

  ‘You don’t seem to be overly concerned about being here, Mr Roberts,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Why should I? The police might pull you in if they don’t like the look of your face – happens all the time – but if you haven’t done anything wrong they never keep you for long.’

  ‘You sound like you’re talking from personal experience, Mr Roberts,’ Woodend said. ‘What is it, exactly, that you do for a living?’

  ‘Me? I’m what you might call a gentleman of leisure.’

  ‘Which means?’

  ‘That I pursue the sporting life.’

  ‘So you’re a habitual gambler?’

  ‘I’m certainly not averse to placing the odd bet on the gee-gees or the dogs, if that’s what you’re implying.’

  ‘Where do you live?’

  ‘Here and there. Hither and thither.’

  ‘Tell me about a few of the “thithers”.’

  Roberts grinned. ‘During the flat season, you’ll as like as not find me in comfortable digs near one of the major race-courses. Goodwood! Ascot! Somewhere my name counts for something. Then again, once in a while I get sick of the old English weather, and when that happens I’ll slip across to Monte Carlo for a spot of roulette.’

  ‘And what are you here in Spain to bet on?’

  ‘Absolutely nothing. I had a bit of a win on a rank outsider, to tell you the truth, and I thought to myself: Rodney, that money’s burning a hole in your pocket, and if you don’t take yourself off to somewhere there’s absolutely nothing to tempt you, you’ll have wagered it away in no time. So here I am.’

  ‘Why don’t you tell us about the last time you were in Spain?’ Woodend suggested.

  ‘Haven’t got a clue what you’re talking about, old sport.’

  ‘The last time the old gang was together,’ Woodend said patiently. ‘You know who I’m talking about. You, Ham-’n’-Eggs, Sutcliffe, the Frenchman, the German – and Peter Medwin.’

  Roberts’ mouth fell open in surprise, but only for a second. ‘Don’t know any Peter … Peter … What was his other name again?’

  ‘Medwin,’ Woodend repeated.

  ‘The name still doesn’t mean anything to me, I’m afraid. Maybe Holloway knew him.’

  ‘He was Holloway!’ Captain López exploded angrily. ‘I am tired of listening to this mierda. I will make the same offer to you that I made Mitchell. Confess to the murder, give evidence against the others, and I will do all I can to save your worthless neck.’

  ‘You don’t think we killed Medwin, do you?’ Roberts asked, sounding genuinely shocked this time.

  ‘You mean Holloway!’ Woodend pointed out.

  ‘I thought you said his real name was Medwin.’

  ‘I will count down from five,’ López said. ‘Once I have reached One, your chance is gone. Anything you say about your part in the murder after that will be of no interest to me.’

  ‘Now just a minute!’ Roberts protested.

  ‘Five,’ López began. ‘Four … three … two … one …’

  Woodend listened with increasing rage and a growing feeling of impotence. If López had been one of his subordinates, he’d have chewed the man’s balls off. As it was, he could only sit there as another promising line of interrogation disintegrated into dust.

  Sixteen

  The old man sitting at the table outside the bar wore a grey suit, and a grey felt-brimmed hat. His shirt was open at the neck, and thick white hairs sprouted out from over the top button, like weeds seeking the sun. When Paco Ruiz sat down on the chair opposite him, the old man looked up. The expression on his face said that he was more used to being ignored than to being sought out, and that though he suspected Ruiz had made a mistake and would quickly stand up again, he rather hoped the new arrival would stay.

  A waiter arrived and placed two glasses of vino blanco on the table. Ruiz looked down at his watch, then flashed the fingers on his right hand three times. The message was clear to the old man – his new companion had just ordered fresh drinks every fifteen minutes. When the waiter nodded and walked away, the old man gave Ruiz an almost toothless grin, to show his appreciation.

  ‘You certainly must have seen a lot of changes in your time,’ Ruiz said, as though the two of them were already deep in the middle of a conversation.

  The old man nodded. ‘Many, many changes.’

  ‘First the war, now this,’ Paco said, indicating a group of obviously foreign tourists who were just walking past the bar. ‘Tell me, what do you think of all these foreigners?’

  ‘The women have no modesty,’ the old man said. ‘They flaunt their bare arms and bare legs in public. And on the beach, it is even worse. They prance about in their underwear – an underwear so revealing that no decent Spanish woman would ever think of wearing it even under her clothes.’

  ‘And the men?’

  ‘The men have no sense of pride. When I was younger, I would never have allowed my wife to dress in that manner. And if I had seen another man look at my wife – fully dressed – in the way these extranjeros allow other men to look at their women half-naked, I would have killed him.’

  Paco nodded. ‘And no court in the land would ever have convicted you,’ he said.

  ‘I wouldn’t even have been arrested,’ the old man said. ‘The Guardia Civil back in those days were just as much hijos de putas as they are now, but even they would not have dared to interfere in a matter of honour.’

  ‘What was life like in the old days?’ Paco asked.

  ‘It was hard, but we were content,’ the old man said. ‘We are not blessed with good land around this town, but at least it allowed us to grow a few olives. And then there was the fishing. When we had a good catch, it was a cause for celebration throughout the whole village.’

  ‘So you had nothing to complain about?’

  ‘We had plenty to complain about. And we did complain. If the bulls were the national sport, then complaining was the local one. But we never expected things to change and, in truth, being men, we did not really mind them as they were.’ The old man paused. ‘Does what I am saying make sense? Or do you, like my children, think I have gone soft in the head?’

  P
aco laughed. ‘I can only hope that when I reach your age I can still see things as clearly as you can,’ he said. ‘But tell me, what do you think of the young men you see around you nowadays?’

  The old man spat reflectively on to the pavement. ‘They want to wear silk next to their bodies,’ he said. ‘They sob themselves to sleep at night because they cannot afford to buy a motor car. They are men only because of what they have swinging between their legs – and even in that respect, they put on a pretty poor show.’

  ‘How was this allowed to happen?’ Paco wondered aloud.

  ‘It is all the fault of the foreigners.’

  ‘The foreigners?’

  ‘Of course. Our people look upon them, and want to be like them. I hope I am wrong about this, but I do not think it will be too long before Spanish girls are exposing their flesh just as the foreigners do.’

  ‘When did all this start – this dilution of Spanish manhood, this erosion of the proper female modesty?’ Paco asked.

  ‘About eight years ago now. When Don Antonio Durán was made the Alcalde of Benicelda. It was all his idea to encourage the invasion. I still don’t know why he did it. It can’t have been for the money they would bring, because he was rich even then.’

  ‘Was he?’ Paco asked. ‘I didn’t know that. How did he make his money? Did he inherit it?’

  The old man gave a hoarse cackle.

  ‘Inherit it?’ he repeated. ‘If you can think that, you must not have known his father. Roberto Durán was so poor he couldn’t afford an arsehole to shit through. And as for Don Antonio himself …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He was a good-for-nothing – an idle wastrel.’

  ‘Still, the money he has now must have come from somewhere,’ Paco reflected.

  The old man looked cautiously around him. ‘When the Civil War broke out, we were all on the side of the government in this town,’ he said, almost in a whisper. ‘And why shouldn’t we have been? We knew that the other side favoured the church and the rich landowners.’ He paused, as if suddenly worried that he had said too much. ‘I mean …’

  ‘I piss on the rich landowners,’ Paco said. ‘And I piss on Don Antonio Durán, as well.’