A Dead Man in Barcelona

by Michael Pearce

  ‘Yes. Yes, I see. Interesting theory. Possibly. And – and he was married to an Arab, you say?’

  ‘Yes. He met her when he was over there once. Married her and brought her back to Gibraltar, and they’ve stayed together ever since. Just!’

  Hattersley laughed. ‘There were some rocky moments, especially early on. Sam’s always had a roving eye and it roved a bit too frequently for Leila. There was even talk of a child he’d had by some other woman, which made things harder. They couldn’t seem to manage any children of their own, you see. And I think she found it very difficult at first in Gibraltar. It was a bit too British and stiff-upper-lip for her. But, then, there are always stresses and strains in a mixed marriage, aren’t there?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Chantale.

  ‘You spoke of an Arab dimension to Lockhart,’ Seymour said. ‘Did it go further than just the fact that he was married to one?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ said Hattersley. ‘A lot of his business was over there. That’s how he first made his name. Started there. In Algeria, I think. And then spread along the coast. And then came back to Gibraltar. But he always kept up that side. It had grown quite big by the time he left. That’s where he made the bulk of his money, in fact. Of course, Leila’s family are there. That’s why he married her, some say. But I don’t believe that. Leila was always first with him. No matter what happened, he always went back to her.

  ‘I asked him once why he didn’t stay out there. “Gibraltar’s become too important to me now,” he said. It was the Navy, you see. Especially when the Admiral took over. He needed help, you see. Especially over the oil business – when the ships converted to oil. He had to scratch around a bit for supplies, and that’s where Lockhart, with his contacts, came in. It’s not so important now, of course, but it gave Lockhart a leg up, and that’s all he needed. The firm still does a lot of work for the Navy. That’s why the Admiral got so fired up when Lockhart was killed. He wouldn’t have got Whitehall interested without him.’

  Hattersley looked at Chantale.’I don’t expect I’m telling you much you don’t know, Miss de Lissac. I’m pretty sure that the Arab dimension was at the back of his mind when he asked for an Arabic speaker. And why Naval Intelligence is interested. But I won’t say another word about that. I promise!’

  ‘You see,’ said Chantale, as they walked away. ‘I’m pretty important.’

  ‘I always thought you were,’ said Seymour.

  ‘To work,’ said Chantale, with emphasis. ‘To your work. Remember it? It’s why you came.’

  ‘It’s not why I came,’ said Seymour.

  Before they settled on a restaurant for the evening, Chantale and Seymour joined the rest of Barcelona in the regular evening promenade along Las Ramblas. The lights had come on in the trees and with them Barcelona had suddenly come to life.

  The cabezudos were out again, gambolling like, and often with, children. They gave them rides on their backs, capering with their heels and throwing up their rear ends like bucking broncos. The children squealed and clung tight to the giraffe-like necks. However, they were seldom in real danger of falling. These were friendly cabezudos.

  Seymour tried to work out which one had spoken to him. He would like to talk more. But no cabezudo approached him. If anything, the cabezudos seemed more interested in Chantale.’Scratch my back, Señora!’ pleaded one of them, rubbing itself against a palm tree.

  Laughing, Chantale declined the invitation.

  Go on, Señora!’ said someone in the crowd. ‘It will bring you luck.’

  The cabezudo skipped up to her and presented its back.

  Chantale put her hand out.

  ‘That’s it, Señora! Oh, lovely lady, do it again!’

  ‘You want to watch out, Señora,’ said a woman laughing. ‘Or else it will run away with you.’

  ‘My mother ran away with a cabezudo,’ declared a cabezudo capering nearby. ‘And look what happened!’

  ‘Oh, that’s nice!’ said Chantale’s cabezudo. ‘Now behind the ears, lovely lady!’

  ‘Next thing, it will be between its legs,’ said a woman in the crowd.

  Chantale stepped back hurriedly.

  ‘Mother of God!’ cried the cabezudo indignantly. ‘The minds these women have!’

  ‘Take no notice of him,’ advised another cabezudo, sidling up to Chantale. ‘Scratch my back instead!’

  ‘No, no! Scratch mine! I’ve got a much better back,’ cried another cabezudo, rushing up.

  ‘Back, did he say?’ said the women in the crowd, which was now enjoying the occasion hugely.

  In a moment, all the cabezudos came round them.

  ‘Did you talk to Nina?’ came a hiss from behind Seymour’s back.

  ‘Yes. Thank you. Can we talk somewhere?’

  The cabezudos began to dance round him in a circle. He tried to make out which one had spoken.

  One of the cabezudos was carrying a fish. He dangled it before Seymour’s eyes.

  ‘Do you like fish, Señor?’

  ‘Lockhart did,’ breathed the familiar voice behind him.

  ‘Would I be wise to?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Then yes.’

  ‘Try this, then,’ said the cabezudo with the fish, now behind him, catching him a buffet with it across the ear.

  Seymour spun round but the cabezudos spun with him.

  ‘Lockhart would get them fresh,’ whispered the familiar voice.

  ‘Fresh?’

  ‘From the sea.’

  The cabezudos danced away and formed a ring round Chantale. They presented their backs and began rubbing themselves up against her.

  ‘You had better look to your lady, Señor,’ said someone warningly.

  Seymour grabbed Chantale and pulled her way.

  ‘These cabezudos need a cold bath!’ he said to the crowd.

  ‘Or a bucket of water thrown over them,’ said the jolly woman who had joined in the back chat before.

  She was a stout, matronly woman with a large coloured shawl thrown over her head. Chantale took refuge between her and Seymour and the cabezudos danced off to find another victim.

  ‘Those cabezudos!’ said the woman. ‘They’re becoming impossible!’

  ‘They’ve always been like that,’ said someone else.

  ‘But now they’re worse!’ insisted the stout lady.

  ‘It’s the times,’ the other person said. ‘When the times are bad, they become unruly.’

  ‘They say things that should not be said,’ said the stout lady.

  ‘But maybe they need saying,’ said someone in the crowd.

  ‘Maybe they do,’ conceded the stout lady, ‘but sometimes they go too far.’

  ‘Sometimes they say things, though, that are helpful,’ said Seymour.

  The stout lady gave him a quick look.

  ‘Be warned, Señor; they are not always to be trusted. What seems helpful may not be so.’

  Chapter Four

  It was early in the morning and although there were one or two people sitting in the café the chairs were still tipped against the tables outside. Dolores was going round tipping them back and wiping the tops of the tables. She recognized Seymour and greeted him politely but warily.

  He sat down at one of the tables outside, where no one would hear them, and asked for a coffee. When she brought it, he said:

  ‘Dolores, I would like some advice.’

  ‘From me?’ she said, surprised. She thought for a moment and then said, ‘Well, my advice would be for you to go back home.’

  ‘Would you like that?’

  She considered. ‘No. But it’s good advice.’

  ‘I’ve been to the prison,’ Seymour said, ‘and I’ve got nowhere.’

  ‘Well, that’s a surprise.’

  ‘I talked to the governor. I want to talk to people lower down. Other prisoners. People who were there when Lockhart died and who might know something about it.’

  ‘I can’t help you,’ said Dolores, dabbi
ng at the table.

  ‘Can’t?’ said Seymour. ‘Or won’t?’

  ‘Look,’ said Dolores. ‘I’ve got a life to live and I want to live it. Lockhart told me to stay out of it and I reckon he knew what he was doing. Because he didn’t and now he is dead. I don’t want to be like that. Manuel said the same.’

  ‘It’s about Manuel that I want to talk.’

  ‘About Manuel?’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Yes. You said that when you couldn’t get into the prison to see Lockhart, Manuel said he would fix it. And later he did. Could he do that for me, do you think?’

  ‘No. He did it for me because I was one of his girls. He looks after us waitresses, you know, and he knew how things were between me and Lockhart. He wouldn’t do it for just anybody.’

  ‘This is still Lockhart.’

  ‘It’s not the same.’

  ‘If you asked him.’

  ‘He knows that Lockhart is dead. And he’s said, “Now that he’s dead, forget him.”’

  ‘You can’t forget him, though, can you?’

  She moved away and began polishing a little vigorously.

  ‘No,’ she whispered. ‘No, I can’t.’

  ‘You told me to see the people in England did not forget him, either. I’m doing that. But I need help. Will you help me?’

  She moved away to another table.

  He waited but she did not come back.

  He finished his coffee and got up to go, putting some coins on the table. At the last moment she came back.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ she said. ‘He knows you’ve come from England and that you want to know about Lockhart. You could say you were asking on behalf of Lockhart’s father. Manuel is very keen on fathers. He never had one himself and he has this idealistic picture. I’ll take you in to him and say that you’ve come to me and I don’t know what to do.’

  ‘Ah, Señor,’ said Manuel, ‘it is too late now. No one can do anything.’

  His large brown eyes looked at Seymour sadly. He had a big droopy face and, with the eyes, the effect was of a large, doleful spaniel.

  ‘I know,’ said Seymour. ‘Nevertheless, the father –’

  ‘Ah, the father,’ sighed Manuel.

  Seymour took him confidentially by the arm. ‘All I can hope to do is set his mind at peace.’ ‘Of course. Of course!’

  ‘It is the uncertainty that is tearing him apart. All he knows is that his son has disappeared in a foreign country. He cannot believe that he is dead. How could he be? How could such a thing happen? In a country like Spain? It must be a mistake.

  ‘Someone has spoken of prison. But how can that be? His son, he knows, is no criminal. It is, surely, a mistake. A clerical error. You know these clerks, you know these bureaucrats. Well, it will be the same in Spain as it is in England. Some fool of a clerk has got it wrong. It must be so! And so he goes on tearing himself apart.

  ‘If I could find out something for sure, then perhaps that would help him. If it was only to confirm that he was dead. At the moment, you see, he cannot believe that he is dead. He goes on hoping that he is still alive. And he will until he knows for sure.’

  ‘Alas,’ said Manuel sympathetically, ‘there can be no doubt.’

  ‘But told in a notification from a prison! Cold, bald, remote. Can it be relied on? An institution – big, heartless, and, perhaps, like so many institutions, wrong. A mistake – that’s what it could be! And while there’s a chance of that he will go on hoping. Until – you will understand this, I am sure, Señor – some personal witness . . . a human being, someone of flesh and blood, not an anonymous cipher in an anonymous institution . . . says it definitely.

  ‘Well, that is all I am hoping for, Señor, all I can expect to achieve. Will you help me, Señor, in this task I am undertaking for a bereft, deeply loving father?’

  ‘Señor, I will! For the sake of the holy bond that exists between father and son, I will!’

  * * *

  Lockhart’s Barcelona office was just round the corner from the church with soot-blackened doors through which the coffins had emerged. It was up a side street at the entrance to which several Arabs were lounging. They looked curiously at Chantale and for a moment she wondered if she should put her scarf back over her face; but then she decided she would not, and looked back at them hard, and after a moment they looked away.

  Seymour registered that but registered also, with his policing experience, that they posed no threat. This was Spain and without the reinforcement they would have received from the general culture in Morocco or Algeria their power dwindled and they seemed slightly helpless.

  The office consisted of two rooms and a man at a desk. The man was Arab, too.

  ‘I am looking for Señor Lockhart’s office,’ said Seymour.

  ‘This is it. But Señor –’

  ‘I know,’ said Seymour. ‘But the business goes on? Who runs it now?’

  ‘His wife. From Gibraltar. That’s where the main office is. This is just a branch office.’

  ‘So you’re on your own here?’

  ‘I always was on my own. Mr Lockhart used to come over from time to time but mostly he left me to get on with it.’

  ‘And, of course, he was over here when – well, during Tragic Week.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you were, too, presumably?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What was it like?’

  ‘Terrible, terrible. After the first day we all kept inside. I kept inside here. For five nights I did not go home. “You stay right here, Hussein,” he told me. “I’ll see food comes in. Don’t even put your head out.”’

  ‘But he did. He went out, didn’t he? Into the streets.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘To look after his friends.’

  ‘Friends?’

  ‘Arab friends. We thought at first, when it began, that it was directed against us. It usually is.’

  ‘But it wasn’t this time, was it? It was the conscripts.’

  ‘Yes, but we didn’t know that. Not at first. And when we did, people began to come out on their side. So in the end it didn’t make any difference. I don’t suppose it would have anyway. Once the Army had been called in, they would have gone for us anyway.’

  ‘And Lockhart was trying to see they didn’t?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t that foolhardy? I mean, one man –’

  ‘He was well known. He thought he had influence. He thought he might be able to stop them. Just being there, he thought, an independent witness, it might restrain them.’

  ‘But it didn’t?’

  ‘No. And it was foolish to even think that he could. But Señor Lockhart was like that. Foolhardy, yes. But generous, too. And he thought that nothing could happen to him. That he was, somehow, inviolable. That the bullets wouldn’t touch him. But they always do, don’t they?’

  ‘Except that, apparently, this time they did not. He was just taken into prison.’

  ‘The bullet got him in the end, though, didn’t it?’

  ‘Was it a bullet?’

  The Arab shrugged.

  ‘The garrotte, perhaps?’ he offered.

  There were flies buzzing in the window and through an open door Seymour could see Arabs sitting in an upper room. They were sitting on the ground, squatting on their haunches, content to sit in the darkness, since that was cooler. It could have been Tangier, he thought.

  ‘Why would they do that?’ he said.

  The Arab shrugged again. ‘To warn, perhaps? To warn others not to be too friendly?’

  He suddenly seemed to become nervous at his own frankness.

  ‘Who are you?’ he said.

  ‘I’m British,’ said Seymour. ‘Like Lockhart. A British policeman. Lockhart had British friends. Who are wondering what happened to him.’

  ‘A policeman?’ said the Arab doubtfully.

  ‘A British one,’ said Seymour.

  ‘Not Spanish?�
�

  ‘No.’

  The Arab seemed relieved.

  ‘The Spanish police came here,’ he said. ‘They wanted to know things about him. But we wouldn’t say anything.’

  ‘What might you have said?’

  But the Arab did not reply.

  Or perhaps he did.

  ‘Lockhart had many friends,’ he said.

  ‘Arab friends?’

  Si.’

  ‘I would like to meet some of those friends.’

  The Arab thought.

  ‘You are British?’ he said, as it seeking reassurance.

  ‘Yes. Cannot you hear it?’

  The Arab smiled.

  ‘Just,’ he said.

  Afterwards, Seymour thought that there was something strange about it: an Arab testing an Englishman’s facility in Spanish. But the Arab seemed to see nothing strange in it. Perhaps he thought of himself as Spanish? He certainly spoke Spanish like a native and seemed confident of his ability to judge Seymour’s Spanish.

  ‘Whenever Señor Lockhart came down here,’ he said, ‘he always used to go to a particular café to play dominoes.’

  ‘Where would I find it?’

  ‘It’s further on along the Calle. On the left.’

  ‘A name, perhaps?’

  The Arab hesitated.

  ‘Mine is Seymour.’

  ‘You could try asking for Ibrahim.’

  As they were going out, the Arab looked at Chantale as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps he was seeing her for the first time. When in the presence of women, Arabs often didn’t seem to notice them. This was not necessarily rudeness; indeed, to them it was politeness. It was felt offensive to address a woman directly, almost shockingly so, if she was with her husband – as, Seymour suspected, Chantale might well be supposed to be.