Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire

by Sally Spencer

  Pilar frowned with a gravity which only the matriarch of a large family can ever carry off successfully.

  ‘I understand why you are careful when you are speaking to most people, Doña Elena, but, knowing me as you do, I am a little offended that you should exercise such caution now,’ she said.

  ‘I apologize, Doña Pilar,’ Elena said, looking down at the cobblestones. Then she raised her head again, and said, ‘Let me phrase it another way – one that might be more acceptable to you. Is it wise to have a party while that hijo de puta Francisco Franco is dying?’

  Overhead, a seagull screeched loudly, and Pilar felt a shiver run through the length of her body.

  ‘He has been ill so many times,’ she said. ‘Do you think he is actually dying this time?’

  ‘I do,’ Elena confirmed.

  And she was right. The old man had held in his hands the power of life and death over every man and women in Spain for thirty-six long years. He had made full use of that power, ordering the execution of thousands after the Civil War had ended. And though his lust for blood had slowed down as the years went by, he had not stopped. Five men had been executed only months earlier, despite pleas from other heads of state – and even the pope himself – that they should be shown mercy.

  But just as he had refused to grant a reprieve to others, so he could not grant one for himself. Despite the fact he had thirty-two doctors in constant attendance, despite the complicated medical machinery which helped support his failing organs and the tubes which led in and out of his body – despite, even, the mummified arm of St Teresa of Avila, which was believed to have miraculous powers, and which always travelled with him – he was dying.

  That was why, for days, the radio had played only solemn music, and the newspapers had produced long and elaborate reports in which each of his decaying organs had become a celebrity in its own right.

  ‘Perhaps it might not be wise to have a party, but it is the right thing to do,’ Pilar said firmly. ‘The whole family will be there to welcome little Louisa – and I would like you to be there, too.’

  ‘I am not family,’ Elena pointed out.

  ‘I have taken you to my heart, Doña Elena and that makes you family,’ Pilar said.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ Elena said humbly.

  ‘And you,’ said Pilar passionately, ‘are my inspiration.’

  The storeroom window overlooked an alley – just as Woodend and Ruiz’s own office did – making it easy for someone standing in that alley to be handed the stolen goods with little chance of being seen.

  The only problem with that theory was that, rather than there being indications that the bars had been tampered with, there was very clear evidence that they hadn’t. The screws were rusted, the screw heads showed no signs of being turned since the day they had been installed. And when Woodend grabbed hold of the bars and shook them, they didn’t move at all.

  ‘The stuff has to have come through the window,’ Woodend said. ‘They couldn’t possibly have got it out any other way.’

  But they hadn’t used the window, because if they had …

  It was then that he noticed the small pieces of white material on the ground, and bending to pick one up, discovered they were tiny bits of polystyrene.

  He straightened up again.

  ‘When is Sr Garcia expecting his next delivery, Paco?’ he asked.

  ‘Not until the middle of next month,’ Ruiz replied.

  ‘Then there’s nothing more that we can do until the middle of next month,’ Woodend told him.

  ‘Nothing?’ Paco repeated, astonished.

  ‘Nothing,’ Woodend confirmed.

  ‘So we’ll just let the thief carry on stealing the goods for another three weeks, will we?’ Paco asked.

  ‘Nothing more will be stolen in the next three weeks,’ Woodend said confidently. ‘Nothing can be stolen – not until Sr Garcia signs the manifest for the next delivery.’

  Paco grinned. ‘You know how it was done, don’t you?’ he said.

  ‘Yes,’ Woodend agreed. ‘I know how it was done.’

  TWO

  The Woodends’ main terrace looked out towards the sea at one end, and back towards the mountains at the other, but Paniatowski, who kept striding up and down it, didn’t seem to be really appreciating either of the views.

  ‘For God’s sake, Monika, calm down,’ Woodend said. ‘It’s only an hour since we dropped Louisa off at her Auntie Pilar’s place, and you’ve already walked miles. Carry on like this, and you’ll have worn a hole in the terrace by the time we pick her up this evening.’

  ‘I can’t help worrying about how she’s getting on,’ Paniatowski replied. ‘It’s the first time she’s ever met any of her Spanish relatives, you know – and she’s only fifteen. She’s bound to find the whole experience completely intimidating.’

  ‘No, she won’t,’ Woodend reassured her. ‘That Doña Pilar will take care of her. You could tell just by looking at the woman that she’s got a heart the size of a double-decker bus, and that she loves kids.’

  ‘She seemed quite formidable to me,’ Paniatowski said doubtfully.

  ‘She is that,’ Woodend agreed. ‘In fact, she scared the hell out of me – but then I’m not a pretty fifteen-year-old blood relative, am I? – and I guarantee that when Louisa comes back, she’ll be babbling on for days that Auntie Pilar said this, or Auntie Pilar said that.’

  ‘Yes, she might well be,’ said Paniatowski, looking even more unhappy.

  ‘Ah, so that’s it!’ Woodend exclaimed. ‘You’re not so much worried that Louisa won’t like them, as you are that she’ll like them too much.’

  Paniatowski shuddered.

  Yes, there was something to that, she admitted to herself. The girl was only her adopted daughter, and though Louisa’s real mother – Maria – had been murdered when she was small, she was still Spanish. And perhaps the idea of being constantly surrounded by a large, loving family – a family to whom she was actually biologically connected – would start to seem appealing.

  ‘You’re an idiot,’ Woodend said – though not unkindly.

  ‘I’m what?’

  ‘An idiot. You’re the most important person in the world to your daughter, and that’s not going to change until she falls in love, when – quite rightly – you’ll be demoted to the number two position.’

  ‘I know all that, but …’ Paniatowski said helplessly.

  ‘How’s your love life?’ Woodend asked, changing the subject.

  Paniatowski shrugged. ‘What with the job and Louisa, I don’t seem to have much time for one,’ she admitted.

  ‘Love isn’t just going to fall into your lap, you know,’ Woodend said, a little sternly. ‘If you want a feller, then you’re going to have to make just a little bit of an effort yourself.’

  ‘Where does this sudden urge to start poking your nose in my private affairs come from?’ Paniatowski demanded – and though she was angry, she knew that at least part of it was defensive anger.

  ‘You’re right, it’s none of my business,’ Woodend admitted. ‘But I’m only asking because I care about you,’ he added. ‘And I do care about you, Monika – you know that, don’t you?’

  ‘Of course I know it,’ Paniatowski replied, calming down a little.

  There was the sound of the phone ringing inside the villa, and for a moment, it looked as if Woodend would use that as an excuse to escape.

  Then he sank back into his chair, and said, ‘But if I am interfering where I’m not welcome, it’s only because I’d like to see you settled before … before …’

  ‘Before I get too old?’ Paniatowski asked, feeling her anger return. ‘Before I become a piece of mutton that no man will even look at – before I find myself left on the shelf?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t going to say that at all,’ Woodend replied, sounding uncomfortable.

  ‘Maybe you wouldn’t have used those exact words – but that was certainly the general idea,’ Paniatowski countered. />
  ‘I’ve not handled this well, have I?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘No, you bloody well haven’t!’ Paniatowski agreed.

  ‘Am I interrupting something?’ asked a voice from the doorway, and Woodend and Paniatowski turned to see Joan standing there.

  ‘No, you’re not interrupting, lass,’ Woodend told her. ‘We were just chatting about things in general.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear that,’ Joan said, ‘because it sounded to me like an argument.’

  ‘It wasn’t!’ Woodend and Paniatowski replied simultaneously.

  Joan nodded. ‘Good. Anyway, what I came to tell you was that that was Paco on the phone, and he says that the van’s arrived, and the driver’s just ordered his lunch at the Playa y Mar.’

  Woodend stood up. ‘I’d better get down there, then,’ he said, his relief at escaping from the earlier conversation evident in his voice. ‘Would you like to come along for the ride, Monika?’

  ‘I’d love to,’ Paniatowski replied – and she sounded relieved, too.

  Everyone back home would be walking around in overcoats, and wearing mittens and scarves, Louisa thought, but here it was so warm that just a cardigan would do – and when you were in the sun, you didn’t even need that!

  She looked around her – at the old stone farmhouse, at the groves of lemon and orange trees, and the women standing over the open wood fire on which the paella was being slowly brought to perfection – and, with her earlier trepidation now quite vanquished, she sighed with contentment.

  She had been introduced to so many aunts and great-aunts, uncles and great-uncles, cousins and second-cousins – all of whom had given her such an enthusiastic welcome that her head was swimming.

  ‘What are you thinking about, little Louisa?’ asked a voice to her left.

  The speaker was Tiá Pilar, and though no one had actually said she was the matriarch of the family, it was obvious from the deference paid to her that that was exactly what she was.

  ‘I was thinking how nice it is here – and how very nice all of you are,’ Louisa said. ‘And I was also wondering,’ she added tentatively, ‘why all the older women here are dressed in black.’

  ‘It shows we are in mourning for a loved one,’ Doña Pilar said. ‘I first put on my mourning clothes when my father died, and before my period of mourning for him was over, my mother died. Then an uncle passed away, then a cousin, and eventually, my dear husband, Curro. That is the way life goes. There is always someone to mourn. But you must not think we are unhappy with our lives, child – it is simply that we are brought up to show respect.’

  ‘I see,’ Louisa said dubiously.

  ‘They tell me you were not brought up speaking Spanish,’ Doña Pilar said in a puzzled voice, as if it were inconceivable to her that anyone in the whole world could have been raised in such strange circumstances.

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ Louisa agreed. ‘But my mother – my adoptive mother – has always believed that I should learn to speak the language, and I’ve been having lessons since I was quite small.’

  ‘Why isn’t she here with you now?’ Doña Pilar asked.

  ‘She thought it would be easier for me if she stayed away the first time I met the family,’ Louisa said, ‘but I will bring her with me next time.’

  There was the sound of a cowbell being struck from somewhere close to the paella pan.

  ‘Lunch is ready,’ Doña Pilar said.

  The Playa y Mar was a very popular place at lunchtime, and since all the tables were already taken, Woodend and Paniatowski sat at the bar.

  ‘That’s the driver who’ll be delivering Sr Garcia’s latest order of music centres in an hour or so,’ said Woodend, gesturing discreetly at a man in a boiler suit who was sitting alone, and had already started on the dish of meatballs in tomato sauce, which was his second course.

  ‘And why are we watching him?’ Paniatowski wondered.

  ‘Because this is where we think Luis Ibañez, Sr Garcia’s manager, will pay him off.’

  ‘You’re sure Ibañez is the man you want?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘Yes, because he’s the only one in the whole shop, apart from the owner, who has a key.’

  ‘But I thought you told me that he has to hand his key in to the boss at closing time.’

  ‘He does. But it’s during the day he needs it – because he has to lock himself inside.’

  ‘You’re being deliberately mysterious,’ Paniatowski said.

  ‘That’s one way of looking at it,’ Woodend said. ‘Another way is to see it as me testing you, to see if you’re as good a detective as you used to be.’

  ‘All right, I’ll play along with it,’ Paniatowski said, with a theatrical sigh. ‘Why will the driver be getting his pay-off now? Shouldn’t he have to wait until after the robbery?’

  ‘Of course – but, you see, the robbery’s already taken place.’

  ‘Before the goods have even been delivered?’

  ‘Yes,’ Woodend said. ‘Maybe things will become clearer to you when I tell you that I found flakes of polystyrene in the alley.’

  Paniatowski thought about it.

  ‘Ah!’ she said.

  ‘Got it now?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘And just in time – because here comes Ibañez.’

  The manager entered the restaurant and took a quick look around him, then walked up to the bar and ordered a black coffee.

  ‘Since the van driver is sitting midway between the bar and the toilets, my guess is that Ibañez will suddenly feel the need to take a pee,’ Woodend whispered to Paniatowski.

  The manager drained his coffee and headed towards the gents. As he passed the delivery man’s table, he dropped an envelope on it, and the delivery man swept it up and put it in his boiler suit pocket. The whole exchange had taken only a couple of seconds, and anyone who had not been looking specifically at the table would have missed it completely.

  ‘Right,’ Woodend said, ‘now we move into phase two.’

  There were thirty to lunch, and they ate it at a long table on the terrace in front of the farmhouse. The youngest guests were three or four, and could only reach the table by sitting on a small mountain of cushions. The oldest were Doña Pilar and her surviving sisters – all of them widows, and all dressed in black.

  The meal began with bread, garlic butter and olives, followed by several kinds of cold meat and cheese. And then the paella – a magnificent concoction of rice, rabbit, chicken and seafood – was served.

  Doña Pilar sat at the head of the table, with Louisa to her left and Uncle Jaime – her son – to her right. As they ate, Aunt Pilar treated Louisa to a potted history of everyone present.

  That middle-aged man was Cousin Antonio, who had worked in the Continental Tyre Factory in Germany for a number of years, and been so successful at making tyres that he had saved up enough money to buy his own small bar.

  The man next to him had been a bullfighter in his youth. He should have risen to the top of his profession, but he was so good that the more famous matadors – envious of his talent – had conspired to keep him from making an appearance in any of the more important rings, like the ones in Madrid or Seville, and he had been forced to make a living performing at village fiestas.

  The women with a large mole on her cheek, Cousin Teresa, had once been courted by a count, but had turned her back on a life of luxury and chosen to marry a poor wine press mechanic instead.

  Uncle Jaime listened to his mother’s stories with a smile on his face which said that while there was certainly an element of truth in all of them, the old lady was – at the very least – guilty of a little light embroidery.

  ‘And you see the woman at the end of the table?’ Aunt Pilar asked.

  Louisa saw she was pointing to a woman in her early sixties, who must once have been very handsome, but whose face now wore the marks of intense suffering.

  ‘Yes, I see her,’ she said.

  ‘That is Doña Elena,’ Aunt
Pilar said. ‘She is not a part of this family – she is not even from our village – but when I heard her story, I clasped her to my bosom, and she has remained there ever since.’

  ‘Tell me about her,’ Louisa said.

  ‘She was still a young woman when the Civil War ended, but when the fascists marched into her village …’

  ‘Be careful what you say, Mother,’ Uncle Jaime cautioned her, with a hint of panic in his voice.

  Doña Pilar gave him a look which could have frozen blood.

  ‘I am an old woman, in the midst of my own family, and I will not pretend to have anything but contempt for that butcher who lives in Madrid and calls himself our Caudillo,’ she said.

  ‘But Mother …’ Jaime said.

  ‘You will say no more,’ his mother told him. ‘Is that clear?’

  Don Jaime bowed his head like a guilty five-year-old, and mumbled, ‘Yes, Mother.’

  ‘Now where was I?’ Doña Pilar asked, turning back to Louisa.

  ‘You were saying that Doña Elena was a young woman when the Civil War ended,’ Louisa prompted.

  ‘Ah yes. When the fascists marched into her village, she did not pretend – as many of us, to our eternal shame, did – that she thought of them as conquering heroes. And when their officer offered her extra rations if she would …’

  ‘Mother, please!’ Don Jaime said.

  ‘This time, you are right to stop me,’ his mother said. She thought for a moment, before continuing, ‘This officer made a suggestion to her that no decent man should ever make to a respectable woman – and she spat in his face.’

  ‘And … and what happened to her?’ Louisa gasped.

  ‘They had already locked up her husband, and now they took her baby son from her,’ Doña Pilar said. ‘Then the officer took from her what she would not give freely, and when he had had his way, he locked her up, too. They said she had insulted an officer – it didn’t matter to them why she had done it – and they kept her in prison for ten years. She was lucky she was not shot,’ tears began to form in Doña Pilar’s eyes, ‘although perhaps she does not think she was lucky at all, and would have seen a bullet as a merciful release.’