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

by Sally Spencer

  ‘You do know I’m an ex-bobby, don’t you?’ Woodend asked, just out of curiosity.

  ‘An ex-what?’ Melly asked.

  ‘Copper,’ Woodend said, translating from Northern English to London English. ‘I’m an ex-copper.’

  ‘Oh yes, I knew that,’ Melly said easily. ‘I wouldn’t be talking to you like this if I didn’t.’

  ‘You’ve lost me,’ Woodend confessed.

  ‘Well, when you tell some people you’ve got something a little bit dodgy in your past, they start looking all superior – like they’ve never done anything bent in their entire lives,’ Melly said. ‘Coppers aren’t like that. They know nobody’s all that squeaky clean. In fact, some of the ones I knew in the East End were so bent themselves that they made your ordinary decent criminals look like Mary Poppins.’ He held up his hands in front of him, palms outstretched. ‘No offence intended – I’m sure that when you were on the job, you were as straight as they come.’

  ‘I was,’ Woodend said.

  ‘But you know what I mean, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Woodend agreed. ‘I know what you mean.’ He looked down at his empty pot. ‘I think I’ll have another one of those.’

  ‘Coming up,’ Melly said, reaching for a fresh glass. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, I was making good money on the market, but it was so easy that I was getting bored with the whole thing, so when I got the chance to open a hotel in sunny Spain, I jumped at it.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Back in 1962,’ Melly said, sliding a newly filled pint pot in front of Woodend. ‘I was what I suppose you might call a bit of a pioneer – and like all pioneers, I had my fair share of frustrations. The Spanish government wanted us to come here, of course. They needed the foreign currency that we were bringing in. But they were damned if – just because we were vital to the economy – they were going to make it easy for us. You just can’t imagine the number of forms I had to fill in, and even when I’d done that …’

  ‘You used to have a woman called Elena Vargas Morales working for you, didn’t you?’ Woodend interrupted.

  ‘What makes you ask that?’ Melly said, with a new note of suspicion entering his voice.

  ‘It seems that Elena’s got into a spot of trouble in England,’ Woodend told him.

  ‘Oh, so that’s where she was go …’ Melly began, before he realized his mistake and clamped his mouth shut.

  ‘What was that?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Anyway, as I was saying, she’s got into this spot of trouble, and as a favour to a mate of mine, who’s still on the force, I’m doing a bit of background research on her.’

  ‘Well, you’ve certainly come to the wrong place if you’re looking for somebody to grass Elena up,’ Melly said, backing slightly away from the edge of the bar.

  ‘He’s not trying to hurt her, this mate of mine – he wants to help her,’ Woodend said. ‘And nothing you tell me can possibly do her any harm – you have my word on that.’

  Melly hesitated for a moment, then, clearly not wishing to offend his customer by doubting his word, he said, ‘I’ve always liked employing women. They’re good workers, and, unlike a lot of the men you hire, they don’t spend half their time trying to show they’re better at doing the job than you are yourself. But it’s through that policy that I hit one of my first problems in this country.’

  ‘Go on,’ Woodend said encouragingly.

  ‘Apparently, before the Civil War, women had all kinds of jobs. But after the war, Franco and the church soon put a stop to that. Women couldn’t be judges – hell, they couldn’t even appear as witnesses in court – they couldn’t have high-ranking jobs in the civil service, they couldn’t … well, you get the picture, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ Woodend agreed. ‘I get the picture.’

  ‘But even at the lower levels, they had a very hard time. If a woman was unmarried, she couldn’t take any job at all without first getting her father’s permission in writing, and if she was married, that permission had to come from her husband. And there was me, a single man in his late thirties – a bloody foreigner – wanting them to give me the right to have their women in my power for eight hours a day. Well, given the macho Shithead attitude they all have here, they weren’t going to stand for that, because even if the husband thought his wife would be safe enough with me, he knew his mates would imagine the worst – and nobody wants his mates laughing at him behind his back.’

  ‘But Elena didn’t have a father or a husband – or any close relatives for that matter,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Exactly,’ Melly agreed, ‘so nobody kicked up any sort of fuss when I took her on.’

  ‘What kind of work did she do for you?’

  ‘She started in the kitchen, and, by God, that woman could graft. Once she’d learned the ropes, she was doing the work of two men. And not only that, but she had a thirst for learning. She could hardly speak a word of English when she started here, but after a couple of years, she was good enough to take out of the kitchen and put on Reception. And when I expanded, I made her assistant manager – and she was bloody good at that, as well.’

  ‘When did she leave your employment?’

  ‘About three years ago.’

  ‘And why did she leave?’

  ‘She left because I sacked her,’ Melly said, slightly shamefaced. ‘I had no choice.’

  ‘But if she was such a good worker …’

  ‘A couple of plain-clothed policemen paid me a visit out of the blue one day. They had half a dozen free drinks off me, and when they’d finished, they said they thought they should tell me – as friends of the establishment – that it wasn’t good to have a suspected enemy of the state working for me.’

  ‘Was she an enemy of the state?’

  ‘Depends how you look at it. She’d spent some time in prison for political crimes after the Civil War. Also, I think the policemen might have suspected she was a member of the local communist party – and since the party is illegal in Spain, that certainly makes her Franco’s enemy.’

  ‘And was she a member?’ Woodend asked.

  Melly grinned. ‘Just between you, me and the gatepost, she wasn’t just a member – she was the party secretary.’

  ‘So you sacked her.’

  ‘Like I said, I didn’t have any choice in the matter. If I hadn’t have sacked her, they’d have found some excuse or other to close me down. But I wouldn’t want you to think I just cut her adrift.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘Certainly not! I could never have done that. I pay her a small pension. It’s not as much as she’d earn if she was actually working for me – I couldn’t afford that – but she gets by.’

  ‘Would this pension of hers be enough to get her to England?’ Woodend wondered.

  ‘Er … no, I don’t think it would,’ Melly said evasively.

  ‘So how could she afford it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Melly said – and now the shutters had come down over his eyes.

  ‘I told you she’d had a spot of bother in England,’ Woodend said, ‘but I’m afraid it’s a bit more than that. She was murdered.’

  ‘Oh God, no!’ Melly gasped, holding on to the bar for support. ‘She can’t … she just can’t …’

  ‘If you don’t mind me saying so, you seem to be very affected by the news of her death,’ Woodend said.

  ‘I … I wasn’t her lover, or anything like that, you know,’ Ted Melly said, as his eyes began to fill with tears. ‘I don’t think – strictly speaking – we could even have been called friends. But I really admired her, and the truth is, I was very fond of her, as well.’

  ‘And you’d like to see her killer brought to justice?’

  ‘Of course I would.’

  ‘So how did she get the money to travel to England?’

  ‘I gave it to her.’

  ‘Why didn’t you say that before?’

  ‘She asked me not to.’

  ‘Di
d she say why she had to go to England?’

  ‘She didn’t even say that it was England she was going to.’

  ‘And yet you were prepared to hand over a wad of money without further explanation? I find that rather unusual.’

  ‘You wouldn’t say that if you’d known Elena. She never asked me for anything she hadn’t earned. I virtually had to twist her arm to make her accept her pension.’ Melly gulped. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!’

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘If I’d never given her that money, she couldn’t have gone to England and she’d probably still be alive.’

  ‘If you hadn’t given her the money, it would have made no difference, because she’d have got it from someone else.’

  ‘Are you sure of that?’ Melly asked.

  ‘I’m positive,’ Woodend lied.

  Because what would have been the point in increasing Melly’s sense of guilt, when all he’d tried to do was help?

  ‘Yes, she’d have got it from someone else,’ Melly agreed, embracing the lie eagerly. He shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Poor bloody Elena.’

  Val de Montaña was typical of the settlements to be found up in the mountains. It consisted of around two hundred houses, a church, a town hall, and a main square. The houses were all three storeys tall – the top two being where the people lived, the bottom one used as a storeroom and stable for the animals in the winter. The church and town hall – two of the pillars of Franco’s Spain – were grander than the houses (though not by much) and faced each other across the square.

  There was a fountain in the centre of the square, and as Paco parked his little car, an unattended donkey – which had been drinking from the fountain – looked up at him with only mild interest.

  Paco got out of the car and headed towards the bar he had spotted at the edge of the square. He always walked with a slight limp, but now – aware that he was being observed – he exaggerated it.

  The bar itself was much as he had expected it to be. A zinc counter ran along one wall, and behind the counter were two large barrels, one containing cheap red wine, and the other holding cheap white. There were shelves behind the counter, too, and on them sat the packets of cigarettes, tins of sardines, bags of rice and electric batteries, which the bar sold as a sideline. On prominent display between two of the sets of shelves was a large framed photograph of General Franco, bordered with a black ribbon.

  The barman was in his late fifties, but his only two customers – who were sitting at a rickety table in the corner – were much, much older than that.

  ‘I’d like a glass of white wine, please,’ Paco said, placing a peseta on the counter.

  The barman poured the wine, and swept the coin up in his hand, all without saying a word or even really looking at his customer.

  Paco sipped his wine, and waited.

  He did not have to wait long.

  ‘I noticed you were limping badly when you walked across the square,’ one of the old customers said, with mountain-man directness. ‘Have you perhaps had an accident?’

  ‘You could call it that, if you wanted to,’ Paco replied. ‘And no doubt that’s what he would call it,’ he continued, pointing at the picture of Franco.

  ‘What do you mean by that?’

  ‘You ask a lot of questions for a man who has only come out for a drink,’ Paco said.

  ‘You are wrong to see me as no more than an ordinary customer. I own this bar,’ the old man said with a hint of pride in his voice. ‘And, as the proprietor, I am naturally curious about my customers.’

  ‘There are those who would assume that someone who asks so many questions is probably a government spy,’ Paco countered.

  ‘If they did make that assumption, I would take it as an insult,’ the old man said hotly.

  ‘And yet you display the picture of the Butcher of Asturias in this bar of yours,’ Paco pointed out.

  ‘We are sometimes visited by the Guardia Civil patrol,’ the old man explained. ‘If we were seen not to be paying respect to our “great fallen leader”, I would be in big trouble.’

  ‘I don’t see any members of the Guardia Civil here now,’ Paco said, looking around him.

  ‘True,’ the old man agreed. He turned his gaze on the barman. ‘Return the general to his rightful position, Antonio.’

  ‘Are you sure, Don Ramon?’ the barman asked.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Don Ramon said. ‘Our visitor is an honourable man. I would stake my life on it.’

  The barman reached up and turned the photograph around, so that now it was facing the wall.

  ‘Come and join us,’ Don Ramon said to Paco.

  Paco walked over to the table – remembering to exaggerate his limp – and sat down.

  ‘So now that old hijo de puta Franco is not watching us, you can perhaps tell us how you hurt your leg,’ Don Ramon suggested.

  ‘I worked in the Valley of the Fallen, outside Madrid, building that great one-hundred-and-fifty-metre-high cross which is supposed to commemorate all our war dead, but which we know is only there to honour the dead who followed Franco,’ Paco said.

  ‘And what happened?’

  Paco shrugged. ‘I did not matter – I was a political prisoner, and so expendable. I was sent to work where it was not safe to work, and a block of granite fell on me. I was lucky not to lose the leg.’

  He took another sip of wine. That, at least, was true, he thought, though what he intended to follow it with would be a pack of lies.

  ‘Can I ask you a question now?’ he said.

  ‘It seems only fair.’

  ‘Did you ever know a woman called Elena Vargas Morales?’

  ‘It is quite a common name,’ Don Ramon said, with sudden caution. ‘Why would you want to know about her?’

  ‘She had a distant relative living in the United States, who has recently died,’ Paco lied.

  ‘Was his name Arturo Sanchez?’ Don Ramon asked.

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it was,’ Paco replied, deciding to take a gamble.

  ‘I remember the day he left the village,’ Don Ramon said. ‘It was a fresh spring morning in 1916, and …’

  ‘It was spring, all right – but it was 1917,’ the other old man, whose name was Don Pedro, interrupted. ‘I know that, because it was the same year that Maria Teresa broke her leg during the fiestas.’

  Don Ramon glared at him, in the way that a man will glare when he realizes that he himself is wrong, but doesn’t want to openly admit it.

  ‘It does not matter when Arturo left,’ he said. ‘What I want to know is why his death has brought our friend here to the village.’

  ‘Arturo Sanchez left Elena a legacy,’ Paco said. ‘It was, in fact, quite a large one. I have been instructed to find her – and to make a small payment to anyone who assists me in that task.’

  ‘I can tell you where she is at this very moment,’ Don Ramon said, with growing interest.

  I strongly suspect you can’t, Paco thought, because if Louisa Paniatowski is right – and Charlie seems convinced she is – then Elena’s currently lying on the slab in the Whitebridge mortuary.

  ‘You can tell me where Elena Vargas Morales is to be found,’ he said aloud, ‘but as you pointed out yourself, it is a common name. To be sure it is the right Elena Vargas Morales, you must tell me a little of her history.’

  ‘Oh, I can certainly do that,’ Don Ramon replied, ‘and a harrowing tale you will find it.’

  NINE

  ‘Do you think I could see the photographs you took with you to your Auntie Pilar’s lunch?’ Paniatowski asked her daughter, who was sitting at her desk, engaged in a fight to the death with a quadratic equation.

  ‘Sorry, Mum, didn’t hear that,’ said Louisa, who was still wondering if multiplying both sides by two had been a good idea.

  ‘The photographs,’ Paniatowski repeated. ‘The ones you took to Spain. Could I see them?’

  ‘Of course,’ Louisa said, slightly mystified. ‘But why would
you want to see them?’

  ‘Your Uncle Charlie thinks that it might have been something that she saw in one of those photographs which made Doña Elena decide to come to England,’ Paniatowski explained.

  ‘So I was right,’ Louisa said triumphantly.

  ‘I never doubted you for a second,’ Paniatowski replied.

  ‘Mum!’ said Louisa, giving her one of those looks that made Paniatowski feel – just for a moment – that their roles had been reversed, and she had not only become the child in the relationship, but a rather errant child.

  ‘All right,’ she admitted, ‘I wasn’t quite convinced you were right at first.’

  Louisa grinned. ‘It was more than that,’ she said. ‘You thought that I was being naive and unsophisticated.’

  ‘Aren’t naive and unsophisticated just two different ways of saying the same thing?’ Paniatowski asked, to buy herself time. Then she smiled, and added, ‘You’re quite right, I did think that. Can I see the pictures now?’

  ‘Of course,’ Louisa said, gratefully pushing the quadratic equation to one side.

  It was quite a collection that her daughter had presented her with, Paniatowski thought, flicking through the pictures. There were photographs of the house, of Louisa’s school, of Louisa’s Uncle Colin and Louisa’s friends, but there was nothing there that might have inspired Doña Elena to travel to England.

  ‘And you’re sure this is everything you took with you?’ she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You’re quite certain there isn’t something that you’ve left out?’ Paniatowski persisted.

  ‘Quite certain,’ Louisa affirmed. She paused for a moment. ‘Well, there’s the article from the newspaper,’ she added.

  ‘What article from the newspaper?’

  ‘The one from the Evening Telegraph all about the Whitebridge Hispanic Circle.’

  ‘And why isn’t that here?’

  ‘Because it’s not a photograph – and what you asked me for was the photographs I took to Spain,’ Louisa said, with maddening logic.

  ‘Where’s the article now?’ Paniatowski asked.

  ‘It’s upstairs, back in my scrapbook,’ Louisa said. ‘Would you like me to bring it down?’