Blood Wedding (31 page)

‘Maybe you’re right. We should at least question him. But we need a quick result. When are you back in the office?’

‘Cabo Guevarra is giving me a run over to Diva tomorrow. I need to speak to Teniente González. I’m still a bit wobbly, so I thought I’d be back in the office for the start of next week.’

‘Well, don’t malinger too long.’

Max phoned Ahmed. There was no reply. He then phoned Anita.

There was no reply. The phone rang: it was Ahmed. He and Zaida had been to identify the body. It was definitely Hassan.

‘He slit his wrists, Max. The police say the only fingerprints on the knife are his, no sign of any struggle nor any other footprints around. Tragic.’

‘Will you bury him?’

‘Of course. He was sick, killed himself while of unsound mind. Allah the Compassionate would want him buried with a proper funeral. I won’t be able to do that today – the police have more forensics to do. So it will have to be tomorrow evening.’

Max wanted to ask whether he, Ahmed, thought Hassan had killed Leila, but this was not an appropriate moment.

‘I’ll try and be there for tomorrow.’

‘That’s kind of you. I heard you’ve had an accident. How are you?’

‘Slipped. Much better now.’

Max put the phone down slowly. Okay. Suicide. But does that make Hassan guilty? Not a violent type. And he seemed really fond of Leila, so where’s the motive? Gonzo reckons he was unstable all along. So anything could have tipped him – a quarrel? A break-up?

The phone rang. It was Anita. ‘Max, I’ll be over tomorrow morning, about ten. Really busy just now, so I’ll fill you in then.
Chao.’

Max went and got on with his list of outstanding tasks. He’d have to move fast. The pressure was on to declare Hassan guilty: case closed. He must get in touch with that British family and with Leila’s friend, and he had to talk to Juan. Max found the piece of paper with the phone number Anita had obtained from the bank. He dialled it: no reply. He had no phone number for Shona Monroe, Leila’s friend, but he did have an email address. She might be back from her trek in Nepal. He sent off a brief request to get in touch with him as soon as possible. Best not frighten her. So he added that it was something to do with her friend, Leila Mahfouz, and asked her for her phone number: could be a shock to receive an email saying your best friend has been murdered.

Juan? Max looked at his watch. It was time for lunch. He could go to El Duende, and see if he could find out some more about that lunch Juan had with Leila. The last time he’d been there was with dad: the divorce had just gone through, and dad was moving to Barcelona. It was a sad occasion. He’d promised to keep in touch, but the phone calls had got fewer and fewer, especially on Max’s part.

It would be nice to see the old git again. And Barcelona was always worth a visit.

Max hobbled into the restaurant and chose a quiet corner table. It hadn’t changed much: filled with bull-fighting mementoes – photos of bullfighters, stuffed heads of bulls, bull horns, a picador’s round hat, a pike pole, banderillas, the swords, and an ancient red cloak. Max smiled: grandpa and the old owner had been friends, both passionate about bullfighting. Grandpa used to bring him and Juan here as children after the bullfight in Granada. Max had never enjoyed
la corrida
– all the elaborate rituals, and then the uneven contest between the mortally wounded bull and the matador. But Juan loved it. Max got up from his table and went to look for his favourite photo, that of Manolete, el Triste, a bullfighter with a long thin face and large sad eyes, famous for replying, when asked why he never smiled, that bullfighting was too serious a business to smile. Manolete was gored to death.

Max was staring at the photo when the owner, a small, shrivelled man, came over.

‘Max, a long time. How are you? And Don Bernardo, your father? And Señor Juan?’

‘All fine, Pepito, all fine. Yes a long time, at least a year.’

‘I miss Señor Bernardo coming in. But Juan still comes by.’

‘How’s
la corrida?
Still going?’

‘Sí
. But it’s not the same any more. There’s women in the ring. I ask you. But what happened to you? Look like you’ve been in the wars.’

‘Nothing much. Just slipped, that’s all.’

Pepito looked at the faded photo, and sighed. ‘Manolete, el Triste. One of the best. Spain doesn’t produce the likes of him anymore. It’s just entertainment now. But Manolete understood. It’s something profound, something spiritual. Man and one of the great forces of nature.’

‘So you’ve seen quite a bit of Juan here then?’

‘Oh, now and again.’

‘Was he here some weeks ago with a pretty dark-haired girl?’

‘Let me see now . . . I would have been on holiday then. But Gregorio would have been here. Why don’t you order, and I’ll call him over. I hope Don Juan isn’t . . . in any difficulty?’

‘No, Pepito, I’m just trying to do my cousin a favour.’

‘Of course, you can rely on our discretion. Your grandfather was a true gentleman.’

Max ordered a
rabo de toro a la Sevillana
, one of the specialities of the house. During the season it was made with the bull tails from the
corrida
in Granada. Gregorio came over. Yes, he did know Juan.

‘Can you remember the last time he was here?’ Max asked.

‘Yes, it was about three weeks ago,’ Gregorio replied. ‘Don Juan was with a very pretty dark-haired girl – dark, flashing eyes. You wouldn’t forget her in a hurry.’

‘Did you notice anything else?’

‘Not really . . . yes . . . somebody came up to them, an old friend I think, because I remember him kissing the girl on both cheeks.’

That would have been Ricardo, thought Max.

‘Had Don Juan and the girl been here before?’

‘Not that I remember. Now wait a minute . . . such a pretty girl . . . there was – how can I put it – a bit of gossip in the kitchen. Patricio said he had seen them at La Moraima.’

‘Could I speak to Patricio?’

‘He’s here now. I’ll get him.’

Gregorio returned a few minutes later with Patricio in tow. Yes, Patricio remembered the girl, a real beauty.

‘You’d seen them together before, I believe?’ asked Max.

‘Yes. I do the odd shift at La Moraima. I’d seen them eating there the week before.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes. She’s not the sort of girl you forget.’

Max finished his meal, lost in thought. He ordered a brandy with his coffee, and then another. Juan had been less than honest. What is it the politicians now say . . . economical with the truth. It was an awkward situation. The police hoped to get the case closed: Hassan guilty of Leila’s murder, probably while mind disturbed. Max would be less than popular if he threw a spanner in the works. Was Juan involved? How? It couldn’t have been deliberate murder, no. But what if Juan had tried to cover up a fatal accident? There was probably a simple explanation.

Max got a taxi back to his flat. It would be wise to leave his talk with Juan until after Hassan’s funeral. There might be more information – something pointing towards Hassan. Max checked his email: there was a reply from Shona Monroe, just back from Nepal. She had left a telephone number. This was going to be difficult.

Max dialled and waited; a Scottish voice answered the phone, perhaps a slight west coast accent. Max explained as gently as he could: there was a gasp of horror, then tears at the end of the line. It took a good five minutes for Max to get round to the question he needed to ask.

‘Do you know anything about this man Leila had fallen in love with?’

‘No. Nothing, except he was very good-looking. Leila never fell for any man unless he was gorgeous. And yes, he was married. I warned her . . . Oh . . . oh . . . sorry.’

‘Just take your time.’

‘Thanks . . . can I ring you back . . . I have to . . .’

Five minutes later the phone rang again. ‘Sub-Inspector Romero?’

‘Yes, it’s me . . . can you remember anything else? Just take your time.’

‘We spoke very briefly on the phone before I set off. All I got was that she was really keen.’

‘Was he British, do you think?’

‘British? I just assumed he was Spanish – Leila had a thing about dark eyes. No, we talked as if he was Spanish.’

‘Did she say he was part of the Muslim community here?’

‘No.’

‘So Spanish?’

‘I couldn’t swear to it – it just seemed obvious he was, and nothing Leila said contradicted that.’

‘Anything else you remember that might be useful?’

‘No, nothing,’ and Shona started crying again. ‘Oh. Leila. Oh Leila. She was something special, you know.’

‘I know,’ Max replied.

Max then called the British family again. Still no reply. He tried again some hours later, but still no luck. He’d better rest: it would be a tiring day tomorrow. He slept fitfully. He dreamt of Juan dragging him back down to Capa in the snow, of Juan laughing when he fell out of the tree, of Juan the star centre forward in the school team, of the endless arguments with neither side willing to give ground, and then of Juan with
el abuelo
– fishing, walking, going to watch
la corrida
. What now?

Decid a mis amigos
Que he muerto
.

Tell my friends
That I’m dead.

Frederico García Lorca,
Desde aquí
(
From Out Here
)

Anita arrived promptly at 10.00. Max was tense after a bad night.

‘Max, how are you? You look really tired. Are you sure you should go?’

‘Yes, I must. I told Ahmed I would go to the funeral.’

‘Really?’

‘I’m just going as a friend of Ahmed’s . . . I didn’t ask permission.’

Anita helped him down to her car. His ribs were aching, and he had a headache. Anita looked at him. ‘I’ll drive slowly, and we can stop for coffee.’

Max said nothing until they were out of Granada and on the motorway to Diva.

‘So what’s new?’

‘Nothing really, sir . . . Max. It’s suicide.’

‘Any doubts?’

‘No. He took a near fatal dose of painkillers, then slit his wrists with a knife he took from Zaida’s kitchen. There’s no evidence of foul play.’

‘So how are Gonzo and the gang?’

‘Over the moon. Everyone’s phoning in to congratulate us.’

‘So what happens next?’

‘Well, the evidence for Hassan either deliberately killing Leila or covering up a fatal accident is only circumstantial. No confession, no eyewitness, no forensics. But with no one else in the frame, it looks like the case will be closed once Judge Falcón has made his report and submitted it to the Juez del Juicio, and the magistrates have agreed. And you, sir, anything new?’

Max carefully detailed his findings.

‘That’s really awkward. But maybe there’s nothing there. But Juan’s not come completely clean. If he was having an affair, then he probably wouldn’t want to admit it.’

‘I know. But what do I . . . we . . . do now?’

‘I suggest nothing, sir. We continue investigating until taken off the case. I can understand your concern. He’s your best friend and cousin.’

‘But they could have quarrelled, and then there could have been an accident.’

‘There’s no evidence for that. And the affair, if there was one, was probably over – Leila was going out with Hassan, remember.’

‘That’s true.’

‘We’ll stop here, you don’t look great.’

They stopped at a roadside restaurant, went in and ordered two coffees. Max sat quietly, brooding over his coffee. Anita glanced at him, and then fell silent, respecting his need to think. She finally interrupted. ‘I think it’s best we wait, Max. Let’s not jump to any conclusions.’

‘Thanks, Anita, I’ve come to that conclusion. I think I’m becoming a cop after all – the honourable cop in me says I should confront Juan immediately; but the realist cop in me says he’s family, a good friend, probably nothing . . . so wait and see. We’ll hold back on Juan. Let’s go.’

They got back in the car, and drove to Diva. The pain had eased, and Max felt sufficiently calm to change the subject away from work.

‘How’s your sister getting on?’ he asked.

Anita laughed, ‘She falls in and out of love every day. I spend half my time hearing all about her broken heart, hugging her while she sobs, and then next time I phone she’s over the moon, just met Mr Right, and heaven is round the corner.’

Max laughed too. ‘Youth. You take it all so seriously.’

‘And you, sir. You’ve never been married?’

‘Me, married? Good heavens, no.’

‘Have you noticed how cops seem to marry other cops?’

‘Need someone to understand them, I suppose.’

They entered Diva, and drove straight to the police station. It was buzzing. González was in an expansive mood, his head shining with importance.

‘Max, how are you? Fell off a mountain or something, I believe.’

‘Something like that.’

‘You’ve been most helpful. The information that Hassan had plenty of time to slip out of the café is invaluable. The jigsaw’s all fitting into place.’

‘Maybe. Any news on Javeed Dharwish and the others?’

‘Oh, yes. Davila said you had suggested we should ask the British to question Javeed Dharwish.’

‘Any progress?’

‘No. Davila just rang. The local cops are on the case, but I don’t see what good that’s going to do.’

‘Well, he is Hassan’s alibi for the time of Leila’s death.’

‘Yes. But he’s not going to tell us the truth, is he?’

Max needed another coffee. ‘If you’ll excuse me now, sir. I—’

‘Of course. You’ve done well, Sub-Inspector. Got a result.’

Max bought a newspaper from a kiosk, and went to El Paraíso. Got a result, my arse, he thought. What about truth? The paper was full of the coming election. All the opinion polls showed it was too close to call. Any incident could tip the result either way. ‘Surely the voters weren’t dumb enough to let the PP back in?

Max took his mobile out of his pocket and phoned Ahmed.

‘Yes. I’m here in Diva. If you have time I’d like to come round for a talk . . . Now would be convenient. Perfect. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.’