The Butcher Beyond (23 page)

Schneider shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘I should think it will not take more than a day or two. We Germans keep very good records. But that is still no reason why I should do your work for you.'

‘You don't seem very concerned about us finding out who you really are.'

‘Why should I be?'

‘Mitchell was.'

‘Mitchell has had problems in his country as a result of what he did in Spain. His government doesn't like it at all. In fact, American members of the Brigade were not allowed to fight against the Reich in the Second World War. Did you know that? They were not to be trusted, you see. My government does not view things in quite the same light. I am not a man who fought
for
the communists, but one who fought
against
the fascists – and in Germany that makes me a hero.'

‘You're not worried that because you're travellin' under false papers you might actually go to prison here in Spain?'

‘Perhaps. But after my years in the concentration camp that Adolf Hitler—' Schneider broke off and smiled – but it was a worried smile. ‘Very clever, Chief Inspector,' he said.

The German raised his hands, so that, though the palms were pointing towards each other, they were at least two feet apart. His fingers began to undulate, as though he was playing something.

A piano accordion! Woodend thought. In his mind, he was playing a piano accordion.

‘
Now
you're concerned, aren't you?' he asked. ‘You might have survived the concentration camp, but you were a lot younger then.'

Schneider's fingers came to a rest. He looked considerably calmer than he had a few moments earlier.

‘As I said, I am a hero,' he told Woodend. ‘My government will not let me remain in a Spanish prison for long.'

‘Unless we can prove that you were implicated in the murder of Antonio Durán and his two bodyguards.'

‘But I was not. And I have an alibi to prove it.'

‘What kind of alibi?'

‘I was with my comrades.'

‘All night?'

‘No, I was not with
all
of them
all
night. But at the time Durán was probably killed, I was certainly with one of them.'

‘An' which one of them might that be?'

‘I was with Dupont.'

‘Ah, I see,' Woodend said thoughtfully. ‘You were with
Dupont
.' He searched around in his mind for some sharp mental instrument he could use to break through Schneider's veneer of confidence. ‘Are you lovers?' he asked. ‘Is that why you spent the night together?'

Schneider laughed. ‘Are you hoping to
shame
me into confessing to the murder? Do you think I would rather be taken for a killer than be thought a homosexual?'

‘I don't know. Which one are you?'

‘Neither! I have seven children. And Dupont claims to have three mistresses. Of course, he is French, so he may be exaggerating a little, to make himself seem more virile than he really is.'

‘So if it wasn't for sex, why
did
you spend the night together?'

‘For security, of course. After Medwin was killed, we decided that there was safety in numbers.'

‘So why didn't
all of you
stay together?'

‘Perhaps we would have done once – when we were young. But we are getting old, and we are getting soft. Two of us could sleep quite comfortably in one of those modest hotel rooms. More would have been difficult.'

‘Then who got left out?'

‘I am sorry?'

‘Only two could sleep in one room, and there were five of you. So who got left out?'

‘Mitchell.'

‘Why him?'

‘It was his choice, not ours. He told us that he would prefer to be alone.'

‘Why do you think that was?'

‘I didn't think at all. If you want to know the answer, you must ask him yourself.'

Dupont seemed as much at ease as his German comrade had.

‘So you spent the night of the murder with Schneider, did you?' Woodend asked.

‘
Oui
.'

‘An' is he still as good a lover as he used to be?'

Dupont smirked. ‘You English are so funny.'

‘Are we? In what way?'

‘You are so afraid of being thought a homosexual zat if you brush against each other accidentally, you are full of apology. Ze exception, of course, is if you are playing
le rugby
. Zen you maul each other as much as you wish. Me, I am French. I do not lust after uzzer men, but if I did, I would not be ashame of it. And my friend, Schneider, he have seven children – or so he claim.'

‘You don't believe him?'

‘Per'aps he have two or three. He only say seven to make him look like a stallion.'

‘This isn't a joke!' Woodend said, finally losing his temper.

‘It is not?'

‘Four men have been killed!'

‘
One
man have been killed – one man and three vermin.'

‘You didn't even know the two guards who were murdered. What right do you have to call them vermin?'

‘I judge a man by the company he keep. If I were not me, I would be proud to be one of my comrades instead. Any man who work for that butcher Durán deserve what he get. Beside, somebody kill Medwin. You don't think that was one of Durán's bodyguards?'

‘You can't go takin' the law into your hands,' Woodend said.

‘Why not?' Dupont asked. ‘It seem to work out pretty well for that bastard Franco.'

Woodend and Ruiz sat at a table in the bar closest to the Guardia Civil barracks. Woodend had asked for a beer, the Spaniard had chosen
sol y sombra
– a near-lethal mixture of brandy and anis.

‘They've worked out their story together, and they think that they're untouchable,' Woodend complained.

‘Perhaps they are. Perhaps, after all, they are not guilty.'

‘They came here to kill Durán. They thought they had reason enough for that before they ever set foot in Spain. Then one of their number is murdered, and they suspect – naturally enough – that Durán is behind it. They wouldn't be human if they just sat back and took that.'

‘They wouldn't be human if they just sat back and took it,' Paco repeated. ‘Do you know what your problem is, Charlie?'

‘No, but I'm sure you're about to tell me.'

‘At least part of you is on their side. And does that part of you truly want to see them punished for murdering the
Alcalde
?'

‘I don't know,' Woodend admitted.

‘Have you ever let a guilty man go free before?'

Woodend thought of the investigation involving the Dark Lady of Westbury. ‘Once,' he said.

Paco smiled. ‘The second time is always easier.'

Woodend shook his head. ‘I don't think it'll
ever
get easier. Besides, as much as I may dislike the guilty man being arrested, I've got an even stronger aversion to an innocent man taking the rap. And if we don't find the killer, that's what Captain López is goin' to make sure happens.'

‘Ah yes, Captain López,' Paco Ruiz said enigmatically.

‘An' what, exactly, do you mean by that?'

‘I am not sure. But neither am I sure that López's involvement in the case is as straightforward as it might seem.'

‘If you have somethin' you think that you should tell me …'

‘I have nothing at all. Believe me, I would already have told you if I had.'

Woodend took another sip of his beer. That morning, it tasted like gnat's piss, though he was prepared to admit that the fault might not be with the beer but with himself.

‘It would be nice if we could somehow tie López in with the killin's though, wouldn't it?' he said.

‘It would be delightful,' Paco Ruiz agreed.

T
he two Guardia Civil constables had been assigned the task of searching the hotel rooms which had been occupied by the
brigadistas
. They had begun their task full of enthusiasm – and in the clear expectation that they would uncover some vital piece of evidence which would both solve the case and put them firmly in Captain López's good books. So far, they had had no luck at all.

They had searched Mitchell's room first. They had admired his American clothes – such quality was simply not available in any of the shops they had access to – but since all the labels had been removed, there was nothing to be learned from them. They discovered several bottles of pills, but they seemed more like drugs prescribed by a doctor than anything he might have bought illegally for his own decadent pleasure.

Roberts's room had been next. Here they had found several packs of playing cards, a notebook full of complicated mathematical calculations, and several pages from old foreign newspapers with pictures of horses on them. Roberts's clothes, like the ones belonging to his friend Mitchell, had had all their labels carefully removed.

It was as they were about to enter the third room – Dupont's – that they realized they were not alone and, looking round, they saw that Captain López was standing in the corridor.

The two men snapped to attention and saluted. ‘At your orders, my Captain,' the senior one said.

‘You have not found anything?' López asked, without much expectation in his voice.

‘No, my Captain. I am sorry, my Captain.'

López nodded. ‘I cannot expect you to find something when there is nothing to be found,' he said, with uncharacteristic sympathy and understanding. ‘This is the Frenchman's room, no?'

‘Yes, my Captain.'

‘I will search this one personally.'

The
guardias
exchanged an instinctive – and puzzled – look. It was not at all like López to get his hands dirty by doing actual police work. That kind of thing, he had always said, was what he had constables for.

‘You will search it, my Captain?' one of the constables asked, to make sure that he had heard right.

‘I will search it,' López repeated.

‘You do not wish us to assist you?'

‘I do not. I wish you to search the German's room.'

The constables saluted again, turned as smartly as the narrow corridor would permit, and marched off towards Schneider's room.

López opened Dupont's door. He was not entirely sure that he would find something incriminating in the Frenchman's room, but that hardly mattered since he had brought something incriminating with him.

‘So you and Roberts spent the night of Durán's murder in the same bedroom, Mr Sutcliffe?' Woodend asked the man with the shock of grey hair.

‘Yes.'

‘And neither of you left the room?'

‘No.'

‘Not even for half an hour?'

‘Half an hour would not have been enough time. It would have taken much longer than that to walk to Durán's villa, do what had to be done, and return to the hotel.'

Woodend raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Now how would you know how long it would take to get to Durán's villa?' he asked.

‘I am the eyes on earth of the Lord, and it is His divine spirit which leads—'

‘You're a fake, Mr Sutcliffe,' Woodend interrupted.

Sutcliffe looked as if he'd just been slapped. ‘I'm a
what
?'

‘You're a fake. I'm not sayin' you're not sincere about your religion – I wouldn't know about that, one way or the other. But for all your hellfire an' damnation rhetoric, you're a practical man when we really get down to it.'

‘I am a servant of the Lord who—'

‘A practical man,' Woodend repeated. ‘You'd never have survived the Civil War if you hadn't been. An' your comrades wouldn't have allowed you to come back with them if they hadn't been sure you could play your part in the operation. So I'll ask you again – how do you happen to know how long it would take to get to Durán's villa?'

‘It was my job to know,' Sutcliffe said sullenly.

‘An' what does that mean, exactly?'

‘In the old days, I worked with Whistling …—'

‘Go on,' Woodend encouraged.

‘In the old days, I worked with Dupont. We were the scouts. We went ahead and surveyed any area before the rest of the battalion moved into it. We saved a great many lives that way.'

‘So you're sayin' that you scouted out Durán's villa?'

‘Yes.'

‘When was this?'

‘The day I arrived. Before the others got here.'

‘An'
why
did you do it? Because you'd already made up your mind that his villa was the place where Durán was goin' to meet his end?'

‘No.'

‘Oh come on, Mr Sutcliffe! That must have been your reasonin'. It would have been a wasted journey otherwise.'

‘No journey a scout makes is ever wasted,' Sutcliffe said. ‘He does not know what information he will eventually need, so he collects all the data he can.'

‘He's a bit like a bobby in that way, then,' Woodend said.

‘Yes, I suppose he is,' Sutcliffe agreed, as if he were surprised to discover that he might have something in common with a policeman.

‘The scout an' the bobby have a wider view than most people. We don't just see the picture itself, we see what goes into makin' the picture the way it is.'

‘That's true, we do.'

‘Why was Mitchell the only one who slept alone on the night of the murder?' Woodend asked, suddenly switching tack.

All signs of what had been a growing empathy drained from Sutcliffe's face.

‘You would not understand,' he said, his tone now a mixture of pity and contempt. ‘You, who value the material things of life above all else, could never even begin to comprehend the true nobility of Mitchell's soul.'

‘He set himself up as the sacrificial lamb, didn't he?' Woodend said.