The Exile (11 page)

Galíndez stared into the dark, gripping the wheel. ‘I'm my father's daughter.'

‘What does that mean?'

She turned and met his gaze. ‘It means I don't ask anyone to fight my battles for me.'

‘Wait here.' Atienza went back to his car and returned with a plastic box under his arm.

‘What's that?' Galíndez asked.

‘Two chorizo sandwiches, an apple and a flask of strong coffee. You're in a hurry so you might be tempted not to stop and eat. I'm donating my supper to you.'

‘
Gracias
,' she said, touched. ‘Dinner's on me if you come to Madrid.'

Atienza gave her a wave of acknowledgement and went back to his patrol car.

Galíndez waited for him to drive away before she started her engine. It was dark now, nothing to see but the endless stream of headlights in the opposite lane. She had just taken a bite of chorizo sandwich when her phone buzzed. She took the call, glad for the distraction.

‘Ana? It's Mendez. I've got a problem.'

‘Only one?'

‘Well, two when you get here. I've got a body in the chiller, some hooker who got carved up. I need someone from forensics to sign it off and you're the only one who isn't sick or having a baby – at least as far as I know, anyway. Can you do the DNA stuff for me?'

‘I'm near Vitoria right now. Can I do it tomorrow?'

‘Sure. Seven thirty,' Mendez said. She hung up.

The road to Madrid became a blur as Galíndez turned her thoughts back to the rusty sword on the back seat. A sword that had killed the three people whose skeletons were bagged up in her boot. Three more killings to be added to the list of Guzmán's bloody deeds. It was unlikely she'd ever know why those people were killed but at least there could be no doubt as to the killer's identity. His name was inscribed on the blade, for God's sake.

VILLARREAL, 10 MARCH 1937

Next morning, Ochoa was ordered to photograph the prisoners. The three men ignored him. The woman was nursing the baby and she lowered her head to shield the child from the camera with a curtain of black hair.

Later, as Ochoa passed General Torres's tent, he heard Torres and the
teniente
talking. Curious, Ochoa paused and lit a cigarette, glancing round as he blew a long breath of smoke into the damp air. There were no guards nearby and he sidled closer to listen to their discussion.

The general was giving orders for the execution of the prisoners.

Foreign journalists had arrived, the general said. Reporters from the
Catholic Herald
: their accounts of the war were key to winning the support of the US government. Because of that, it was best they were not aware of the executions. Which meant, said the general, the
teniente
should kill them tomorrow evening, while the reporters were being entertained in the mess. There would be ample time to kill the Reds without alerting the
Yanquis
.

Once the executions were completed, the general went on, it would be a kindness if the baby were to be adopted. He had a couple in mind, good Catholics, members of the party, too. A childless couple like them deserved a child far more than the Red whore down in the cellar.

Adoption would be for the best, the
teniente
agreed.

A nurse from the
Sección Femenina
would care for the infant until the new parents could be contacted, General Torres continued. They were a wealthy couple and they would pay handsomely for the child. Naturally, the
teniente
would be rewarded for his assistance in the matter. And, of course, for his silence.

Naturally, the
teniente
agreed.

Outside the tent, Ochoa heard footsteps approaching and saw one of the regular soldiers, a big surly private. The man warned him not to get so close to the general's tent. If he didn't want a bullet in the back, he should fuck off out of it.

Ochoa took his advice.

5

SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, HOTEL ALMEJA

Guzmán stood at the window of his hotel room looking at the sea through his reflection in the smeared glass. He snatched up the handwritten note and read it again.

You Killed her.

He'd been wrong to think no one knew him here. Someone knew him very well indeed. Deep in thought, he left his room and went out to get a breath of sea air.

They were pulling a drowned man from the harbour as Guzmán walked along the seafront. A crowd had gathered to watch several men in a rowing boat as they struggled to retrieve the corpse from the dirty water. Finally, the men got a grip on the body and manhandled it aboard. It lay on its back, causing gasps of horror among the spectators as they saw the distorted face, the sodden mop of pale blond hair above wide, staring blue eyes. Some know-it-all in the crowd claimed the man was a sailor, lost from a foreign vessel in the Bahia de Vizcaya. It was a reasonable hypothesis that Guzmán had no reason to doubt, far less to care about, and he left the jabbering crowd by the quay.

As he walked to the Buick, he sensed movement around him. Slow, subtle actions, men holding newspapers but not reading them, others taking an age to light a cigarette, their eyes following him. He slowed, suddenly aware of more men stepping out from behind parked cars and shop doorways, taking up position. He didn't have to turn to know there were others behind him.

A sharp-faced man was walking towards him. The double-breasted leather coat might as well have had
Policía
painted on the back, Guzmán thought.

‘Inspector Rivas. Head of General Mellado's Security Police.'

‘Guzmán, head of the
Brigada Especial
,' Guzmán said, staring him down. ‘Although I'm sure you know that, just as you know that I outrank you. What do you want?'

‘I'm investigating the killing of a
legionario
at General Mellado's mansion last night.'

‘Legionnaires like killing one another,' Guzmán said. ‘What's new?'

‘I understand you were talking to the general's bodyguards before you left the mansion. What was your conversation about?'

‘One man was my driver earlier in the evening. A big guy with scars on his face. I tipped him a hundred pesetas.' Guzmán met Rivas's eye. ‘Why not ask him?'

‘He was the man who was killed. There was no money on him.'

‘Then it's clear theft was the motive, wouldn't you say, Inspector?' Guzmán smiled. ‘Anything else, or shall I call Franco's HQ and let them explain why obstructing me in the course of my duty has cost you your job?'

You were with Señorita Torres at the dinner, I believe?' Rivas said, ignoring his threat.

Guzmán gritted his teeth. ‘You'd do well not to bother her, bearing in mind who her father is.'

Rivas shrugged. ‘General Torres doesn't have the clout he used to.'

‘No? He's a personal friend of Franco. And since I report to the
caudillo
's HQ, I'll be very happy to let him know you're bothering one of his old friends.' Guzmán stared into Rivas's eyes until he looked away. ‘Understood?'

The inspector's face twitched. ‘I'm not suggesting Señorita Torres is implicated in the killing,
Comandante
, but you must appreciate I have to carry out a thorough investigation.'

‘Then I suggest you get on with it. And forget about Señorita Torres.'

‘This isn't Madrid,
Comandante
,' Rivas muttered. He gestured to the men around him and they melted back into the doors and alleyways.

‘Thanks for the geography lesson.' Guzmán turned and walked across the road, straight towards the surly plain-clothes men on the far pavement. Grudgingly, the men moved aside. Ten paces further on, Guzmán stopped and looked back. Across the road, Inspector Rivas was standing stock-still, watching him. Guzmán shrugged and walked unhurriedly into the narrow streets of the old town, feeling Rivas's eyes burning into his back as he went.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CAFÉ SOL, PLAZA 18 DE JULIO

There was still an hour before Ochoa's train got in and Guzmán took a seat at a caf
é
in the plaza. He inspected the walkway on the far side of the square with a practised eye, noticing brief, hurried movement as someone slipped out of sight behind a kiosk.

He ordered coffee and a brandy to accompany it. The brandy was cheap and rough though far less offensive than the coffee, which tasted as if it was made from powdered acorn flour. If the price didn't reflect that, there would be trouble.

He looked up, hearing the tapping of heels on the cobbles. A gypsy was coming across the square, making straight for him.

‘
Buenos días
,' the gypsy said deferentially. Guzmán liked that.

‘I apologise for bothering you,' she added, thinking he was ignoring her.

Since Guzmán was ignoring her, he liked her persistence less. He gave her a critical glance. Tall, curiously masculine, troublingly big hands. A gaunt, cadaverous face with high cheekbones, skin coarsened by the sun or, more likely, drink. Her attempt at a smile revealed a missing front tooth. No, he was mistaken: teeth. Since she wasn't selling faded flowers stolen from the cemetery, that could only mean one thing. He stayed silent, waiting for her to reveal it.

‘This will come as a surprise, señor...' she began.

‘You're a whore.' Guzmán shrugged. ‘I'm not surprised at all.'

‘Is the gentleman clairvoyant?'

‘No, I'm a policeman.' He saw her expression change. ‘Don't worry, gypsy whores are very low on my list.'

‘There's a list?' she asked, worried now.

‘There's always a list.' He stared at her hands again. ‘Are you sure you're not a man?'

The gypsy shrugged. ‘Who can ever be sure of anything in this life?'

It was a good answer, managing to avoid his question entirely. That gave him confidence in her. ‘Do you tell fortunes?'

She took a pack of cards from her tattered bag and set them on the table. The cards were greasy and much handled, rather like their owner, he imagined.

‘If you'd be kind enough to select four cards, señor?'

He chose the cards, and watched the gypsy arrange them on the table.

‘The cards suggest it's time to let go of the past. Is there a lady you want to forget?'

Guzmán leaned forward, startling her. ‘Which card is that?'

‘The card of Death, señor, though it doesn't always indicate someone dying.'

‘But it can,' he said, thinking of El Lobo. ‘Dying with a bullet in them, perhaps?'

The gypsy swallowed, drawing attention to her Adam's apple. ‘It's possible.'

Guzmán reached for his wallet and counted out several bills. ‘Here's forty pesetas.'

‘You could have fucked me for half that,' she muttered ungratefully.

‘No doubt,' Guzmán said. ‘Though the cost of the penicillin after would have been prohibitive. I don't know why you're complaining: forty pesetas will buy you something to eat.'

‘Yes,' the gypsy agreed, ‘two bags of roast chestnuts.'

‘And I very much hope you enjoy them, señora,' Guzmán said, dismissing her. She began to gather up her cards. ‘Have that brandy if you like,' he added. ‘It's foul.'

The gypsy downed the brandy in one gulp and turned to go.

‘Wait,' Guzmán said. ‘Can you lift a curse?'

‘It depends, señor. Is the person who cursed you still alive?'

He shook his head and the gypsy sighed as her hopes of extracting more money from him were dashed. ‘Unfortunately not. The curse stays in place until your death in such cases.'

Guzmán put his wallet away. ‘Then I'll bid you good day, señora. Or señor.'

Across the square, a man was watching him from a seat outside one of the dingy bars under the covered walkway. The same man who had been hiding behind the tobacconist's kiosk twenty minutes earlier. Aware of Guzmán's gaze, he looked down at his newspaper.

As the gypsy went across the square towards the harbour, the man got up and came over. He was tall and rangy with an expression that looked like he'd been drinking vinegar. It was possible he was one of Inspector Rivas's goons, though Guzmán doubted it. His clothes were too expensive for a local policeman. That was confirmed when the man took a seat at the next table and sat looking out at the square.

‘You'll be Capitán Viana, I take it?' Guzmán said.

The man glanced around the square suspiciously. Since the square was deserted, the gesture annoyed Guzmán intensely. ‘You can never be sure who's listening,' he muttered.

‘Never mind your paranoia,' Guzmán said. ‘Just tell me how you're going to handle the communications for this operation, and look at me while you're talking, not that paper.'

Reluctantly, Viana looked up. ‘I'm working undercover at the local police station. Gutierrez will send telegrams to me, I'll decode them and then deliver them to your hotel.'

‘And when I'm in the mountains?'

‘We can radio you at the
guardia cuartel
, or I can send communications by courier.'

Guzmán got to his feet. ‘I expect Gutierrez told you I have my own ways of working?'

‘He said you're insubordinate and unorthodox,' Viana said. ‘Among other things.'

‘You should know better than to gossip about your colleagues,' Guzmán growled. ‘Just be sure you do a good job on this operation. If you don't, I'll come looking for you.'

Viana looked up, his eyes glinting. ‘I can handle myself,
Comandante
.'

‘I'm sure you do every night,' Guzmán said. ‘But answer me like that again and I'll put you in a wheelchair.' He saw the waiter coming towards them. ‘There are two things I expect on an operation like this, Viana.'