The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (59 page)

‘Initially, I received a call,’ Lopez said, ‘asking me to undertake a commission requiring the utmost delicacy. A large fee was mentioned. So large I overlooked my usual ethical principles.’

‘Mierda.
You’re a private detective. You don’t have principles. We don’t call you lot knicker-sniffers for nothing,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘You
huelebraguetas,
you spy on unhappy people, husbands screwing around, bored wives with too much time to themselves during the day. Am I wrong,
Señor
Lopez?’

Lopez mopped his brow with a large handkerchief. ‘What you say is broadly correct,
Comandante.
And often one goes without a case at all for a considerable period of time.’

‘Financial problems?’

Lopez nodded.
‘Exactamente.
When this case came along, it was impossible to refuse. The money, you see. A man has to live.’

‘Right now,
Señor
Lopez, whether you stay alive is not at all certain,’ Guzmán said. ‘But don’t let me stop you.
Siga, por favor.’

‘I received a phone call asking me to undertake this work,’ Lopez continued. ‘It was impressed on me this was a matter of delicacy, involving a party who was extremely prominent in the maintenance of public security.’

‘Me?’

‘So it transpired,
Comandante.’

‘Then it wasn’t my family who first contacted you – as you told me the other day?’

‘No. I’m afraid that wasn’t entirely correct,
Comandante.
The party I spoke to said you were to be approached at a distance and that I should use an intermediary. They gave me a name and address and instructed me to give a letter to this party to convey it to you. Following this telephone call, I was sent a sum of money.’

‘How was the payment made?’

‘In cash. A package, delivered to my office the same day. I was given addresses. The address of a
Señora
Alicia Martinez, and that of a hotel where I had had the pleasure of meeting your mother and your cousin Juan.’

‘And what did they tell you?’

‘The same as the voice on the phone. That they had recently become aware you were alive, having been presumed dead for so long. That they wanted to see you again.’

‘A heart-warming story.’

‘Except that
Señora
Guzmán seems to have vanished. She left her hotel and didn’t return. Cousin Juan is beside himself.’

‘I’ll bet,’ Guzmán said. ‘And where is Cousin Juan?’

‘At his hotel. The Barcelona. It’s on Calle—’

‘I know where it is,’ Guzmán interrupted. ‘And
Mamá
at the Alameda. Why separate hotels?’

Lopez shrugged. ‘It seemed odd. But I was being paid.’

‘So you suspected something strange about this?’

‘I needed the money,
Comandante.
So I took the job anyway. There’s no other work I can do. I used to work in an office before the war. I couldn’t get a job now.’

‘You were on the other side?’

Lopez nodded. ‘I’m not wanted for anything. I was a prisoner for a few months and released after the necessary enquiries.’

Guzmán stood up. The street was quiet, a few cars passed them. Across the road, a mother with a pram, walking slowly, cooing to her baby, her outline soft in the wintry haze.

‘There’s nothing you can tell me about the voice?’

‘No, a man’s voice. Authoritative. Sharp.’

‘That describes more than half the men in Spain,
Señor
Lopez. Including me.’

Guzmán turned and looked up the shrubbed hillside, its trees and shrubs melted by mist.

‘Come on. I want to know more about this.’ He jerked his head at the grassy knoll behind them.

‘Up there?’ Lopez asked, uncertainly.

‘Yes, we’ll go up to the ruins of the old barracks. We won’t be overheard there. There are things you should know.’

‘If you feel it’s really necessary.’

‘Of course I’ll make it worth your while.’ Guzmán reached into his jacket and produced a wad of dollar bills. ‘You understand you’re working for me from now on?’

‘Of course,
Comandante.’
The relief was evident. ‘Anything I can do to assist you. I assure you I meant no harm by any of this.’

‘Yes,’ Guzmán said, ‘I believe you.’

They walked up the rough hillside, their feet crunching on the frozen ground. Lopez had trouble keeping up. The trees and bushes grew taller while the road below became hazy and imprecise, lost in folds of mist.

‘Please, I’m out of breath.’ Lopez mopped his broad forehead with his handkerchief.

‘We’ll stop here,’ Guzmán said. He waited patiently for Lopez to get his breath back.

‘You know, in my line of work, we make use of several strategies,’ Guzmán started, almost pleasantly. ‘One of which is never to leave a trail leading back to you. You use people as intermediaries. People who do things without knowing why they are doing it – that way they can’t betray the person who employed them. People like you and
Señora
Martinez.’

‘I see,’ Lopez panted.

‘You asked
Señora
Martinez to deliver that letter to me,’ Guzmán continued.

Lopez nodded. ‘I did.’

‘She didn’t know what was in it, did she?’

‘Not unless she opened the envelope.’

‘I’ll take that as no. Did you tell her anything else?’

‘Absolutely not. Besides, there was little I could tell her.’

‘And you paid her?’

‘Five hundred pesetas. She didn’t want to take it. But I was instructed that she should be given the money.’

‘Señora
Martinez is a truthful woman,’ Guzmán said. ‘She told us about the money after an hour or two in one of our cells.’

‘I never asked her to do anything illegal.’

‘But we have no way of finding who paid you the money because you never met them.’

‘That’s true. I did say as much,
Comandante.’
Lopez was sweating. ‘I—’

‘Not true. You lied to me before. You said Juan had commissioned you,’ Guzmán said.

Lopez began to bluster. He was sweating heavily. Guzmán held up his hand. Lopez stopped talking.

‘You spoke with my mother and Juan. What did they say about our village?’

‘They talked about when you were young, your love of music and books, the certificates you gained in first aid before the war came and you enlisted.’

‘Did they talk about our house?’

‘They did. The big house with the barn. Your brothers and sisters, and Uncle Pepe and Aunt Julia living in the attic.’

‘In the attic. Of course.’

‘Until the day the soldiers came. Juan and your mother went to market that day. Such an isolated village, it seemed a worthless target. When your mother and Juan returned, they found the house burned down, many of the villagers dead, your aunt, uncle, your brothers and sisters, all slaughtered. Your family almost wiped out. As if marked out for destruction.’

Guzmán lit a cigarette. ‘And
Mamá
and Juan stayed on in the village?’

‘They eventually rebuilt the house. Hoping you’d return. Later, when you didn’t come back, they thought maybe you’d gone abroad or been killed.’

‘The war changed me.’ Guzmán threw down his cigarette. He had decided to kill Lopez when they were sitting on the bench. Lopez had been used. He knew nothing of value. Even so, he knew too much about Guzmán’s business. Guzmán took his hands from his pockets. It took a moment for Lopez to see the wire held taut in his gloved hands. Guzmán recognised the look on the man’s face, the sudden awareness of his impending death. But by then it was far too late to do anything because Guzmán was on him, bringing the unwelcome revelation that while killing was easy, dying was much, much harder.

MADRID 1953, CALLE DE SAN NICOLÁS

Peralta lay in a deep, timeless sleep and, for a while, the world ceased to exist. Guzmán, the ravaged
sargento,
the constant biting cold as he tramped the streets, all floated away. Even the pain in his belly subsided. And then, the sharp ring of the telephone jolted him into unwelcome consciousness. He sat up. There was still daylight outside, edging into the darkened room through closed shutters. Looking at the clock, he saw he had been asleep only a few hours.

‘Paquito, are you awake?’ His wife was at the door, looking at him with what seemed to Peralta to be undue concern. He didn’t know she’d heard him screaming in his sleep again.

‘What is it?’ He swung his legs out from under the sheets. The room was icy.

‘Telephone. From a call box.
Comandante
Guzmán.’

Peralta grabbed the phone, wincing at the sudden pain deep in his belly.
‘Jefe, qué pasa
?’

‘A job’s come up.’ Guzmán’s voice was low. Peralta heard the sounds of a bar. ‘I need you to do it,
Teniente.’

For a moment, Peralta thought he was being asked to kill someone. His heart sank, knowing he could not refuse.

‘I want you to make an arrest. It’s a relative, my cousin Juan. I’ll tell you why later, but get over there and pick him up now. Take him to the
comisaría,
put him in a cell and don’t let him talk to anyone – even you. Understand?’

‘Not entirely,’ Peralta said.

‘Joder.
You don’t need to. His name is Juan Balaguer and he’s at the Hotel Barcelona. You know it? It’s just off Preciados, opposite the Comedy Theatre.’

‘I know it,’ Peralta said.

‘Arrest him.’

‘What charge?’

Silence.

‘I’ll think of one,’ Peralta said quickly.

‘Complete isolation,’ Guzmán said. ‘That understood? Not you, no
guardia,
no one within thirty metres of him – not even the sarge.’

‘I’ve got it,’ Peralta said. ‘Will I need any assistance?’

‘No. The man isn’t violent. Get the cuffs on him and take him straight into custody. I’ll see you there later.’ The telephone went dead.

‘I’ve got to go out,
mi amor,’
Peralta called, and then once more a sudden white-hot spasm of pain doubled him up.

MADRID 1953, CALLE PRECIADOS

Peralta parked the car outside the Hotel Barcelona. The commissionaire stepped forward to assist but Peralta waved his identity card and brushed the old man aside. The commissionaire shrugged. The police were bad news, and if they had no interest in him, he was happy to mind his own business.

The clerk at reception looked up and Peralta produced his card once more. Whatever the man had done in a former life, Peralta thought, he had a guilty conscience, suddenly becoming nervous and clumsy, his forehead studded with beads of sweat.

‘Señor
Juan Balaguer?
Si, señor.
Would the officer like to see the register?’ The clerk pointed with a shaking finger to a signature on the thick vellum page.

‘Did you fill in all the necessary paperwork to submit to the police?’ Peralta asked.

The man seemed to be losing control of his limbs. Papers flew onto the floor, pens rolled across the counter. If ever a man was rattled by the appearance of a policeman, it was this one. But today was his lucky day, assuming he complied with Peralta’s orders.

‘We have it all here,
señor.
They’re submitted on a weekly basis, the officer will understand.’

‘I understand this,’ Peralta said, in a pale imitation of Guzmán’s brusque approach. ‘If this man has registered in your hotel and you have not filled in the necessary forms, you may be joining him in prison.’

The threat made the receptionist even more nervous. After a long couple of minutes, the man finally found the bundle of forms. Peralta took it from him.

‘I’ll need the page from the register well.’ Peralta took hold of the big ledger, ripping the page from its binding. ‘Room number?’

‘Forty-three,
señor.
Second floor. The lift is over there by the stairs.’

‘Do you have a key?’

‘Of course. Here it is.’

‘Come with me,’ Peralta said. He had a feeling the receptionist might not be above calling this Cousin Juan and tipping him off. Probably before doing a runner himself.

The lift was slow and noisy. The receptionist looked at his shoes for most of the tortuous journey upwards. Peralta had never been in this hotel before. It was clean and well lit, a little upmarket for
Comandante
Guzmán’s country cousin, he thought.

Peralta pushed the receptionist ahead of him once the man had opened the lift doors. They walked down the silent hallway in single file. The corridor was clean with only a slight air of dust and used sheets and just a faint undertone of shit as they passed the communal bathroom.

Peralta thought about making the arrest and the possible outcomes – many of them pessimistic. Cousin Juan might open the door with a gun. If there really was a Cousin Juan. Extemporising further, Peralta saw a room filled with the remaining Dominicans, armed to the teeth, high on drugs and aching to get the man who killed their comrade. And here he was, unassisted, strolling into their midst. Peralta drew his pistol, noticing the effect it had on the clerk: sweat dribbled down his sallow cheeks.

Peralta leaned close. ‘What did you do? You know what I’m talking about.’

‘I was a prisoner of war until two years ago,
se
ñ
or.
I ran away from a work detail and came back to my wife. All I want is my job and my family,
nada más,
I want nothing to do with politics. I’ll give you money. Every payday, just don’t send me back.’

Peralta took the key from him. ‘I don’t want money. Go back to work. And make sure your paperwork is always up to date,
entiendes
? And,
hombre,
keep your head down when I come through reception.’

The man nodded and turned on his heel, walking away as quickly as he could without breaking into a run.

Peralta knocked on the door, pistol ready. He was sweating.

‘Quien es?’

‘It’s the manager. Open up, please. We need to check the room.’

The door opened and Peralta pushed his pistol into the man’s face. He had heard Guzmán and the sarge talking about this approach. It was a way of focusing the suspect’s attention. It worked.
‘Señor
Balaguer?’