The Exile (39 page)

An hour later, Mendez called back and instructed Galíndez to log into the
guardia
network. Mendez had been busy. She'd isolated the incident on the camera footage and made a copy, which was now on the forensics department's server. The rest was up to Galíndez. Once Mendez hung up, Galíndez made more coffee and returned to her laptop. She saw the blue hypertext:
CCTV Footage of suspect vehicle
and selected the link. The screen filled with a grainy image of the view from the station entrance to the road three metres away. Two red bands appeared on either side of the video, a warning the incident was coming up.

Galíndez saw a sudden blur of movement across the camera's limited viewpoint, gone in a second. She slowed the replay and watched again before slowing it some more, repeating the operation until the real-time trajectory of the vehicle was reduced to a block of imprecise detail crawling across the screen. She saw a dark stain along the front passenger door, possibly blood though it could just as easily have been shadow. There wasn't much to go on. The darkened glass windows hid the identity of the occupants and the angle of the camera made it impossible to get a glimpse of the licence plates.

She drank the last of her coffee, watching the slo-mo movement of the car until her eyes ached, seeing the same uncertain detail repeated again and again. There was only one thing she could be certain of and that was the colour of the vehicle, a light metallic blue, glinting in the garish light of the street lamps.

19

SAN SEBASTIÁN, OCTOBER 1954, CALLE DE FERMÍN CALBETÓN

Dawn was a faint hint of light on the horizon as Guzmán knocked on the front door of Magdalena's apartment building. The bleary-eyed
sereno
scuttled to the entrance, his face dull with sleep as he peered at the identity card pressed against the smeared glass. One glance was enough and the door opened at once. Before the door closed, the nightwatchman was back in his dingy cubicle, wrapping his tattered blanket around his shoulders. If the police wanted to enter the building it was not for the likes of him to enquire about their reasons.

Magdalena opened the door, fastening the belt of her dressing gown. ‘
Dios mio
, you look terrible.' She stepped back to let him in.

‘I've been to France,' he grunted as he slumped into a chair. ‘It didn't agree with me.'

She went into the kitchen and Guzmán let his eyes close, hovering on the edge of sleep. From the kitchen, he heard her making coffee. Real coffee too, from the aroma.

Magdalena returned with two cups and sat across the table from him.

‘What happened, Leo?'

He shrugged. ‘A disagreement with the Çubiry.'

‘It must have been serious. What was it about?'

He lifted the cup to his lips, savouring the smooth coffee. ‘We had a difference of opinion on whether I should stay alive.'

She got to her feet and came to him, running her hand over his hair, a spontaneous gesture of affection that ended as she drew her hand away, staring at the blood on her palm.

‘Don't worry about that, I have a hard head.'

‘What were you doing with the Çubiry?' Magdalena watched him over the rim of her cup. Large blue eyes, a sleepy tendril of blonde hair hanging over her brow. It made him even more aware that he looked like shit.

‘I was investigating their smuggling,' he said. ‘We want to put a stop to it.'

She laughed. ‘You'd ruin a large part of the economy in this region if you do.'

‘Never mind them.' Guzmán took a cigarette from his pocket, careful to keep the black tobacco from spilling. ‘I've been thinking about what you said about Mellado.'

‘I don't want to make trouble for him, if that's what you're thinking, but it's a fact that Mellado kills women in those little games of his.' A slight shrug. ‘But as you said, these things happen every day in this country.'

He kills women.
An image of a bitter night. The relentless drumming of rain. He blinked, trying to concentrate.

‘What if I take a look at the intelligence reports on those women?' Guzmán placed a hand on the table, noticing the broken skin on his knuckles. ‘If I can prove to you they're traitors, would that set your mind at rest?'

‘Well,' Magdalena said, cautiously, ‘if they've been breaking the law, then clearly one couldn't object to him...' she paused, choosing her words, ‘...mistreating them.' She leaned forward, resting her elbows on the table. ‘What would those files tell you?'

‘They contain all the evidence that led to the arrest. It's collected very carefully,' Guzmán said, speaking from experience. ‘Everything is recorded in detail.'

Magdalena breathed out a halo of smoke. ‘Can you get access to his files?'

‘Of course.' Guzmán nodded.

‘I'd be much happier knowing the general was acting in the public interest rather than just gratifying his own desires.'

He looked at her, admiringly. When she talked like that, she sounded like a general's daughter.

Magdalena got to her feet. ‘You really need to go to bed for a while.'

‘I could use a couple of hours' sleep.'

She arched an eyebrow. ‘That's not at all what I had in mind.'

Guzmán took the cigarette from her and inhaled deeply before letting his head fall back on the pillow. ‘I could sleep for a week,' he muttered, watching the smoke rise into the light slanting in through the shutters.

‘Only a man could say a thing like that after what we just did.'

He frowned. ‘I am a man.'

Magdalena changed the subject. ‘I'm having lunch with my godfather this afternoon – would you like to come? We're going to the Luna Negra near the harbour. The food's excellent.'

‘Do you want me to come?'

‘Don't look so worried, it doesn't mean you have to marry me. You must have met your other girlfriends' families in the past, surely?'

‘Of course.' Though Guzmán recalled that most of his other girlfriends had expected him to leave ten pesetas on the bedside table and be out of the room before the next client arrived.

‘You'll like him. He has an important job with the government.'

‘Really? Have I heard of him?'

‘Probably.' She nodded. ‘But you'll have to be there at three if you want to find out.'

‘Three o'clock it is.'
Meeting the family now.
An unfamiliar sense of respectability.

She rested her head on his chest, her breath soft and warm, on the verge of sleep.

But Guzmán was restless. An idea kept nagging him. ‘Did you hear from Jiménez?'

‘I think seeing my father killed terrified him so much he's gone into hiding.' She raised herself on her elbows and plucked the cigarette from his lips. ‘I sent a note asking him to contact me but he hasn't. It's terribly inconvenient.'

‘I'd like to have a word with him. Someone told El Lobo your father was going to be at the hunting lodge and I think it could have been Jiménez.'

‘I can't believe that. But you're the policeman, naturally I'll give you his address.'

Guzmán noticed her look of sudden concentration. ‘What is it?'

‘You know I mentioned he was...'

‘A
maricón
?'

‘He has a gentleman friend,' she said, carefully.

‘That's hardly surprising.'

‘I suppose not, but it might be that Esteban's staying with him.'

Guzmán smiled. ‘You'd make a good detective.'

‘His friend's quite a bit older than Esteban. He's very respectable. I'm sure he wouldn't let him engage in any criminal activity.'

Guzmán scowled. ‘On the contrary, they probably commit a criminal act every night. Sodomy's a criminal offence, as is being homosexual. If you were to read a few books on criminals you'd know that's how it works: they start with petty crimes and then work their way up to much more serious ones. For God's sake, Jiménez could be an accomplice to murder. That's hardly innocent, in my book.'

She looked down for a moment. ‘Of course, one can't excuse his perversion. Though I have heard it can be cured these days.'

‘It's a long process with drugs and electric shocks,' Guzmán said. ‘Even then, there's no guarantee they'll live a respectable life after they leave prison.'

‘But Esteban's friend works in a bank, Leo. You can't get more respectable than that.'

Guzmán stared at her. ‘Which bank?'

‘He's senior clerk at the Banco de Bilbao.' She saw his expression. ‘Why?'

‘Nothing. You're right, that is a respectable position.'

‘I know you have a job to do, but could you not be too hard on Esteban until you have proof about him helping El Lobo?'

‘Of course. I only want to have a quick word with him.' And it would be quick, Guzmán knew, because it wouldn't take him long to kick the truth out of a pair of
maricas
like Jiménez and his friend.

He slid from the bed, blinking in pain as a shaft of sunlight hit his eyes.

Magdalena watched him dress. ‘Take a siesta later, you really do look bad.'

‘I'll call at a barber's shop and get a shave, that will perk me up.' He went to the bed and kissed her. ‘I'll see you at the Luna Negra. I won't forget about Mellado's files, either.'

He was halfway down the stairs when the door opened and Magdalena called his name. With the light behind her, her sheer dressing gown was transparent as she came down the stairs.

‘There was something else I wanted to ask when you go to see General Mellado. There's a lady who works in the typing pool at our depot. Her daughter's missing. She's awfully worried, Leo. Could you check to see if she's been arrested?'

Magdalena was worried too, Guzmán heard it in her voice. ‘Of course I will,' he said. ‘What's her name?'

‘María Vidal.' She held his arm for a moment. ‘Her mother will be so grateful.' She paused. ‘And so will I.'

Once in the street, Guzmán reached into his jacket pocket and fumbled for the note the girl in the cell gave him. The note he'd forgotten.

Mamá,

I'm at the military governor's residence. I've been arrested. Please come and get me. Please hurry, I'm frightened.

Your loving daughter, María

He should never have taken this from her. The best thing to do was screw the letter into a ball and throw it into one of the reeking piles of garbage across the street. You couldn't get mixed up in other people's business, not with someone as volatile as Mellado.

He rubbed a hand across his face, feeling the thick stubble. In Madrid he could have pulled rank or bribed someone to let the girl go, as a favour to Magdalena, but not here. In any case, the girl claimed to be innocent, but guilty people always said that. It was only when you started getting rough that they told the truth. The motto of the Inquisition still held:
The truth through pain
.
People were cunning creatures, go easy on them and they took advantage. This María Vidal had clearly been led astray by the excitement of the resistance. Excited to repeat their slogans and anti-government phrases. Criticising the natural order of things. They started out being clever in front of their friends, showing off, insulting Franco or the Church. As if they knew better. Some saw sense and stopped before they got into serious trouble. Others thought they could say what they liked, where they liked. Kids like Nieves Arestigui.

He reached for a cigarette, wondering what he would do if she had been the one in the general's cell instead of María Vidal. All it would take was for Nieves to shoot her mouth off in public as she had when Guzmán had visited the farm. She would have been arrested at once.

He knew from long experience the sequence the interrogators would follow. Strip her naked, shove her head into a bucket of water until she was pleading for it to stop. Then the beatings and abuse would begin. Petty tortures, such as forcing her to kneel for hours on dried lentils, following that with something darker and much more painful, depending on the whim of the interrogator. Electric shocks. Perhaps the use of a heated iron.

He wiped sweat from his face. He would have a word with Nieves, get her to be more careful about what she said for her own safety. He could imagine her response.

But it wasn't Nieves' voice he heard.
Work it out,
chico
. You're the smart one.

Further down the street, he paused by the flyblown window of a souvenir shop. Through the dirty glass he saw lines of painted figures in Basque dress, paper flags on sticks, faded postcards and a few garishly coloured sweets. He went in and asked for directions.

The street was nearby, a narrow cobbled lane running up from the port to the side of the basilica. An old building, the shutters hanging loose, damaged by the sea air. Three storeys of faded, damp apartments. A smell of cooking hung in the air and from one of the upper windows he heard the sounds of a family meal.

He stepped into the dingy entrance hall. Worn tiles, a light that didn't work when he pressed the switch. The familiar odour of damp. A line of rusty mailboxes along the back wall. He found the box marked Vidal and pushed the girl's letter into it. He could do no more, he thought as he went back into the street. He wasn't sure why he was doing this at all.

Guzmán took a shower at his hotel and swallowed a couple of aspirin he'd bought for a fiercely contested price from the abrasive dwarf in reception. Somewhat refreshed, he left his room, heading for the exit. Heráclito was busy behind the reception desk and Guzmán slapped the key onto the counter as he went past.

‘Where do you think you're going?' Heráclito called. ‘There's a telegram here for you.' He pushed the envelope across the desk. ‘Shall I read it to you or do you want to spend an hour struggling with the big words?'