The Exile (46 page)

The gypsy watched him stamp off down the street before she picked up the money and pushed it into the folds of her dress. And then her mouth sagged open as she saw his wallet on the table. She opened it and saw his identity card and behind it a thick wad of money, much of it American dollars. And there was something else, folded neatly behind the identity card. She unfolded the mimeographed document and struggled to read the text requiring all personnel below the rank of
coronel
to obey his orders and to give any assistance he might request. The paper was signed by the head of state.

When she finished reading, her hands were shaking. Her client was in the
policía secreta
. And, as if that wasn't bad enough, he had the shadow around him: he was cursed. Death walked beside him.

She thought quickly. The smart thing would be to leave town with the money. That was the gypsy in her. The survivor in her realised it would go badly if she did that and he found her. And how hard would it be for someone so powerful to track her down? She went to the door and peered out into the rain. At the end of the street, she saw his dark shape, walking towards the seafront. She ran down the street after him.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CATEDRAL DEL BUEN PASTOR

Jeanette Duclos sat in an empty pew behind a row of soberly dressed women waiting for confession. The cathedral fluttered with soft echoes, bathed in a trembling light from several large candles illuminating a painfully graphic carving of the Crucifixion near the altar. Jeanette waited patiently until the last of the penitents left the confessional. She heard the priest's spluttering cough and the faint slap of his feet on the stone floor as he walked to the sacristy. And then the sound of another taking his place.

She stepped into the cramped black box and knelt by the grille, inhaling the sweat and stale breath of the penitents who had passed through before her. The grille slid to one side. She saw dark flashing eyes beneath his cowl, a sudden movement of silver hair. A deep sonorous voice.

‘
Ave María Purísima
.'

‘
Sin pecado concebida
.'

‘How long since your last confession, my child?'

‘About twenty-eight years.'

A muffled laugh. ‘Do you still drink?'

‘Frequently.'

‘Men?'

‘Constantly.'

A deep chuckle. ‘Shameless, just like your mother. May she rest in peace.'

‘I have something for you, Papa. That thing you said you wanted.'

‘You always were a thoughtful girl.'

Jeanette took a scroll of paper from her bag and pushed it though the opening.

She heard his grunt of satisfaction. ‘How much did León ask for this?'

‘He left that to us, Father. But he expects a lot.'

‘People with expectations are usually disappointed. What do you think he deserves?'

Jeanette began fastening her coat. ‘I leave that to you,
mon père
,' she whispered. ‘But don't they say the wages of sin are death?'

‘How very true.' A deep chuckle. ‘I'll see he's paid in full.'

The grille closed. Jeanette crossed herself and went out into the shadows.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS

The lights of the city glimmered through the dismal night as he watched a couple strolling by the harbour. And then another shape by the quay, emerging from the shadows of the old town. It was Guzmán. The target he'd been hoping for. He pressed the rifle stock to his cheek, ready to take the shot. Breathing slowly, easily, letting the weapon become an extension of his body. And then something came out of the darkened street behind Guzmán, its coat inflating in the wind like a bat. Viana frowned as he saw the gypsy's turban, the high cheekbones and missing teeth. As Guzmán turned, Viana fired.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, PUERTO

Behind him, Guzmán heard footsteps on the wet cobbles. He turned and saw the gypsy, her soaking dress and cloak flapping around her. He watched her carefully, suspecting an attempt to extract more money from him.

‘Your wallet, señor,' she panted. ‘You left it on the table. I didn't touch any of the money, see for yourself.'

He took the wallet from her. ‘You knew I'd come after you if you stole it,' he grunted, handing her a hundred pesetas. He begrudged her this reward, but it was best to be careful. The last thing he needed was to be cursed the night before a job. Once was enough in any man's lifetime.

The gypsy continued protesting her innocence. He had no time to waste listening to her attempt to increase the reward for her uncharacteristic honesty and he turned away to go to his hotel. A sharp torrent of rain rattled against his back, the noise almost drowning out the sudden noise of the shot.

The gypsy crumpled like a broken doll, folding into the wet pavement, blood welling from the hole in her forehead. Guzmán knelt and plucked the wet hundred peseta note from her hand. It was wasted on her now. There was nothing more he could do for her and he hurried up the boulevard to his hotel where Ochoa was waiting.

SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, HOTEL INGLÉS

Through the rifle sight he saw the gypsy fall, dead before she hit the ground. He cursed her for ruining his shot. Still, he would get another chance at Guzmán, he knew. And next time there would be no gypsy to save him. He was cold now, soaked by the rain as he left the eyrie where he kept these deadly vigils. He hid the rifle in its waterproof case in a small recess by the chimney before climbing down the wooden fire escape. Back in his hotel room, he made a call to Madrid. Gutiérrez answered at once.

‘Carrero Blanco had lunch with Guzmán and General Torres's daughter,' Viana said.

‘That's a strange trinity.' Gutiérrez's voice was faint down the crackling line. ‘Did you deliver the message?'

‘I did but he still hasn't made contact.'

‘I need to think about this,' Gutiérrez grunted. ‘Keep me informed if anything else happens,
Capitán
.'

22

MADRID, JULY 2010, GUARDIA CIVIL CENTRO DE INVESTIGACIÓN, UNIVERSIDAD COMPLUTENSE

The office was empty, though the waste baskets overflowing with Styrofoam cups and empty bottles of sports drinks hinted there had recently been life here.

Galíndez sat on a table, surrounded by the cardboard boxes full of letters. The pain of thousands of parents now transformed into numerical data on her laptop.

No one would ever know how many children were stolen over the years, she thought, staring at the boxes. She had been right to give Jesper Karlsson a hard time. The smug bastard hadn't been vaguely interested when she'd confronted him with her findings.

She got up and went over to the small kitchen area at the back of the office, relieved to find no one had used her last few spoonfuls of Colombian roast. A few minutes later, the smell of fresh coffee filled the room.

The phone vibrated in her pocket. It was Capitán Fuentes.

‘
Hola, jefe
, what can I do for you?'

‘Ana, this is very short notice but I've got a favour to ask.' He sounded embarrassed.

‘Are you in need of a sitter again, by any chance,
jefe
?'

‘You got it in one. Can you do tomorrow night? Merche's mother is going into hospital for a minor operation and she wants to be there when her mama wakes from the anaesthetic.'

‘No problem. What time?'

‘Could you get over here by six?'

‘Of course.'

‘You're a star,' Fuentes said. ‘We really appreciate it.'

‘
Hasta mañana
.' She took a mouthful of her coffee. It was far too strong, just how she liked it, and she lifted the cup to her nose and inhaled the dark aroma.

‘You're supposed to drink it, not sniff it.' Isabel was standing in the doorway.

‘
Dios mio
, Izzy
.
You made me jump.'

Isabel looked round at the empty room. ‘Isn't it quiet without the students?'

‘Very quiet,' Galíndez agreed, ‘although I think I could get used to it. Now they're gone, could you order some proper office furniture? Let's spend some of that budget.'

‘I'll be happy to,' Isabel said. ‘What happened with GL yesterday?'

Galíndez wrinkled her nose. ‘The CEO didn't want to know. He even claims not to know who the company's owners are.'

‘So he won't cooperate?' Isabel frowned. ‘That's a pain.'

‘I think he'll be more cooperative now the pressure's on.'

‘By the way, this package arrived for you yesterday, special delivery.' Isabel took a thick envelope from a shelf and handed it to her.

Galíndez saw the crest of
guardia
HQ on the envelope. ‘These are the photographs of the Luminol spray I did in the Basque country.'

Isabel wrinkled her nose. ‘Luminol sounds like something our students drink.'

‘It's a chemical we use to identify the presence of blood. You mix it with an oxidising agent and spray it over the crime scene. Any traces of blood glow in the dark.'

‘Nice.' Isabel sat down and opened her laptop.

Galíndez tore open the cardboard envelope and slid the photos onto her desk, though without much interest. What could they tell her that she didn't know already? The only reasonable conclusion was that the killings were carried out by Guzmán, since his name was on the sword. The same old story: he killed with impunity and then erased the traces, obscuring his own bloody role as he went. Just as
Papá
's murderer had.

Her phone rang and she glanced at the screen as she answered. An unknown number.

‘
Buenos días
.' A cold humourless voice, immediately recognisable.

‘
Hola
, Señora Calderón.'

There's something we need to discuss.'

‘Go ahead.'

‘I mean face to face.'

‘By all means. Where do you want to meet?'

‘The Retiro Park this afternoon at one thirty. You know the Palacio de Cristal?'

‘Of course,' Galíndez said, wondering why the minister wanted to meet outdoors. She was left wondering: Calderón hung up.

Galíndez twisted a lock of hair around her finger. Something in Calderón's voice troubled her. ‘That was the Minister of the Interior,' she told Isabel.

‘I never realised you were so important.'

‘I must be,' said Galíndez. ‘Because I didn't give her my mobile number.'

She turned to the photographs from Legutio, undecided what to do with them. One last look wouldn't hurt. She pushed her papers to one side and arranged the photographs on her desk.

The first picture was taken before she applied the spray. The darkness of the cellar, grainy stone steps descending into shadow, four chairs arranged in a line from left to right, the one on the far left overturned, empty. Pale scattered bones around the other three. She could have sketched all this from memory. She slid the photograph to one side, replacing it with the next in the sequence, taken after she applied the spray.

Glimmering blue light glowed in the darkness, marking traces of blood invisible to the naked eye. More blood than she remembered. Much more. Luminous filigrees of intricate lines, thick trails and isolated splashes illuminating Guzmán's butchery in all its ghastly detail. Long streaks from severed arteries, wide pools around the chairs where the victims' lifeblood spilled into the rubble as Guzmán continued his gruesome work with the sword.

She wiped a hand across her brow, trying to imagine it: the helplessness of being tied, the smell of fear. The realisation of what was about to happen as they saw Guzmán coming towards them, holding the sword. And, judging from the decapitations and scattered limbs, they died in a savage frenzy as Guzmán turned the cellar into a charnel house.

She turned to the last photo. Similar to the others, taken from lower down the stairs. Her eyes narrowed. Something was different, something she hadn't noticed at the time. There had been so many blue trails glittering in the cellar that day. And, of course, she'd been distracted, angered by the Basque construction worker. Because of that, she'd failed to give these blood patterns the attention they deserved.

She leaned closer, peering at a glittering blue smear on the far wall, behind the row of bodies. Almost horizontal, running along the wall towards the pile of debris on the far side. The pattern didn't appear to be spatter from a severed artery. It was a contact smear, made by someone whose wound had touched the bricks, the slight undulations indicating the person had been unsteady, undoubtedly injured. Here and there, small irregularly spaced patches above and below the smear. She opened a drawer and took out a magnifying glass.

Lost in concentration, she peered through the glass at the trail of blood along the wall, seeing the small marks clearly now. Seventy years old and still discernible thanks to the Luminol. Their shape unmistakable through the magnifying lens. They were handprints.

Now she understood. When Guzmán had killed the prisoners, his murderous rampage must have been interrupted when the shell had exploded outside, blowing a hole in the wall above the cellar, half burying the nearest prisoner in rubble. By then it was possible the three prisoners were already dead. But the prisoner on the far left wasn't. In the confusion of the blast, the chair had fallen backwards and, somehow, he'd managed to get loose and then, staggering and bleeding badly, he'd placed a steadying hand on the wall as he'd made his way to the sloping pile of debris and climbed up through the gaping shell hole, escaping Guzmán's slaughter.

Isabel's voice broke her concentration. ‘Did you find something, Ana? You look like you've seen a ghost.'

Galíndez looked up, still deep in thought. ‘One got away.'