Not With a Whimper Read online

  So that was the story. A good story. But it had as many holes as a tramp’s sock. I pointed out one or two. “Fingerprints?” I held my hand out, palm up.

  “We have had a copy of your fingerprints since the murder of Aberaccín. They are on the gun, the door, the room.”

  “Nitrate test?” I left my hand out for him.

  “Too late. And anyway there is no need.”

  “How did I get there?” I was clenching my hand now.

  “An accomplice,” he said calmly. “I am surprised that a man of your standing should want to steal but in my profession I have found many stranger things.” He leant back again and spoke quietly, almost to himself, letting a satisfied little smile curl the corner of his lips. That was for my benefit and I didn’t like what he was saying. “You will be found guilty of the murder of Agustín Mingote. It will be assumed that you also murdered the gardener, Miguel Aberaccín.”

  Two for the price of one. He was going to wrap the whole thing up in the one parcel and tie it round my neck. I started to yelp and he snapped, “That is all, señor. Felipe!”

  The door opened immediately.

  “Take the señor back to his cell.” He was writing in a file from the drawer before I was out of the room.

  Felipe prodded me back to the cell with his truncheon and he had the door shut on me before I had gathered my wits.

  Car. Witnesses. Fingerprints. Fingerprints, hell. It was a frame. I’d never touched Agustín’s gun.

  I did a circuit of the cell, banged the wall, did another circuit. It got me nowhere. There was nothing to do until Carol came back with the consul. And the Scotch.

  “And I am an honest man.” He was as honest as the driver of a carload of heroin.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  I forced myself to stretch out on the cot. I treated myself to one of the cigars I had left and watched the smoke spread out along the ceiling. Time passed and I let my mind wander, leaving the serious thinking, the heavy decision-making to my subconscious. It’s down there that all the important connections are made. Try and force it, you can blow a fuse, get the wrong answer , But leave it alone, it processes the data, collates it, shifts it around and produces the right answer. The subconscious answer is always the right answer.

  Like who is Gunter Katz.

  I wasn’t lying down any more. I was sitting up and quivering like a bitch in heat. I knew who Gunter Katz was. One tiny piece of information clicked into place and I knew. It wasn’t enough for the Old Bailey, but I knew.

  Then there were footsteps in the corridor. It was Felipe and he had Carol with him. He shut the door and left us alone.

  “Did you bring the Scotch?”

  She had. She opened her shoulder bag and took out a bottle wrapped in supermarket tissue paper. “What are you going to do?”

  “Open it.” I stuck out a hand and she slammed into it and complained, “Can’t you be serious, for Chrissake?”

  “This is serious.” I unshrouded it, crumpled the paper and unscrewed the cap. “The first drink of the day is always serious. I eased half an inch down my throat and let it do its work. “The others are for fun, but the first is always serious.”

  “Do you realise what kinda mess you’re in?”

  “I do, my love, I do.” I treated myself to one more and screwed the cap back on and set the bottle on the floor, killed the cigar. I leant back on the cot and hooked my fingers behind my head. So I knew who Katz was, the consul would soon be here and I had 500 calories of Bells whisky under my belt. To hell with Legra and his fingerprints.

  “Goddammit, have you freaked out or something?”

  I hadn’t realised I was smiling.

  She was pale under her slight tan. She sat down beside me, tugging one leg up under the other so she could sit facing me. The leather of her boots was soft and expensive.

  “When did the consul say he could get here?”

  “I couldn’t get hold of him.” Her voice was stiff.

  I sat upright and swore. I definitely wasn’t smiling now.

  “I’m sorry, Alan.” Her hand sneaked out to touch my arm. “I tried and tried. I nearly went crazy on that phone.”

  I patted her hand automatically. “No, that’s alright. I know you tried.”

  “It’s Good Friday. They’re all on holiday. I got his home number but –”

  “Damn it, of course it is. Damn.” I did some serious swearing, then apologised but she said it was alright. She watched me anxiously.

  One down. One to go. “Benítez?”

  She turned her head away from me. So that wasn’t going to be good news either. It wasn’t. “He didn’t say anything, pretended he didn’t know you.”

  I hadn’t expected anything from that quarter anyway. I started on a lap of the cell, saying, “I’ve got to get out of here, Carol.”

  “Escape?” Her eyebrows climbed into her hairline.

  “My God, how do I do that? You should have brought that file after all.”

  “The window’s too high.” She laughed nervously and looked at me to see if I meant it. “You mean it?”

  “Good Friday, most of them will be on duty for the processions. They may even have their own cofradía.”

  Felipe’s eye leered in through the spy hole and I sneered at it. It didn’t blink.

  She asked me what a cofradía was.

  “A religious float, Christ on the Cross, the Madonna, that sort of thing. Each float is the responsibility of a group in the town, the cripples, widows, fishermen, the butcher, the baker, the candlestick makers. Usually, the police and Guardias Civiles have their own float, the last one in the procession. They carry torches and wear hoods and gowns like something out of the Ku Klux Klan so God won’t recognise them.” She giggled. “No, seriously,” I said, “they do. And that’s when to try it. Can you find out when it starts?”

  “Yep.” She smiled and locked excited. “I can hack it. You’re really gonna try it?”

  I nodded. “Good. Then just before it starts, come and see me because that means the door will be open. And you can tell me where the guards are, who’s on duty. You can bring me some food – that’ll do as an excuse to come back.” I took in a lungful of air and picked up the cigar packet and shook it. There were still some in it. “Asking a hell of a lot of you, Carol.”

  She tucked her other leg up and hugged her knees. “Wow, what a blast.” She looked at the door. “And then disappear silently into the night, huh?”

  I poked the packet open and rolled a cigar between finger and thumb. I was back to smiling again and she smiled back at me and then said seriously, “Say do you want me to get hold of a gun. Father’s sure to –”

  I interrupted hurriedly. “That would get you too involved.”

  “I am involved.”

  “But –”

  “No hassle, Alan. I want to be involved.”

  I held out my hand, she took it and I helped her to her feet. She pulled her jeans down over her boots but still held my hand, then looked up at me. Her mouth was slightly open. She wore no lipstick. “Time you were going,” I said. She pulled on my hand and pushed her face up to mine. She kissed me. Her lips were dry and firm. Her breasts just touched my shirt. They were firm too. Then she pulled back and said, “You know why I’m doing this, don’t you?”

  It was a moment for the wry wisecrack but I didn’t have one. Instead I gave her a gentle push towards the door. Felipe must have been watching because he had it open for her and I said, “Good luck.”

  The door locked and her footsteps faded and I was alone again.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Nobody came near me and the hours passed. I paced the time out deliberately. Half an hour on the cot. Fifteen minutes working the stiffness out of my system. It didn’t make a lot of sense but it was better than nothing.

  A lot of time passed. More than I expected. I reached the stage where I was checking my watch every few minutes. Seven o’clock. Eight. Half-past. Eight forty-five. Fif
ty. Fifty-five. Nine o’clock. No Carol.

  So Legra wouldn’t let her visit me again.

  Then there were footsteps, two pairs. The door opened and it was Carol. It was a different guard, an older man who mumbled something I couldn’t make out. He was toothless and his face was trenched with heavy wrinkles. He left the door open and zigzagged back up the corridor.

  Carol said, “He’s drunk.” She shimmered with excitement.

  “You’re late,” was what I said but she wasn’t offended. She smiled. It was the confident smile of someone who knows something you don’t, has done something you can’t do anything about. I looked at her uneasily.

  “I know – deliberately.”

  I went to the door and looked up the corridor. It was empty. I whistled. “I don’t believe it.”

  The processions are starting now and look what I’ve got for you. She opened her shoulder bag and took out a gown and hat. She giggled and said, “Isn’t it a gas?”

  “You’re a genius.”

  “I saw Benítez again. He provided it. The guard is one of his men. I suppose he had to get drunk to do it.” She looked towards the door and so did I. It was still open. The corridor was still empty. “This is the police gear.” It was bright green. “Nearly all the police are in the cofradía – see, I know all about it now. They have the last float, they call them pasos. All you have to do is put this on and walk out of here and join them.”

  “It can’t be as simple as that.” It couldn’t.

  “It is.” She nodded. “There are only two men in the station, our drunk friend and a man on duty at the door. You wear this and walk right past him.” She stood back in triumph.

  “I don’t believe it.” I didn’t.

  She giggled then got it under control, saying, “It’s ridiculous. You should see them.” Then, “That’s why I came so late. You walk out with them, nobody can recognise you, but you’ll have to join the procession. Benítez has arranged it. He’s a fantastic little man. In the Calle José del Marismo, the paso will stop because Benítez’s nephew will sing a saeta to the float for his father so they will have to stop there. Benítez is trying to arrange a diversion. Make sure you’re on the left. There will be a SEAT 600 parked in a side street with the keys in. Take the first turn on the left and stop. You’ll be joined by someone who will take you to a safe place.”

  The gown was cheap cotton and crumpled from being in her bag. “It’s all organised, then.” I pulled it over my head. I faced her, arms spread out. It was too short and my wrists stuck out. “I feel like an out-of-work surgeon.” She laughed and stepped back. “The hat?” She gave it to me, and I pulled it over my head, adjusting it so that the eyeholes were in position. It came down over my shoulders.

  She studied me critically. “You’ll do. No-one will recognise you.”

  “Damn it, this is too easy. I don’t like it.” I felt tense and edgy but I hadn’t meant to say it.

  “You’ll be alright,” she said reassuringly. “You know what the Spanish are like.”

  “Do I? Okay then, let’s go.” I held up my hand. “You go first. I’ll give you five minutes.”

  “You’ve nothing to worry about. There’s only two of them.” She reached for my hand but I moved away from it.

  “I want to see you as soon as I get to this safe place of Félix’s. Tell him that. It’s important.” She managed to get hold of my hand this time. Her hand was warm and moist. “Legra will want to see you when he learns I’m gone so keep out of sight and remember, tell Félix I’ve got to see you. Alright?”

  She was practically jumping up and down. “You want to see me?”

  I nodded, making the hat slip so I had to wrestle it back into position. “I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t mean it. Now get going.” I was ungrateful. I snarled. She didn’t care.

  She clung to my hand, nibbled her lip, wriggled her shoulders and then was gone, skipping up the corridor.

  I went to work on the hat, getting it secure, and fiddling with the gown trying to stretch the sleeves, then remembered the whisky. I thought about taking another drink but decided against it. It meant fighting my way through the hat. I hoisted up the gown and forced it into my pocket. Now I was properly dressed.

  Time to go. I took a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly, settled my shoulders. Now it was time to see if it was as easy as she had said.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  I should have taken that drink. My heart thumped loudly and my mouth was dry. Cold claws squeezed my stomach. There was only one light in the corridor. The stone walls were rough and yellow. My hood brushed the ceiling. The stone steps were worn. I stumbled on them. I stopped in front of the door, wiped my hands together, turned the handle firmly and walked into the main corridor.

  There was no-one in sight.

  The back of my neck felt damp. I turned right and stalked towards the outside door. The desk was empty. Then I saw him. He was outside on the steps watching the crowd and his back was to me. He hadn’t heard me. He had his hands in his pockets and his service revolver was tilted at forty-five degrees in its holster. His cap leaned over his forehead and the hair at the back of his neck needed trimming.

  I walked past him quickly, down the steps and into the crowd. He stiffened and he said something that could have been anything but I didn’t stop. My back was cold but there was nothing else. I was in the crowd which was all men, all organising each other and nobody paying attention. That made for a lot of noise. A firework zipped up, crackled, flared.

  I bullied my way through to the cofradía. They were lined up in threes and all carried torches. Someone shouldered me so I turned and found a torch in my hand. I recognised no face and nobody gave any sign of having done it. It was unlit. I joined a rank of two penitentes and tapped the shoulder of the man in front and said my torch had gone out. He half turned and gave me his torch from which to get a light. He didn’t look at me. Nobody looked at me.

  It didn’t take long but it seemed like a year before they were ready to start. The paso was carved heavy wood, covered in lilies and carnations. Above it there was a five-foot wooden statue of Christ on the cross which was pretty lifelike, even down to the blood coming from the crown of thorns. It wasn’t one of the heaviest floats but it was heavy enough. It took at least a dozen men to carry it, hidden under green cotton drapes with only their feet showing.

  Legra was at the back chatting to the Guardia Civil commander and some men in civilian clothes who all looked important. And nobody was in a hurry. Except me.

  Somewhere in front a drum began to beat, a steady muffled note. That got a lot more shouting going. A man hoisted a heavy embroidered banner, with Franco’s face on it.

  The paso bearers took the weight, staggered – which caused some more shouting – and then we began to move.

  We marched slowly. The crowd opened out and I could see ahead. A band was leading. As we left the square it began to play, brass and drums and strictly Saturday night.

  Behind the band a stout man with small feet and the footwork of a flyweight danced backwards and tried to keep the cofradía in time to the band. He wore a grey suit and he was bad tempered. He wasn’t impressed with our performance. Beside him a thin man in a loose grey suit with a long pole held up the wires that crossed the street holding the streetlights which were too low for the paso to get under.

  I was soaked to the ankles in sweat but there was nothing I could do about it. It ran into my eyes, the corner of my mouth, slid down the sides and my gown clung patchily to me. Mr Grey Suit went a heather shade of purple and waved his hands above his head, clapped them in front of his chest and looked anguished. We stopped. He started up my side of the penitentes and he seemed mad. I wasn’t sweating any more. I wasn’t even breathing.

  His head stuck forward and his eyes bulged and he went right past me and started yelling at the float bearers. One of them lifted the drape and argued back, then dropped the drape while backing down the rows and staring at the float as
though he hated it.

  That happened once more before we got to the Calle José del Marismo which was a narrow street, the houses and shops practically on the street itself. The pavement wasn’t even a foot wide and the crowd wouldn’t have filled a taxi. I didn’t like it but if this was where Félix’s nephew lived, this was it. There was no sign of a car.

  There were several balconies and they were all filled with people.

  A voice shouted from the balcony opposite the grey suit. He cupped a hand behind his ears and looked pleased. He marched up the rows again, waving his hands, spoke to the paso bearers, making it heave and sway, and they slipped the supporting poles underneath. Then he had to catch the band. They were still marching onward playing and people were shouting at them. He caught them up, the music straggled to a stop and the band wandered back. Then he had to get the paso under the window. At the third attempt he finally got it parked at the right spot.

  A young man in an open-necked white shirt stepped forward on the balcony. He had a large chest and a thick neck. He began to sing a saeta, half Gregorian chant, half flamenco, head back, eyes shut. He gave it everything he had. There was an old man beside him. He had a blanket round his shoulders. He looked ill and sad, the saeta doing nothing for him. Two girls supported him, trying to nudge and whisper him into excitement.

  This had to be it. They wouldn’t stop twice for a saeta. There was no movement from what crowd there was. Ten yards away was a street corner and that would be where the car was but I would stand out like a nudist if I moved.

  There was a cry of “olé!” in a break in the saeta and a flashbulb popped. Someone darted across the road, camera in hand. Several young men followed him. A policeman started to shout, checked himself and stalked grimly after them. Everyone was watching either the singer or them.

  I held my torch down, stepped to the side and edged along the six-inch pavement. Nobody looked at me.