Not With a Whimper Read online

  “El Toro Negro,” I said.

  His jaw dropped. “How do you know?”

  They listened in silence while I told them what had happened. They were still silent when I had finished. Then Benítez spoke.

  “El Toro Negro is the hacienda of Don Carlos Medina y Ortega. He owns much land here. His father was close to Rivera, a member of the government, but he is not the man his father was. He has vineyards and a bodega in El Puerto but his passion is the bulls.”

  So he wasn’t the man his father was. Who is? “Is he in on the plot?”

  Benítez shrugged.

  “He has a wife who is German,” Miguel said.

  “And she has a lover who is English,” Camino cackled.

  They started talking about it, but Benítez said: “We have a strange affair. I do not like it. The Englishman is killed. Then the American. Then they try to kill you, señor. There is a German Nazi. An American officer is involved. Don Carlos must be involved. But who is the American officer? Who is the German?”

  It was after one when we left El Corillo’s. We hadn’t come up with any ideas but we had listened to Sánchez sing a couple of flamencos, had argued about Spanish and English football and how each reflected national character, played dice and I’d turned down an invitation to a brothel.

  The air was cool outside, making me shiver. Miguel noticed.

  “You must come.” He leant on me, almost chewing my ear. “Women, they love Mac.” He punched Crawford on the shoulder who grinned. “These black guys, they have an advantage, no?”

  They all laughed and started making unflattering comparisons between Miguel’s physical endowment, and Crawford’s.

  “And you will pay nothing. The Señora Ana is my friend.”

  We argued for ten minutes before they accepted I wasn’t going. I watched them down the street. They turned the corner, leaving the street quiet. Behind me the bar door shut, after which I started walking.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I didn’t sleep well and woke at dawn, but it was worth waking up then. A pink light slatted in through the shutters and when I got up to open them the air was cool and pure as it always is at that time. I sat at the window smoking half a cigar while listening to a pair of goldfinches in the juniper.

  I went back to bed then, sliding into a deep dreamless sleep, and stayed that way until María arrived. She’d let herself in with the key I had given her and it was her singing which woke me. I liked the sound of it, not Victoria de los Ángeles, but cheerful. I lay there and listened to her, thought about getting up but I wasn’t in a hurry. I’m never in a hurry to start the day. Coffee, a pipe, Radio 3 and The Times; that’s how to start the day.

  Finally, I rolled out and wandered into the bathroom, climbed under the shower, shaved with a blunt blade and dressed in a pair of check slacks, plain blue shirt and cashmere sweater, courtesy of St Michael. I picked out a plaited leather belt, decided it was too fancy so settled for a plain leather one with a large buckle.

  María had breakfast ready. She chattered while I grunted, and wished I had something to read. The label of a Nescafé jar says the same in Spanish as it does in English. I started a fresh cigar.

  Then it was time to go to Chipiona.

  I passed a flock of lean, dark, sober-faced field workers on mules and mopeds, jornaleros. I parked at the roadside and smoked the cigar while watching a cloud or two chase themselves across the sky, the wind combing the wheat, a man with thick skilled fingers working on a row of vines, two women hoeing, a herd of goats under a tree.

  I drove on.

  As I said, there were three houses beyond the flats, all different but all standing in the same stretch of mown grass. The Guadalquivir dragged past behind them. It was the end one I wanted but it wasn’t anything to get into the hundred best buildings in Spain. It was a square, top heavy job of honey-coloured stone with green shutters and a fumed oak door. The cornice jutted out and a stone parapet penned in the flat roof. There were alabaster urns at each corner.

  I sat in the car looking at it, finished the cigar and eventually got out, climbed the steps and rang the bell.

  I did so three times but got no answer. I tried the handle. I tried the shutters. I even walked round to the back. The grille I had come through hadn’t been repaired. I could always go back in that way if I wanted. I didn’t.

  I looked at the house next door. I looked at the river. I looked at the trees. It wasn’t doing me any good. I looked at my watch. Nearly ten.

  There was the drone of a moped on the road, getting louder, coming nearer. It came into sight behind the next house and he parked it beside my SEAT. He had a bag strapped on the back and he unfastened it and slipped it over his shoulder. He began to walk towards me.

  Thin and dark with a folded face that needed a shave, black eyes under a greasy felt hat, a collarless shirt and a waistcoat, thick grey trousers and heavy boots. “Hola, señor.”

  “Buenos días.”

  We looked at each other. He put the bag down. We discussed the weather and he looked at me impassively, working his lips against his gums now and again. Then he said, “You are a friend of Señor Gilbert Keble?”

  GK. There was a silence which was as pure as ice. And in that silence I heard the sounds I’d missed before. The river slugging at its mud-covered banks. The thin rasp of insects. The wind whispering over the grass and tickling my ankles. And me saying, “We have met.”

  I held my breath. This needed careful handling. “He hasn’t opened the house yet?”

  “I look after it when he is not here. He is opening it for the Seville feria.” He took a tin out of his pocket and a cigarette out of it. I offered him a cigar, he accepted and we lit up and blew smoke at each other.

  I took a little breath. “He was going to show me the house.”

  He frowned. “He did not tell me that.”

  “It is no matter. I can come again.”

  He kicked the bag lightly. A bottle clinked.

  “It is a great pity that fine houses like these...” I waved an arm at all three “... are empty so much.”

  He sucked his lips over his gums, then spat. He gave me an angry look. “I have two rooms for me and Juanita and my mother and my children. I have five children. Two rooms.”

  I encouraged him. “That is not right.”

  “Señor Carillo, he would change all that.”

  The name rang a bell. Oh, yes. Santiago Carrillo, the infamous communist. I wondered briefly how long he would remain in exile. “He would indeed.”

  He bent stiffly, a hand like a briar root hauled up the bag. If you want to see the house …”

  “That’s kind of you.”

  I followed him up the steps. He used a heavy black key to open the door and it swung open silently. “It’s a fine house,” I said. He slapped a hand at the side wall and the lights came on.

  It looked exactly the same as it had yesterday.

  The lounge hadn’t changed and the floorboards were back in place.

  There were two bedrooms off the hall. A small one with a single bed and carved furniture, and a second larger one with a double bed and more carved furniture. The bed looked as if it had been made in a hurry. The bedspread was creased and the pillow rumpled.

  There was a bathroom next to the lounge and a half-empty tube of toothpaste lay on the glass shelf.

  I joined him in the kitchen which was everything it should be: no nonsense about trying to be fake Andalusian. Enough cupboards with louvred doors to hold enough food for a garrison. Miele dishwasher. AEG automatic washing machine. Bauknecht refrigerator. Split-level Moffat cooker with ceramic hobs. Tiled walls and matching floor. I asked him if anyone were staying there.

  He looked slyly at me and tapped his nose with a finger. “The señor permits a friend to use the house.”

  “The Señora Teresa,” I guessed and guessed wrong. But I wasn’t far out.

  He cackled and coughed and turned to spit in the sink. The back of his neck was
cracked with dirt. He wiped his eyes. “You can say she uses it.” That set him off again. After he had finished coughing, he said, “No, it is the señor.”

  “Ah,” I said slowly.

  “Señor van Oudtschoorn.”

  I leered at him and said, “He uses it often?”

  “Often enough, heh, heh. They think I do not know. Jesús Mendoza knows.” He tapped his nose again. We chuckled together. “She has a flat in Rota with her husband so she comes to meet him here.”

  “Rota?”

  “The Camino del Puerto.”

  “Her husband doesn’t know?”

  “Señor Navas is a sailor so he is away often.” He winked. “A sailor’s wife and Señor van Oudtschoorn is very rich. It is always thus.”

  Always.

  He dropped some ash in the sink and turned the cold tap on, splashing it away. “I do not like Señor van Oudtschoorn. He is a hard man. All South Africans are hard. They look at you like dirt.”

  “He has a fine car.” I was on a fishing expedition.

  “Sí. A German one.”

  “A BMW.”

  “Is that it?”

  “He is staying with Don Carlos?”

  “Sí. With Don Carlos and Doña Ilse. They are doing business together.”

  “Do you know Ángel?” I described him.

  “Sí. Ángel López. He is the mayoral at El Toro Negro.”

  The foreman.

  “He is a man with a temper, señor. He smiles but I have seen him beat a vaquero until the blood has flowed from his back. He is a bad man.”

  “You know much about El Toro Negro, Jesús.”

  He screwed a knowing look my way. “My sister, her husband Agustín Mingote works for Don Carlos. I could tell you much. Señor van Oudtschoorn is not the only one who stays there. Señores Keble and O’Halloran are guests also.”

  “I don’t know O’Halloran.”

  “He is Irish. He owns a hotel, muy grande, in Ireland.”

  “You know much, Jesús.”

  “Ah, sí, señor.” A car door shut and it wasn’t far away. Jesús heard it. He grinned. “But not now, señor. He opened a full-length cupboard and hefted out a Siemens vacuum cleaner. “Perdone, señor. I have work to do.”

  The front door clicked. There was silence. The kitchen door opened. A man stood there. He was wearing rubber-soled shoes.

  “l am just about to clean the carpets, señor. Here is your friend.” And he backed out and left me with him.

  He was chunky with a solid chest that went into a solid stomach, powerful thighs that showed against his navy slacks, white canvas shoes and a white short-sleeved Munnsinger shirt. He had arms like a docker and hands like a mechanical grab. His voice was a high steady tenor. “What are you doing here?”

  “Talking to Jesús.”

  “So?”

  We looked at each other. He had a heavy jaw and fresh skin that looked as if it only needed shaving every couple of days, a moustache that tried to be elegant, and soft mousy hair with a lot of grey in it. He wore it straight and too long. His forehead matched his jaw and was dull red with his frown. The eyes were small hard and steady. The nose had been broken, the bridge was flat and below that it was thin and bent. He looked as if he had a sharp temper.

  “I asked you what the hell do you think you’re doing.”

  “Mr Gilbert Keble?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know Mr van Oudtschoorn.” I said it confidently.

  “Joe, yes –”

  “And Señora Teresa Navas?”

  “What the –”

  “And Señora Navas?”

  “Yes, Now –”

  “I see.”

  He blinked, looked uncertain. “You’re interested in Joe?”

  “I am.”

  “What he does is his own affair, nobody’s business but his own. Are you working for Navas?”

  “I am not.”

  “So I let him use the house.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Who the hell are you?”

  “Is that all?”

  “Yes, that’s all. So he and Teresa – look, I don’t get this. Joe is Under-Secretary for State Security.”

  “How long have you known Van Oudtschoorn?”

  “Nine, ten years.”

  “Where did you meet him?”

  “I do business with him.”

  “What business?”

  “Sherry.”

  “And that is your only business dealing with him?”

  “I asked you, who the hell are you? What –”

  “Just answer the question, Mr Keble.”

  “Yes – no.”

  “Which is it?”

  “He is one of the South African shippers we use for our blended sherry. We’re thinking of moving upmarket, importing a quality Spanish sherry. He introduced me to Don Carlos Medina y Ortega. Don Carlos and I are having preliminary discussions. There aren’t many bodegas that aren’t already tied up.”

  “Mr O’Halloran is staying with you at El Toro Negro?”

  “Yes.”

  “What relation is he to Van Oudtschoorn?”

  “None.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “I’m not sure. Who the hell knows. I don’t think they know each other – before this, I mean.”

  “Yet they are both staying at El Toro Negro.”

  “Graham is an old friend of Don Carlos.”

  “How old?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “How did they become friends?”

  “I don’t know. Graham made his money in Rhodesia, then came back home to open a hotel.”

  “Rhodesia. So he could have known Van Oudtschoorn.”

  “Why are you interested in Joe? Are you with BOSS?”

  “You think I’m with South African state security?” I looked indignant and carried on. “A liaison with a married woman can make a man in Van Oudtschoorn’s position vulnerable.”

  “Christ, he’s not the first cabinet minister to have an affair.”

  “An Under-Secretary for State Security?”

  He put a fist on the door and leant straight-armed on it. “I want your name.”

  “That does not matter.”

  “Oh, yes it does. I want your name and I want to know what right you have to ask me questions.”

  I moved towards him, thanked him for his co-operation.

  “You’re not going until I find out who you are.” He worked a scowl round his face. I said nothing. He worked harder at the scowl. “Your name?”

  “Perhaps you ought to call the police.”

  “I don’t need them.” He took his arm off the wall and he believed he didn’t. He was about six inches shorter than me and about ten years older. If it hadn’t been for the ten years he could maybe have given me a hard time. I didn’t move. We stared. “Alright.” He yanked the door with a freckled hand. “Get out.”

  I caught a whiff of Chanel aftershave as I passed and the cold fury of his eyes said he wasn’t so bothered about the ten years’ difference.

  I walked across the hall, down the steps and into the SEAT. There was a Jaguar XJ S beside it, registration number GK 999. There was money in the sherry business.

  CHAPTER NINE

  There was one apartment block on the Camino del Puerto. It had a lot of expensive boutiques with plate glass windows on the ground floor and a futuristic lobby; wide, cool tiles, white and chrome furniture tastefully arranged, some graceful palms and a bank of stainless steel elevators each with their own set of ruby buttons. The Navas had flat 37. There was an old dame waiting. She wore a mink collar and enough make-up to cover a hole in the road. I joined her. She glared at my cigar, punched the button for the fourth floor and dared me to alter it. I rode up with her and kept the cigar smoke to a minimum.

  She glared at me again when she got out. The door sighed shut and I pressed the button for the third floor.

  I thumbed the bell of 37 and she didn’t take long to
answer. She was wearing a fluffy blue sweater and a navy box pleat skirt. Her legs weren’t her best feature.

  She stood stiffly, mouth slightly open, eyes frozen.

  “Buenos días, Señora Navas.” She didn’t move as I walked past. The furniture was chainstore modern, vinyl and chrome, smoked glass, teak veneers. There was a Sony music centre, a Pye television in a white cabinet, a built-in log effect electric fire and a view of the harbour over the roofs.

  “Madre de dios.” Her skin looked flat and coarse, the eyes a hollow blue.

  “So, Teresa.” I grinned at her.

  She came to life then, slamming the door.

  “l do not know Ángel has a gun, señor, believe me. To ask you questions, that is all, they say. They say tell Señor Christian that if he comes to Chipiona we can tell him about the death of Francisco Lynd. I do not know they are – believe me, señor.”

  I grunted, scowled at her, dropped into a low black armchair.

  “They are mad. My brother –” She bit her lip. “He is nothing but trouble to me, a curse to his parents and sister. Rafael, he made me marry Andrés. I was sixteen, a maid in Málaga. Already Rafael is rich and important. Our parents are poor. So when Andrés Navas …” Lines pinched the face either side of her lips. “What could I do? I was sixteen.”

  “So now you have a rich lover. Did Joseph tell you to take me to Chipiona?”

  “No.”

  “No?”

  “It was Rafael. He told me.”

  “Why?”

  “They wanted to question you.”

  “Who is ‘they’?”

  “Rafael.” She stopped.

  “Don Carlos?”

  “No, not Don Carlos.”

  “Ángel was the mayoral for El Toro Negro.”

  She caught the tense I used. “Was?”

  “He is dead.”

  “Ay, madre de dios, it is an evil affair.”

  “What is?”

  “I cannot tell you.”

  “What affair?”

  “They will kill me.”

  “If I go to the police, you will be just as dead. The years in prison will be a slow death. Who are they?”

  She bit her lip, shook her head.

  “Don Carlos?”

  “Maybe. He is not the leader.”

  “Rafael?”