Not With a Whimper Read online

  And like you always do when you wake from a nightmare, you wake completely.

  It was María rapping on the door and whispering, “Señor Christian, are you awake, señor? The police are here. Wake up, señor. Are you alright, señor?”

  I told her I was alright and she opened the door. “Oh, señor.” She had the wild feathery look of a frightened bird, her eyes big and shiny. She twittered, “Are you alright?”

  “I’m fine,” I lied.

  “What do they want?”

  “There’s nothing to worry about.” That was a lie, too. I started to pull the bedclothes back.

  “Sí, señor.” She did a little backward jump and closed the door rapidly.

  I lay back on the bed. I didn’t feel fine, in fact I wasn’t even halfway to feeling fine. I felt lousy, and I was prepared to admit it. I didn’t feel fine at all. My heartbeat was 140 to the minute from the effect of the nightmare, plus I hurt all over. I catalogued the damage. Head; shoulder; neck; arm; stomach; feet. Even my bloody feet hurt.

  They felt a lot better on the cold tiles of the bedroom floor. Getting them there took a lot of what I use for willpower but it didn’t do my head or stomach any good. Maybe a shower would.

  I passed the bathroom mirror, looking at myself absentmindedly. I hadn’t survived the night very well. The flesh sagged and was the colour of dirty sand. The same texture by the looks of it too. The eyes were a yard deep in my skull and the skin round them was dark.

  I got in the shower cautiously and was very careful in handling the water. Not too hot. Not too cold. For once I got it just right.

  By the time I’d got dressed I felt better. I checked myself in the mirror. None of the damage of yesterday showed unless you knew where to look for it.

  He was waiting for me downstairs. He was small and fat with a red face, veined and shiny with sweat. His black hat had slipped over his forehead and he’d pushed it back. His eyes were pale bright blue, moist and aggressive. He tugged his jacket over his hips and fingered his truncheon and holster. His jacket lapels were frayed.

  “Señor Christian?”

  “Sí?”

  “You must come to the comisaría.”

  “I must.”

  “Captain Legra wishes to talk with you.”

  “What about?”

  “He will tell you.”

  We kept that sort of conversation going for another few minutes before I finally said I would go to the police station as soon as I had had breakfast. He gave me a damp glare and agreed I could have my breakfast.

  Captain Legra was a neat Spaniard and a neat Spaniard is one of the neatest people in the world. Even their skin looks freshly laundered.

  He was young, too.

  He sat and looked at me across a wide empty desk in a wide empty room, square with yellow walls with a framed photograph of Franco in hunting gear on the wall. Franco was small, plump and immaculate but nowhere near as immaculate as Legra. He held some sort of rifle under his arm in the photograph but he looked as though someone else did his shooting for him. That was the only photograph, neither King Carlos nor Suarez. I wondered if that meant anything. There were no windows in the room, the only light coming from a 150-watt bulb in a paper shade. An electric fire burned at the side of the desk. The room was also very quiet.

  He must be good to be a captain at that age, late twenties, maybe early thirties. Or good family connections. He had a razor-like face with sharp eyes, a nervous aggressive intelligence in the eyes.

  He asked for my passport, which I slid across the desk. Taking a pad from the drawer he copied down details from it, using a gold-capped Schaeffer. His left wrist showed a gold Omega chronometer. He riffled the pages of the passport but it was only two years old and there was nothing to interest him in it. He laid it neatly parallel to the pad, capped the Schaeffer 3 and put it parallel to the pad on the other side.

  “How long are you staying in Rota?”

  “I am not certain, captain,” I said politely. “Several weeks.”

  “You like Rota?”

  “It is pleasant enough”

  “You are here on holiday?”

  I explained my cover story which was property development. He seemed to approve. “Why am I here, captain?” I asked.

  “You arrived on Monday. Tell me, señor, what did you do on Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday.” He stroked the corner of his eye with his forefinger. The nail looked polished.

  “Nothing particular.”

  “Do you know anyone in Rota?”

  “No.”

  “Did you visit anyone on Tuesday?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who?”

  “A gardener at the base.”

  “His name?”

  “Why?”

  “What was his name, señor?”

  “Miguel Aberaccín.”

  “What time did you visit him?”

  “Some time in the morning.”

  “Why did you visit him?”

  “I was told he spoke English. If I am to do business here, I shall need staff who speak English.”

  “You thought you might employ him?”

  “It’s time you told me what this is all about, captain.”

  “In time, señor, in time. You do not object to helping me?”

  “No.”

  “You thought you might employ him?”

  “Yes.”

  He picked up the Schaeffer and made some notes on the pad. His fingers were long, thin and bone clean. His handwriting was jerky and nervous.

  “Did you see him again?”

  “I met him with some friends later on Tuesday night.”

  “Where?”

  “El Corillo’s.”

  “That is hardly the place that I would expect a señor like you to visit. Was it arranged?”

  “Miguel said I should meet his friends, particularly one of them, an ex-boxer.”

  “Señor Crawford?”

  “Sí.”

  He kept his hands busy clicking the Schaeffer cap on and off. “And that is the last time you saw Aberaccín?”

  “Yes. Why?”

  “A man who looked like you was seen leaving his house yesterday.”

  “Really?”

  “What did you do yesterday?”

  “I drove round, looked for sites, tried to get the feel of the place.”

  “You did not see Aberaccín yesterday?”

  “No.”

  “You know no-one here. You went to see Aberaccín as soon as you arrive. You say because he speaks English. You are concerned about hiring staff before you have done anything else. That is a peculiar way to do business, señor.”

  “I have been very patient, captain. Why are you asking me these questions?”

  “Aberaccín was murdered sometime during Tuesday night and Wednesday morning.”

  I said the sort of things I ought to say and tried to look shocked and Legra watched me intently. He didn’t say anything until I had finished.

  “Who told you that Aberaccín spoke English?”

  I didn’t dare mention Hoggart. “Francis Lynd.”

  “You knew him?”

  “Not well.”

  “You know that he is dead?”

  “I do.”

  “Is not that strange? The man who recommends Aberaccín to you dies accidentally of gunshot wounds. The man he recommends is killed.”

  “It is an unfortunate coincidence.”

  “Also an American sailor who knew both Aberaccín and your friend Lynd was killed on Monday night. That really is a very unfortunate coincidence.”

  He waited and when I didn’t say anything he made some more notes on his pad, squared it off again, then he smiled at me. He had neat regular teeth and the smile was standard issue “thank-you-for-your-co-operation-smile”. His eyes had nothing to do with it.

  “And you do not think that you have any information that would be helpful to us?”

  “I d
o not think so.”

  He stood up then. He was small, only five-six or seven but his handshake was firm. He gave me my passport back and his gratitude for being so helpful and that was government issue too. He escorted me to the door, opened it. He smelled of something sharp, clean and faintly antiseptic. His eyebrows arched symmetrically over brown eyes.

  “There are too many coincidences, señor,” he said. We stared at each other. I don’t know what he saw. I saw a neat hard face that knew I had a lot more to tell him.

  I didn’t hurry leaving the building. I stood in the corridor and relit my cigar: there had been no ashtrays in Legra’s office. I shook out the match and put it back in the box. I strolled down the corridor, down the stairs.

  Outside the sunlight smacked me in the face and I blinked and screwed my eyes up and stood for a moment on the pavement to get used to it. Then I drove home.

  Byrd was pulling out as I parked. He hauled on his handbrake to cut the motor, said something to Ruth and Carol who were in the Manta with him, then came over to me.

  “Hi, Alan, great day, huh?” He was in uniform.

  I made a suitably English comment.

  “We’re off to a tienta – is that the word?”

  “Testing the calves?”

  “That’s it. Should be great. Why don’t you come along?”

  “I don’t think so, Gil, thank you.”

  “Doña Ilse keeps open house. Lotsa guys from the base are going. She won’t mind one more.”

  I shook my head, thanked him again.

  “Don Carlos is a great guy, really loves the bulls. Are you sure?”

  I didn’t drop my jaw or wag my ears but I was suddenly very interested. “Where is his place?” I said casually.

  “El Toro Negro. How about it?”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I washed, changed and inspected myself in the mirror. Pale grey two-button mohair and linen Chester Barrie with a cream shirt and green and fawn striped tie, tan shoes with one-inch heels. As presentable as I could get to go visiting Spanish nobility.

  I had Byrd’s instructions on how to get there and I followed the American-laid road out of town past the camp. It drifted in an evenly T-planned curve round the perimeter and I drifted with it.

  I turned left at the Jerez road and left again at the crossroads to Sanlúcar de Barrameda. It was a Spanish-made road now and I was back on the familiar surface of potholes and crumbling edges but I wasn’t in a hurry and neither did it bother me.

  It was a countryside of gently swelling hills, round and shallow-sided, with houses squatting on each one. Most of the houses were simple squares or rectangles, ochre or white, shuttered to the world and full of life as a packing crate. Occasionally a hill would be crowned by a larger house or even a castle with no other houses nearby.

  El Toro Negro was one of the bigger estates. It and its outbuildings stretched over the hilltop. The road up to it was straight, dusty, and stony, lined with poplars.

  The roofed gate was open and I drove through it and thence into a large square. I seemed to be the last to arrive: the yard was full of cars. I parked, got out, tugged my jacket into shape. There were buildings round three sides of the courtyard and through an archway I could hear the sound of voices and laughter.

  The archway led into a stone-flagged patio, garlanded with bougainvillaea, clematis, some vines growing round the verandah. An intricately scrolled fountain traced tinkling crystalline lines in the air. A fig tree grew against the end wall.

  The noise was coming from the open doors of a room on my left. A woman at the door was the first to see me. She was a heavy woman, heavy with strength not fat, of solid proportions and strong bones. Square shoulders, large one-piece bust, waist like a welter weight, strong calves and neat ankles.

  Blue was her colour. She wore a one-piece blue silk dress, shoes that matched exactly and she wasn’t frightened of her size. Her two-inch heels made her almost as tall as me. Her hair was drawn straight back and tied at the nape of her neck with a matching ribbon.

  “You are Señor Christian?” I admitted I was. “Gil told me you were coming. I am glad.” Then she complained but not very seriously, “There would be more room if some would take their drinks outside. Come, we find you a drink. I am Ilse.” She was the dominant type.

  She steered me into the middle of the room and signalled to a waiter in a white jacket who wriggled quickly to her. She wasn’t the sort the hired help kept waiting. “Now, Señor Christian, what will you have to drink?”

  “A brandy.”

  She nodded to the waiter who wriggled away again. I saw a few people I knew here and there. Carol waved to me. The man with her was saying something about horses. She held her fists in front of her, moved them back and forth for me to see, miming horse-riding. The Byrds stood by themselves near the window. Ruth was taking an interest in a geranium while Gil was glaring at Carol. They weren’t talking. O’Halloran was. A plump merchant with worried lines and swivel eyes fidgeted alongside him. O’Halloran waved, so I waved back and Ilse squeezed my arm. She wasn’t letting go.

  “You know Graham?”

  “I’ve met him.”

  “That is Rafael Morena with him. He is a builder, one of the biggest in Spain. Do you know what we are going to do today?”

  “A tienta?”

  “You know what that is for?”

  I nodded.

  “But of course you have lived in Madrid and Barcelona, so you will know we are going to test the bulls.” She squeezed my arm and leant towards me. There was a faint line of sweat on her upper lip and under her eyes. It wasn’t that hot in the room. The skin under her eyes was violet. It was obvious she hadn’t been sleeping well. “And you will know it is not the real testing,” she whispered. “That is done on the pastures. This is just for the amusement of our guests. We will run a few of the poorer bulls for them in the corral.” My arm got another squeeze. “But you will not tell them?” She manoeuvred a smile into place. I said it would be my secret.

  The waiter reappeared with the brandy. I sipped. “Carlos Primero?”

  She looked impressed. “I am so glad. Good brandy is wasted on so many people.”

  I sipped again. You don’t hurry Carlos Primero.

  She drew her middle finger across her brow. “Ach, I have the headache.”

  “I’m s –” I started to sympathise but she interrupted.

  “It is nothing” She flapped her hand at them. “My husband does business with so many people. Sherry for England. Bulls for Mexico. Rootstock from California. That is why there are so many here – and some of the Americans from the camp. That is what gives me the headache – all the business.”

  Van Oudtschoorn had Teresa with him. She was wearing a neat blue and white outfit and he was laughing at what she was saying. He saw me but her expression didn’t change.

  “Your husband must be an important man, Doña Ilse.”

  “Come, you must meet him. He will be in the library.” I didn’t argue with the grip on my arm.

  We edged our way round the outside of the room. Keble had a freckled hand round a glass but he wasn’t drinking it. He was beaming down a girl’s neckline which plunged to the navel. He said “Hello” quite happily to me. Ilse still had her armlock on and was chatting all the time.

  Legra was there with the Guardia Civil commander. He was pulling his jaw and looking serious and gave no sign he recognised me. The commander was blinking rapidly, smiling and talking quickly, like a salesman closing a doubtful deal.

  She came to rest in front of a carved walnut door and finally stopped talking, opened it and stood back to let me go in first.

  It was a long cool room with high-backed leather furniture, dark tables, wrought iron lamps with red shades. Bookcases lined the room and the books were leatherbound. It had everything a library ought to have.

  She closed the door, walking past me holding something that didn’t belong in a library: a 9mm Beretta Brigadier. She had large hands a
nd the barrel lay across her knuckles and looked as much a part of her as her ring or handbag.

  “Nine millimetre,” I said. I was very cool. I get that way in a state of shock.

  “It is very powerful.”

  “You will have to be very accurate to stop me.” I rubbed the brandy glass between finger and thumb. I had a theory. I had seen it in films. I wasn’t going to panic. Casual. A couple of steps.

  “I am very accurate, Herr Christian.”

  I walked forward a few paces. “Will they not hear the noise?” Keep talking. Another couple of steps. Then with one deft movement of my left hand I would throw the brandy in her face and with my right I would take the Beretta from her. That was the theory. Christian could do it.

  “With that noise?” She licked her lips and tried to smile. Her lips were dry.

  Two steps more. She didn’t back away. There was a change in the noise outside the library. Louder. I raised the glass.

  It was a neat tap – he didn’t use more force than he had to. I felt my eyeballs hit the top of my skull and everything seemed motionless. I heard her sigh. I heard her say, “Gunter –” My knees unhinged and I was the only thing moving, in slow-mo, followed by a rushing noise I failed to recognise and blackness swallowed me.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I was lying on a beach. I deserved some time lying on a stretch of sand somewhere exotic. A lot had happened to me. I had earned a rest.

  But I felt pain at the base of my skull. Did I get that from being too long in the sun? It wasn’t that kind of hurting. To hell with it. I was always complaining. I should just make myself comfortable. Soak up the sun. For the moment.

  Sweat stung my eyes. I blinked to clear them. Sand shimmered in and out of focus. I could see something big and black. It looked substantial though its legs weren’t all that solid. It reminded me of something.