Blood Wedding (34 page)

Max put the phone down. If Hassan were declared responsible for Leila’s death . . . well, that would certainly help Navarro.

After a long siesta, Max drove slowly over to Diva. He stopped twice for a break and a coffee. It was best not to push his luck. As he entered Diva he smiled with relief: his ribs had passed the test. He drove straight through the town, and then out along the Jola road. He stopped at a small
cortijo
with a large garden in the front. A little girl was playing on a swing, from north to south, from south to north. Max opened the gate, and walked along the gravel path. As he passed the swing, he called out, ‘Hello. You must be Jane. I’m Encarnita’s uncle.’

‘Yes, I’m Jane. Encarnita said she had an uncle who was a policeman. Can I be of help?’ she said with the stiff, formal politeness that only the English have.

‘Yes. I’d like to talk to your parents.’

‘Follow me. Mummy, Daddy, Encarnita’s uncle wants to talk to you.’

A blonde Englishwoman appeared with gardening gloves and secateurs.

‘Hi. I’m Mary,’ she said extending a hand for a handshake.

‘Sub-Inspector Max Romero. Encarnita’s uncle. But I’m here on official police business,’ said Max.

‘My goodness. Official police business. I’m sure we’ve paid all our taxes and bills.’

‘I’m sure you have,’ laughed Max. ‘No it’s just a few questions about a Leila Mahfouz who was killed not far from here.’

‘Leila? Dead? My goodness. I can’t believe it. I’d better call my husband. Do come in.’ She ushered him through the front door. ‘Tom, Tom,’ she called. ‘Come quick. It’s the police. Some dreadful news. Jane, you go and play.’

‘Can’t I come and listen? Leila was my friend.’

‘No, you go and play in the garden. Can I get you a cup of tea, Inspector?’

‘Sub-Inspector. Yes. I’d love a cuppa.’

‘Oh, Tom. Have you heard? Leila Mahfouz is dead. You know, Ahmed’s daughter. I’m just going to make a cup of tea. Take the Sub-Inspector into the dining room.’

Max followed Tom into the dining room, and sat in one of the armchairs. Mary returned with three cups of English tea. Max sipped his appreciatively. ‘Fabulous, proper English tea.’

‘Yes. We always bring some with us. You can’t seem to get good tea anywhere in Spain,’ said Mary.

Max looked at both of them. ‘Sorry to spring this on you. It was in the English papers.’

‘No, we never saw anything,’ said Tom. ‘I just can’t believe it. Such a lovely girl. She and Jane got on well. Do you know what happened?’

Max explained what he knew. He didn’t say the likely suspect had committed suicide. Instead he concluded, ‘She was killed on the day you left for England. It could be close to the time you might have left. So we need to know if you saw anyone, saw anything suspicious.’

‘No. Nothing. Can you remember anything, dear?’ said Tom turning to his wife.

‘No. It was belting down with rain, remember, when we left. But Jane was in the garden just before the rain came down. She might have seen something. I’ll call her in. Jane! Come here, love.’

Jane came in, clutching a teddy bear, her face smudged with tears.

‘Mummy, Mummy,’ she cried, and threw herself on Mary sobbing. ‘She was my friend. She made me laugh.’

‘It’s all right, love. Mummy’s here. Encarnita’s uncle would like to ask you a few questions.’

Jane dried her eyes, and turned to Max. Max smiled at her. ‘I’ve heard a lot about you from Encarnita. What’s your teddy called?’

‘Max,’ she replied.

‘Max?’

‘Yes, Encarnita called him Max because he’s so soppy.’

‘Hmm. Can you remember the day you left for England? In fact just before you left?’

‘Yes. I was in the garden playing. And then Leila walked by. I remember it because she sang this poem.’

‘Poem?’

‘Well . . . silly words about me. She didn’t stop, walked by.’

‘Can you remember anything else?’

‘No.’

‘Anything at all? It could be important.’

Jane frowned with concentration. ‘I went inside. Mummy kept calling me to get ready. Then I came out again. And then I saw Encarnita’s car. I ran to the gate because I thought Encarnita had come to say goodbye. But the car didn’t stop.’

‘Encarnita’s car? But she doesn’t have a car. Are you sure?’

‘Encarnita’s mummy’s car. The car her mummy drives when Encarnita comes to play.’

‘Oh,’ said Max, and just sat there thinking. ‘But Encarnita had gone with her mother that day to the coast?’

‘I know. Encarnita had come round to say goodbye the day before. But I thought she had got back, and was coming to say goodbye again.’

Max sat in deep thought. Everyone looked at him waiting. Finally he said, ‘Thanks, Jane. You’ve been a real help. Nothing else?’

Jane shook her head. Max stood up, and shook hands with everyone.

He turned to leave when Tom suddenly said, ‘Wait a minute . . . there is something. I remember it now. It was really bucketing with rain. And as we turned left off the Jola road for the Málaga coast road we saw this figure. Remember, dear,’ he said, turning to Mary. ‘We commented, odd to be out in weather like this, and no umbrella.’

‘Yes. I remember now,’ said Mary.

‘Did you see who it was?’ asked Max.

‘No. It was raining so heavily I could hardly see out of the car. But I’m pretty sure it was a man.’

‘Wearing?’

‘Sorry. It was just a glimpse. And all we could see was a figure.’

‘I saw him too, Mummy.’

‘Okay. You’ve been most helpful. If you or Jane can remember anything else please let me know. Just ring me any time on this number.’

Max got into his car and drove to the Jola bridge. He stopped on the bridge, got out, and looked down the ravine. Could Jane have been wrong? Not likely. She would know Encarnita’s car well, and it was not a common one here in Diva, an old Volkswagen Beetle.

The day Leila died, Isabel had taken the children to the beach at Nerja. Of course . . . they would have taken Juan’s car for a long drive. Which meant that Juan had the Beetle for the day. So it could have been Juan in the car. Juan? Oh Christ. I’ll have to talk to him now. Max took his mobile out, and phoned Anita.

‘Anita, I’m in Diva. No . . . the drive over was okay . . . Look, could you do me a favour? Could you get me a copy of Juan’s statement, the one he gave to León? First thing tomorrow morning will do. At my
cortijo
. You know where it is? . . . Good.
Gracias.’

Max shut his mobile. He looked at his watch: it would be dark soon. He was in no mood to confront Juan just now. He returned to the car, and drove down to his
cortijo
. He needed a puff of his inhaler. The drive over had taken more out of him than he originally thought. Tomorrow was another day, so eat, a glass of wine to relax, and then bed.

Strong gongs groaning as the guns boom far . . .
Don John of Austria is going to the war.

G.K. Chesterton,
Lepanto

Max was still in his boxers when Anita rang the bell. She smiled when he opened the door.

‘Blue definitely suits you,’ she said.

Max laughed. ‘Put the kettle on. I’ll go and get dressed. I didn’t expect you quite so early.’

‘No. I went in really early to photocopy León’s notes. I assumed you don’t want León or Gonzo to know.’

‘That’s right. There’s stuff I should check up on. And I wouldn’t want to spoil their day of glory, would I?’

Max turned, went into his tiny bedroom, and returned fully dressed. Anita was in the kitchen, waiting for the kettle to boil.

‘Tea or coffee?’ she called out.

‘If you’re having a coffee I’ll have one as well.’

‘Nice place. Your electric plug’s wonky though.’

‘I know. When I get some cash I’ll rewire. Trouble is, when I start I won’t know where to stop. The roof’s the major problem. Lets in every drop of rain.’

‘My father would have thought this was heaven. He really missed his little plot. It must be lovely here in spring.’

‘It is. You must come and stay sometime.’

Anita didn’t reply.

‘Okay. Here’s the coffee. I’ve got the papers in my bag,’ she said. ‘So what’s it all about?’

Max explained about the car. ‘It’s probably nothing, but I thought I should double check Juan’s alibi.’

Anita looked at her watch. ‘Fine. Have to go. Meant to be in at nine.’

‘I’ll give you a ring later,’ said Max.

Anita rummaged in her bag, and took out a couple of photocopies, and handed them to Max.
‘Chao.’

Max got out his notepad, began reading, and noted down the exact times and locations in Juan’s testimony. When he had finished, he went to his bookcase and took out a photo album. He looked through the album until he found the most recent photo of Juan: it was one taken at a family barbecue.

Max drove through town, and then turned right to take the road down through the mountains to Motril. He felt so anxious he hardly noticed the warm sunny day, or the mountains towering above the road winding through the narrow gorge. Soon he was on the plain, where
chirimoyo
, avocado and tomato sellers lined the road to Motril. Max turned into the car park of the huge supermarket close to the disused sugar factory. He looked at his notes: Juan said he had driven to the Motril supermarket after lunch to buy things for Sunday’s barbecue. He had arrived at the supermarket at around four, and left about four thirty. He had a coffee and a read of the papers for about half an hour. Then he drove back to Diva, arriving home after six. Leila died at five in the afternoon. Juan had no firm alibi except he was driving alone back to Diva.

Max entered the supermarket and found the manager. Max explained as little as possible of the background, only that he wished to talk to all the checkout girls who had been on shift that afternoon.

‘The supervisor will have to juggle staff around a bit – so it could take a few minutes,’ the manager said. ‘You have a coffee, and I’ll bring the girls to the café.’

Max walked into an open-plan café with plastic chairs and coffee to match. He made the mistake of ordering a Danish pastry, which had been hanging around the counter for too long. He looked again at the photo of Juan, smiling next to the barbecue. The manager returned with three girls in tow.

‘Sorry for the delay,’ he said. ‘It was difficult to rearrange things so they could get away.’

The girls sat down at the coffee table, Max showed all of them the photo of Juan. They looked at the photo carefully, and then they all shook their heads. One of the girls turned to the manager. ‘It was the afternoon shift and some of the girls only work afternoons.’

‘That’s true,’ said the manager. He turned to Max. ‘If you come back at about three, I’ll arrange for the afternoon shift to meet you.’

They left. Max went up to the counter to pay, and showed Juan’s photo to the girl. No, she couldn’t remember ever seeing him. She called over the other girls in the café. No, they had never seen him. Max was not surprised. Juan was a food and drink snob: he would never go into such a place and risk their so-called coffee. Max left: there was time to go down to the harbour, and have some nice fresh fish for lunch. He drove slowly down to the harbour, and gazed at the tankers moored on the horizon waiting to dock.

Max chose a restaurant with a view of the sea across the sands. The beaches were almost empty. Motril didn’t get many tourists. After lunch, Max returned to the supermarket. He risked another plastic coffee while he waited for the manager and the checkout girls to come. He had just finished it when the manager entered with five girls this time.

‘This is everyone who was on afternoon duty on the day you were asking about,’ he said.

Max showed them the photo. One by one they shook their heads. The final girl stared at the photo and paused.

‘I see so many people,’ she said. ‘I can’t be sure. But I do notice the handsome ones. I’m sure it’s him. He made me think of Antonio Banderas, the actor. He also made me laugh: a really silly joke, but it was funny.’

‘Can you remember the time?’ asked Max.

‘Now . . . I started a little after three – I was late that day, my little girl wasn’t well and I had to drop her off at her grandmother’s. It’s quiet then, and I’m pretty sure he was my first customer. So I’d say about three twenty. I wouldn’t want to be more precise than that.’

Max glanced at his notes: Juan claimed he left the supermarket after four to go for a coffee.

‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘You’ve been really helpful.’

If Juan didn’t go for a coffee here, where would he go? Juan liked his coffee freshly ground and preferably Costa Rican. There were a couple of good cafés in Motril. He would probably go to the closest, Café Puro. Max walked into the old town and found the place he was looking for. It had jars of coffee beans from around the world on display. Max ordered an organic Costa Rican. A pretty girl brought it to him.

‘Excuse me,
señorita
, but have you seen this man? He’s my cousin, and I’m trying to trace him.’

‘Could be,’ she said. She looked at Max. ‘He’s a bit like you, isn’t he? I remember him. He was a little flirtatious, and we had a bit of a conversation. He seemed very nice, charming really.’

‘Any idea of the time?’ Max asked.

‘Well, I go off at four so it must have been before then. Yes, I remember we left at the same time, and he opened the door for me, and made some joke or the other.’

‘Thanks,’ said Max.

‘I hope he’s not in any trouble. He was really nice.’

‘No, no. Nothing like that,’ said Max.

Max got up, and left. So Juan could have left Motril about four. Max looked at his watch as he set off to drive back to Diva. He was at the scene of Leila’s death in forty-five minutes. It could be done in less: Juan was a better and much faster driver than he was. Max got out of the car: he felt sick and asthmatic. He looked down the ravine, and brought up the bad coffee and bits of his lunch. He wiped his face, and puffed on his inhaler.

Shit. Shit. Shit. He stood there, staring over the edge of the ravine. What the hell do I do now? Ahmed wants to know the truth. But how much is the truth going to cost? It could kill Paula. ‘What if I just keep quiet? Leila’s dead, Hassan’s dead. What is there to gain? There’s no real evidence. None.