Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire (25 page)

‘I've booked a hotel room,' Meadows said. ‘You can go over the books there.'

‘I don't suppose we could have a little session before we get down to work, could we?' Sowerby asked hopefully.

‘A sort of payment in advance?'

‘If that's the way you want to look at it.'

‘No,' Meadows said, ‘we couldn't.'

‘Oh come on, Katherine, you know that you want it as much as I do,' Sowerby cajoled.

‘It's Kate,' Meadows reminded him. ‘And yes, I do want it as much as you do – but I'm strong enough to put business before pleasure.'

As they approached the sign which said that Arco de Cañas was only three kilometres away, Paco pulled into the side of the road.

‘It is time for me and my little car to don our disguises, Charlie,' he told Woodend.

From his small travelling suitcase in the boot, he produced a portrait of General Franco, and a Fuerza Nueva key ring. He tacked the portrait to the back window, and hung the key ring from his rear-view mirror.

‘Do you think those little changes will be enough to fool them?' Woodend asked.

‘I don't see why not,' Paco replied. ‘Fascists are greedy, and fascists are ruthless – but no one ever accused them of being intelligent.'

Arco de Cañas was bigger than Val de Montaña, just as the soldiers had claimed so long ago, but it was still no more than a small, dreary town in the middle of a large, empty plain, which had no more interest in the modern world than the modern world had in it.

Paco parked in the town square, and looked around. There were three bars under the arcade, but only one of them – the Bar del Pueblo – had the sound of martial music blearing from it.

‘I assume that's the place we'll be going into,' Woodend said.

‘No,' Paco replied. ‘First we go to one of the other bars, to give the men in Bar del Pueblo time to do what they need to do.'

The bar Paco chose was called Pedro's, and they were the only customers. They ordered a glass of wine each, and then Paco positioned himself at the window. He did not have to wait long before four old men emerged from the Bar del Pueblo, crossed the square, and stood looking at his little car.

‘Fascists are so predictable,' he said, with some disgust. ‘If they had not had help from Hitler and Mussolini, we would have beaten them hollow.'

The four old men had finished their inspection of the Seat 500, and walked slowly back to the Bar del Pueblo.

‘And now we join them?' Woodend asked.

‘Now
I
join them,' Paco replied. ‘If this is going to work, you must content yourself with the role of observer.'

Javier Martinez's neighbours on Tufton Court were not pleased to see Detective Constable Andrew Bailey.

They had already told the police – more than once – that they had never seen the woman in the sketch, they said, and if he thought that drawing a hat on her head would make them admit that they had seen her, he was very much mistaken.

Bailey was neither surprised nor disappointed. If he had been watching the Martinez house – which was, apparently, DCI Paniatowski's latest theory on what the dead woman had done – he wouldn't have chosen to do it from the cul-de-sac, because there was nowhere to hide, and someone would have been bound to spot him.

So where would he have positioned himself? he wondered.

He walked to the point at which the cul-de-sac met Ashton Avenue. The houses on this road were not as large as the ones in Tufton Court, but they were still substantial dwellings with double frontages – family homes – and anyone hanging around in front of them would have been very conspicuous.

He shifted his gaze. Fifty yards down the road was a copse of trees for which the council – in the interest of creating a balanced environment, and much to the annoyance of the owner – had refused to grant planning permission.

It's certainly a possibility
, he thought.

He walked across to the copse and stood between two of the trees. From there, he had a clear view of the entrance to Tufton Court. At that distance, it wasn't a perfect view, of course, but it was close enough for him to see that the man just turning into the court was probably middle-aged. And choosing that particular location had another advantage, which was that while he was not exactly invisible, he probably wouldn't be noticed by anyone who wasn't specifically looking at the copse.

It was unfortunate that the ground was hard – and had been the previous week – because there would be no footprints. But if the woman in the hat had been there, she might have left some other evidence.

He looked around, and his eyes fell on a small red object. He picked it up and found that it was a piece of meat, and though it was too frozen for him to smell, he was almost certain that it was something called
chorizo
, which he had once tried when on holiday in Spain, and hadn't liked very much.

He took an envelope out of his pocket, and slipped the meat into it. It was a good morning's work, he told himself, and it would earn him brownie points with Shagger Beresford, who was the inspector in charge of the team.

It was when he turned around again that he noticed the curtain move in the house across the road from the copse.

Could he be that lucky, he wondered?

It appeared that he could.

He crossed the road and knocked on the front door. It was some time before his knock was answered, the reason for which was quickly explained by the fact that the old woman who opened the door was using a Zimmer frame.

‘I'm from the Whitebridge police,' Bailey explained. ‘Have you talked to us before?'

‘Talked to you before?' the old woman repeated. ‘Well, I used to talk to the constable on the beat, but it's all cars these days, isn't it?'

Bailey smiled indulgently. ‘I meant, has any policeman talked to you about this woman?' he said, holding up the artist's sketch.

‘Oh, her!' the old woman said. ‘No, nobody's talked to me about her.'

‘But you have seen her?'

‘Yes, of course I have. I couldn't miss her.'

Bailey felt his heart skip a beat.

‘It's a bit cold for both of us, standing on the doorstep,' he said. ‘Would it be all right if I came in?'

‘I suppose so,' the old woman said.

The old woman's name was Mrs Potts, and she suffered from an arthritis the like of which no woman in human history had ever had to suffer before.

‘So I don't get around much,' she told Bailey, once they were in the living room which overlooked the copse. ‘That's why I spend so much time looking out of the window. It's nice to watch the world go by.'

‘If you saw the woman, why didn't you contact us before now?' Bailey asked, in an effort to establish whether she was any more than a lonely old lady who would say anything to get a bit of company.

‘I didn't know you were looking for her,' Mrs Potts replied.

‘But surely you must have seen the picture in all the newspapers,' Bailey prodded.

‘Don't read them,' Mrs Potts said.

‘Or seen it on the news?'

‘Don't watch the news. It's too depressing.'

‘So tell me about this woman,' Bailey suggested.

‘The first time I noticed her was last Tuesday afternoon.'

‘You're sure it was Tuesday?'

‘Yes, I'd just been watching my favourite programme on the television when I saw her. It only comes on once a week, and it's always on a Tuesday.'

‘So what was she doing?'

‘Nothing. Just standing there.'

‘For how long?'

‘I don't know. Once it gets dark, you can't really see across the road, so she could have been there, and I wouldn't have known it.'

She wouldn't have been there after dark, because she wouldn't have been able to see the turning into Tufton Court, either, Bailey thought.

‘When did you see her again?' he asked.

‘She was back there the next morning.'

‘Didn't that worry you?'

‘Why would it? It wasn't as if she was a young thug or something. She was an old woman, just like me, though you could tell from the way she moved that she didn't suffer like I do.'

‘How long did she stay there on Wednesday?'

‘All day. She must have been cold. I'd have offered her a cup of tea, but there was no way I could have crossed that road – with my legs – to ask her.'

‘And you don't know when she left?' Bailey asked.

‘As a matter of fact, I do know,' Mrs Potts said.

‘So when was it?'

‘She left just as dusk was falling.'

Many, many brownie points, Bailey thought happily.

The Bar del Pueblo was bigger than the one that Woodend and Ruiz had just left. It had a long zinc counter, and behind the counter there was a large picture of General Franco and two crossed Spanish flags. The loud military music they'd heard earlier had, it seemed, been coming from the radio, but now it had ended, and there was only a man's voice explaining how the general's tragic death had been an almost incalculable loss to Spain.

‘Sit down over there,' Paco said to Woodend, pointing to a table which was as far as it could be from the table at which the only other customers – the four old men who had inspected his car – were sitting.

Paco walked over to the bar. In the mirror behind it, he could see that one of the old men had stood up and was walking towards him, and as he ordered the drinks, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

He turned. The other man was in his late sixties, he guessed. He had a low forehead, and eyes which showed cunning, rather than intelligence.

‘How did you like Pedro's bar?' he asked.

‘How do you know I have been to Pedro's bar?' Paco countered.

‘I saw you go in.'

‘I was not aware I was being watched.'

‘In Spain, you are always being watched,' the other man said.

‘That's true,' Paco agreed. ‘And in answer to your question, Pedro's bar was fine, as far as it went, but it was not quite patriotic enough for me.'

‘So you're a patriot?' the other man said. ‘Then why didn't you come into this bar in the first place?'

‘My friend, who is English, does not like loud music,' Paco said, jabbing a thumb in Woodend's direction. ‘He only eventually came in here because I insisted on it.'

‘And why would you wish to have a friend who is English?' the other man asked.

‘I'm not sure I like all these questions, especially from a man who – for all I know – may have been on the other side in the war.'

‘Would I be in this bar if I had been on the other side?' the other man demanded.

‘I don't know,' Paco said. ‘You could be here just to camouflage your true colours. You'd be surprised how many communists and anarchists claimed to have spent the war fighting for God and country once it was becoming plain that the Generalissimo would triumph.'

‘I was there at the Battle of the Ebro,' the other man said, almost losing his temper.

‘So you say. So many people say, now that it's over and we have won. What rank were you?'

‘I was a private. Why do you ask?'

‘Because I was there at the Ebro myself, and the only man that I met from Arco de Cañas was a lieutenant.'

‘Are you talking about Luis Suarez?' the other man asked.

‘How many lieutenants who fought at the Ebro came from Arco de Cañas?' Paco asked.

‘He was the only one.'

‘Then it should be obvious, even to you, that Suarez is the one I am talking about,' Paco said. He held up his glass. ‘Here's to Luis Suarez, a good man and good soldier, who once saved my life.'

‘I fought side by side with Luis Suarez for over two years,' the other man said.

‘Then I would like to shake your hand, because if you were good enough for him, then you are good enough for me.' Paco held out his hand. ‘I'm Paco Ruiz.'

‘Antonio Crespo,' said the other man, taking it. He turned to his friends in the corner. ‘This man knew Luis Suarez.'

‘I did not say that I knew him …' Paco began.

‘You met him – and that's enough,' Crespo said. ‘Why don't you and your friend …?' He paused. ‘I was going to say, “Why don't you and your friend come over to our table?” but I am still troubled by the fact that he is an Englishman.'

‘Then worry no more,' Paco said. ‘Carlito used to belong to the British Union of Fascists. The British government put him in gaol for his views.'

‘Ah, if only Hitler had won,' Crespo said.

‘True,' Paco agreed.

‘So will you join us?'

‘I will join you, but there would be little point in Carlito coming, since he does not speak Spanish,' Paco said. ‘Take a bottle of wine to my friend's table, and when he has finished it, take him another,' he told the barman. ‘Carlito will be quite happy on his own,' he continued, turning to Crespo again. ‘As long as he has a drink, he does not need any other company.'

Crespo led Paco across to his table, and introduced him to the other old men, whose names were Iñigo, Adolpho and Jaime. All three of them, it seemed to Paco, were already quite drunk.

‘So how did Luis save your life?' Crespo asked.

‘It is a long and complicated story, and I am sure that Lieutenant Suarez will be able to tell it better than I could,' Paco replied.

The table fell silent for a few moments, then Crespo said, ‘I am sorry to tell you that Luis is dead.'

Paco sighed philosophically. ‘Well, we must all go sometime, and I trust he had a long and happy life.'

‘He was killed shortly after the war ended, by a dirty, slimy dog of a communist.'

‘And no doubt that communist met a slow and painful death as his reward for such treachery.'

Crespo shook his head. ‘No, like the coward he was, he escaped.'