Outlaws (18 page)

‘Yes.’

‘Well, that’s what Zarco started to do in the middle of that summer. And by doing that he began to run greater risks every time. And, the greater the risks he ran, the closer we came to the moment of catching him.

‘It seemed to be coming, but it didn’t arrive. During the month of August, while the pressure from my bosses grew to crush this gang as soon as possible, we were on the brink of catching them a couple of times (one afternoon at the beginning of August, near Sils, after they hit a gas station that we knew they’d been lurking around the previous day because the owner had filed a complaint, Hidalgo and Mejía chased them by car until flipping over on an embankment while they got away; in Figueras, a couple of weeks later, a Civil Guard thought he recognized them outside a bank and followed them for several kilometres, but also ended up losing them). The fact is that by the beginning of September I was desperate: I’d been working on the case for two months and things had only got worse; Deputy Superintendent Martínez and Inspector Vives knew it, so when they came back from their holidays they put me between a rock and a hard place: either I solved the problem or they’d have to assign someone else to solve it. Relieving me of the case would have been a tremendous failure, so I got my act together and in the second week of September found out that Zarco’s gang was going to hold up a bank in Bordils.’

‘How did you find out?’

‘I found out.’

‘Who told you?’

‘I can’t tell you that. There are things a policeman cannot say.’

‘Even when thirty years have gone by since they happened?’

‘Even if sixty had gone by. Look, I once read a novel where one character said to another: Can you keep a secret? And the other replied: If you can’t keep it yourself, why should I keep it for you? We cops are like priests: if we’re no good at keeping secrets, we’re no good as cops. And I’m good at being a cop. Even if the secret is a trivial one.’

‘Is this one?’

‘Do you know any that aren’t?’

‘Cañas thinks he was responsible. Apparently, two days before the Bordils hold-up he was drinking beer with Córdoba, an old district character he’d befriended.’

‘I remember that guy.’

‘Cañas thinks he might have got carried away and told Córdoba about the planned heist and Córdoba took the tale to you.’

‘It’s not true. But if it was true I’d still tell you it wasn’t true. So don’t insist.’

‘I won’t insist. Go on about the Bordils hold-up.’

‘What do you want me to tell you? I suppose, when I add it all up, it’s one of the most complicated operations I set up in my whole career. I can’t say I didn’t have the time and resources to prepare it, but the truth is I was so reckless that Zarco and company were on the brink of getting away. My only justification is that back then I was an ambitious greenhorn and I’d expended so much effort to nab Zarco that I didn’t want to put him in jail just to have him released a few months later. That’s why the operation I set up was designed to catch Zarco once he’d committed the heist and not before, so the crime he’d be charged with wouldn’t be a minor offence or an attempted offence and that the judge could lock him away for a good long time. Of course, letting Zarco act in this way, not arresting him before he went into the branch office and held up the bank, meant running an enormous risk, a risk I shouldn’t have run and only a couple of years later wouldn’t have run. Keep in mind that we couldn’t give the manager or employees of the branch prior warning, so they wouldn’t let the cat out of the bag and not to alarm them over nothing, because we couldn’t be sure our tip-off was good, or even, supposing it was true, that Zarco wouldn’t back out at the last minute. In any case, the truth is that Martínez and Vives came through, they trusted me and gave me command of the operation and half the squad: eight police inspectors in four undercover radio cars. Those were the forces at my disposal. First thing in the morning I put a car on the way into town and, as time went on, the rest of us set about positioning ourselves discreetly (one on the way out of town, another in the parking lot to the left of the branch and mine twenty metres in front of it), in such a way that, when we finally saw Zarco and two of his guys go into the branch after midday, the trap was set to close around them.

‘But, in spite of all that preparation, everything seemed to go wrong straight away. Three or four minutes had passed when a shot was fired inside the branch; almost immediately there was another. When we heard them, the first thing I did was alert the other cars and tell those on the way in and out of town to cut off access to the highway; then I called the station and told them I’d changed plans and was going in. I didn’t finish talking: at that moment Zarco and the other two kids who’d gone in with him came out of the branch taking the stockings off their heads. I shouted at them to halt, but they didn’t stop and, since I was afraid they were going to escape, I fired a shot; beside me, Mejía fired too. It was no use, and before we knew it the three of them had jumped in the car and were fleeing towards Gerona. We went after them, saw them charge into the car blocking the ramp onto the highway and carry on, and then I had a good idea. I knew that, in a car chase, they’d have the upper hand, not because the car they were driving was better than ours, but because they drove as if they knew no fear, so I called the station and talked to Deputy Superintendent Martínez and told him that, if he didn’t send us one of the helicopters they were using for Operation Summer, the armed robbers would get away again. Again Martínez came through for me and the helicopter soon appeared and thanks to it we didn’t lose their trail (or we lost it but we found it again). Finally their car overturned as they took the curve onto La Barca Bridge, on the way into the city, and that was the end of Zarco.

‘It happened more or less like this. We arrived at the bridge just after they’d flipped over, just when they were crawling out of the car, which had stopped upside down on the asphalt. There were four of us, two cars, we stopped twenty or thirty metres from the accident and, when we saw the robbers take off running across the bridge, we ran after them. Although there had been four in the car, there were three running, and we instantly recognized Zarco, but not the other two, or not with certainty. One of my officers stayed to examine the overturned car and, when we got to the other side of the bridge, I shouted to the other to run after one of them, who’d fled on his own in the direction of Pedret. Mejía and I followed Zarco and the other kid. We were lucky: on the way into La Devesa Park Zarco tripped and fell and broke his ankle, and that’s how we caught him.’

‘And the other one?’

‘The one who was with Zarco? If you’ve been talking about this with Cañas, you already know what happened: he got away.’

‘You didn’t follow him? You let him get away?’

‘Neither. What happened is that Zarco kept us busy long enough that Gafitas was able to get away.’

‘Do you think he did it on purpose?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Were you sure the guy who’d got away was Gafitas?’

‘No, but that was my impression, and Mejía’s too. What I was sure of (I think I told you this already) is that, as soon as we brought Zarco down, the gang was finished.

‘And it was. That very evening I began to interrogate Zarco and the other two members of his gang we’d nabbed that afternoon, who turned out to be two kids called Jou and Gordo (Gordo, who lost consciousness in the accident on La Barca, I interrogated a few hours after he’d been admitted to hospital; Zarco didn’t even get there: a doctor put a cast on his leg in the station house). The interrogation lasted the regulation three days but there was no surprise; it wasn’t even a surprise that from the start all three detainees piled as much shit as they could at the doors of Guille and Tío, who could take all the shit in the world because one was dead and the other quadraplegic. I don’t know if it was a strategy they’d prepared beforehand, in case they got caught, or if it occurred to each one on their own, but it was the most sensible thing they could do. Of course it didn’t surprise me that Zarco was astute enough not to cop to any more than strictly necessary either, and much less that he didn’t give anyone up for anything; I knew this was what was going to happen: not only because Zarco was the toughest in the gang and the one with most experience, but also because he was their leader, and a leader loses all his authority if he turns into an informer. However, I did get Gordo and Jou to give up Zarco for a couple of things (I tricked them: I told them he’d already copped to it himself, and they swallowed it), but I didn’t get them to give up Gafitas, or the girls or any of the others who’d participated at some point in the gang’s misdemeanours without actually being part of it. This didn’t matter to me too much – why should I lie to you – because, like I said, I thought that once I’d thrown the book at Zarco the gang would be out of action, and sooner rather than later the fringes would end up coming undone and falling of their own accord. So I rushed through the interrogations, took the greatest of care writing up the affidavit and put Zarco and the rest before a judge. And that was it: the judge sent them to the Modelo prison to await trial and I never saw Zarco again. In person, I mean; like everyone else, I later saw him often on TV, in magazines, newspapers and such. But that’s another story, and you know it better than I do. Are we done?’

‘More or less. Can I ask you one last question?’

‘Sure.’

‘What happened with Gafitas? Did he end up falling of his own accord?’

‘Why don’t you ask him?’

‘I’ve got Cañas’ version already.’

‘I’m sure it’s right.’

‘I don’t doubt it. But I’d like to hear yours as well. Why don’t you want to tell me?’

‘Because I’ve never told anybody.’

‘That makes it even more interesting.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with your book.’

‘Maybe not, but that doesn’t matter.’

‘Will you give me your word that you’re not going to use what I tell you?’

‘Yes.’

‘OK. You’ll see. At dusk on the day I arrested Zarco I showed up alone at Gafitas’ house. I didn’t want to waste time: I’d just interrogated Zarco and his two accomplices in the Bordils bank robbery for the first time at the station and, while I left the three of them stewing in their cells before waking them up in the early hours to begin the interrogation again, I decided to go after him, who was the one I suspected of being the fourth. As soon as his mother opened the door I knew I’d guessed right. It wasn’t the poor woman’s terror that betrayed her but the huge efforts she was making to hide her terror. She was so distraught that she didn’t even ask me why I was looking for her son, all she managed to say was that for the last week he had been with his father at a friend’s place, in Colera, taking advantage of the last days of the holidays; then, before I had time to ask for it, she gave me the address. An hour later I got to Colera, an isolated little seaside village, near the border at Portbou. I asked where the house was and found it not far from the beach; it was dark and looked uninhabited, but there was a car by the door. I parked beside it. I let a few seconds pass. I went and rang the bell.

‘It was his father who opened the door, a man in his forties, thin, dark-haired with no grey, who at first glance looked very little like his son. I introduced myself, told him I wanted to talk to Gafitas; he answered that he was sleeping at that moment and asked me what I wanted to talk to him for. I explained. There must be a mistake, he replied. I was with my son all morning out at sea. Are there any witnesses to that? I asked. Me, he answered. No one else? I asked. No one else, he answered. That’s a shame, I said, and added: In any case I still need to talk to your son. With a gesture that combined resignation and surprise, the man invited me in and, as we walked through the dining room, told me that he and his son had been in Colera for a week and had been going out fishing every day, although that morning they’d come back earlier than usual because of an accident. My son got a scratch from a lure when he was casting, he told me. On his arm. It was a bit gory but nothing serious; we didn’t even have to go to the doctor: I saw to it myself. When we got to the door of a room he asked me to wait there while he woke him up. I waited, seconds later he showed me into the room and I asked him to leave me alone with his son.

‘He agreed. Gafitas and I talked for a while, him sitting up in bed leaning against the wall, with his arm bandaged and his legs wrapped in a tangle of sweat-drenched sheets, me standing at the foot of the bed. Just as with his mother, I only needed to look in his eyes – more bewildered than frightened behind the lenses of his glasses – to know what I already knew: that he was the fourth man in the hold-up of the Bordils bank. I asked him a couple of procedural questions, which he answered with fake composure; then I told him to get dressed and bring a change of clothes, and finally I told him I’d wait for him in the dining room. He didn’t even want to know where we were going.

‘I walked out of the room and told the father I was arresting his son. The father listened without facing me, sitting in a rocking chair in front of the empty fireplace, and didn’t turn around. In a whisper he said: It’s a mistake. Maybe so, I accepted. But a judge will have to decide. That’s not what I mean, he clarified, turning towards me in the rocking chair, and looking at him I had the impression that he’d just removed a mask with features very similar to his own; when he spoke again I didn’t note in his voice supplication or anguish or sorrow: just total seriousness. I don’t know if my son has done what you say he’s done, he explained. I’m not saying he didn’t. But we’ve talked and he’s told me he’s sorry. I believe him; I’m only asking that you believe him too. My son is a good kid: you can be sure of that. Besides, everything that’s happened is not his fault. Have you got children? He waited for me to shake my head. Of course, you’re still very young, he went on. But I’ll tell you one thing in case you do have some one day: loving your children is very easy; what’s difficult is seeing things from their perspective. I didn’t know how to put myself in my son’s shoes, and that’s why what happened has happened. It won’t happen again. I guarantee it. As for you, what will you gain from putting him in prison? Think about it. Nothing. You told me you’ve arrested the ringleader, that you’ve broken up the gang; well, now you’ve got what you wanted. You’ll gain nothing from putting my son in jail, I tell you, or you’ll only create another criminal, because my son is not a criminal now but he’d come out of prison converted into one. You know it better than I do. What is it you’re asking of me?, I cut him off, feeling uncomfortable. Without an instant’s hesitation he answered: That you give my son a chance. He’s very young, he’ll mend his ways and this will end up just being a bad memory. He’s made mistakes, but he won’t make them again. Forget about all this, Inspector. Go home and forget about my son. Forget we ever met. You and I don’t know each other, you haven’t been here tonight, you never entered this house, never spoke to me, it’s as if this never happened. My son and I will be eternally grateful. And you’ll thank yourself too.