The Butcher Beyond (26 page)

‘Yes, but—'

‘So if one of them had a motive to murder the other, it was Durán who had a motive to murder López.'

‘Perhaps they had a third argument,' Paco said. ‘One that we know nothing about. One that put Durán back in control again.'

‘An' perhaps there's a spring up in the mountains that gushes nothin' but Lion Best Bitter,' Woodend countered. ‘It'd certainly be wonderful if there was. But things don't happen just because we'd like them to, Paco. If López had killed Durán, I can't see he'd have used a knife. An' I can't see him workin' alone, which it's plain is just what our killer did. Besides, look at the way the killer treated Durán after he'd killed him. He gouged his bloody eyes out! He slit his nose! That suggests a hatred that's been festerin' for a long, long time.'

‘Perhaps that is simply what López wanted you to think.'

‘López may be a complete bastard,' Woodend said. ‘I suspect that he is. But that doesn't make him a murderer.'

‘I'm very disappointed in you,' Paco said.

‘An' I'm very disappointed that you feel the
need
to be disappointed,' Woodend countered, angry at the way things were developing, yet seeing no way to defuse the situation. ‘Life's full of disappointments. I'd have thought that after all you've been through, you'd have known that. I'd have thought that your experiences would have helped you to grow up a little!'

They were teetering on the edge of their first argument – an argument that neither of them wanted. Perhaps they would have found a way to resolve it amicably, or perhaps it would have developed to the point at which they almost came to blows. They were never to find out, because at that moment a breathless clerk from the hotel appeared at their table.

‘I have been looking everywhere for you, Señor Woodend,' the young man gasped.

‘Why? What's happened?' Woodend said.

And already he could feel his entrails turning to water.

‘Señora Woodend …' the clerk said.

‘What about her?'

‘She … she is ill. She has been taken to the hospital.'

Woodend was finding it difficult to take in air – difficult to speak.

‘Which hospital?' he said, forcing the words out.

‘There is only one hospital in Benicelda,' Paco Ruiz told him. ‘I will drive you there.'

T
he workshop was in the back room of a house in the old part of town. It differed from most establishments of its nature, in that all the tools of the trade – the numerous bottles of coloured inks, stacks of paper of various qualities and various ages, the expensive camera – were on open display.

And why shouldn't they be? Pablo Vasquez asked himself.

The police weren't going to raid
him
, because he was under the protection of the most important – and probably the most corrupt – policeman in the whole of Benicelda.

Not that it was always a soft option, being protected by López. The Captain wasn't an easy man to handle. He was vain. He was short-tempered. He was greedy. But then, Vasquez supposed, that was almost the definition of any captain in the Guardia Civil. And if there was one thing which could be worse than dealing with him, it would be
not
dealing with him.

Vasquez heard a knock on the door – three short raps, a pause, two long raps. He stood up, crossed the room, and drew back the bolts. Though he had just been thinking about Captain López, it was still something of a surprise to find the man himself standing there.

López looked quickly over both shoulders, up and down the street, before stepping over the threshold.

Once he was inside, Vasquez quickly bolted the door behind him. ‘I was not expecting you, my Captain,' he said.

‘Weren't you?' López replied. He frowned. ‘Does that mean you have not completed the work I set you to do?'

‘No.'

‘No!'

‘I mean, it is finished but …'

‘But what?'

‘They are saying in the town that you have arrested the Frenchman for the murder of the
Alcalde
.'

‘And so I have.'

‘Then … then I do not see why you would need my help any more.'

‘Your
help
?' López asked, with a sudden dangerous edge creeping into his voice.

‘My … my assistance,' Vasquez said, then, seeing that López's frown was continuing to deepen, he asked desperately, ‘What do you
want
me to call it, my Captain?'

‘You need
call it
nothing at all. I give you orders, and you obey them. We are not partners in any sense of the word. We are not even
associates
! Is that clearly understood?'

‘Y … yes, my Captain.'

‘Then show me the work you have done for me,' López said.

Vasquez led him over to the bench.

As the Captain examined the documents, his temper seemed to improve. ‘You asked me why I still needed these papers now that I had arrested the Frenchman,' he said.

‘Y … yes, I did. But if you don't want to tell me …'

‘I will tell you. Listen and learn. There are only two kinds of people in this world, Vasquez. There are those like you, who grub along from day to day, hoping that things will not go wrong – and are always caught on the hop when they do. And there are people like me – who can see beyond their own noses and plan ahead. I will never end up in gaol – something which is almost certainly your fate – because I am always ready for the unexpected. That is why, though your tiny brain sees no need for me to have documents any more, I have still come to collect them.'

‘I … I have made a good job of them,' Vasquez said.

‘You have made an
excellent
job of them,' López said. ‘But then a mule will make an excellent job of carrying my baggage and my cat will make an excellent job of catching mice. I
expect
excellence. The moment you cease to be excellent, your usefulness to me is over, and your life as a convict will begin.'

Vasquez looked down at the floor. ‘I am well aware of that, my Captain,' he said.

López nodded. ‘Good, then we truly do understand each other.' He reached into his jacket pocket, and produced a wad of banknotes. ‘I've brought you your money.'

Vasquez licked his lips at the sight of the cash. He felt a powerful urge to reach over and snatch it from López's hand, but he knew that would be a very big mistake.

‘I want no payment,' he forced himself to say. ‘That you allow me to continue with my work is reward enough for me.'

López nodded again. ‘Perhaps you are gaining a little wisdom after all,' he said. ‘Perhaps you, too, are finally learning to look ahead.'

Vasquez, who had devoted many hours of painstaking labour to the documents, watched as López picked them up and thrust them roughly into his pocket. He winced at the Captain's lack of care with his precious work, but he knew that it didn't really matter. In fact, the professional in him recognized, the rougher López was with the documents, the better they would be.

J
oan was lying on a bed in the intensive care unit, with tubes running from her into pieces of machinery whose function Woodend couldn't even begin to guess at. She was pale and drawn, but at least she was conscious.

‘Are they lookin' after you, lass?' Woodend asked.

Joan gave him a half-smile. ‘It's a hospital,' she said. ‘What else do you expect them to do?'

Woodend's grin owed more to relief than amusement. Joan might be weak, but at least she was still
his
Joan.

‘What happened?' he said.

‘Since there wasn't much chance of seein' you, I thought I might as well go for a walk. I was just outside the hotel when it hit me.'

‘When what hit you?'

‘This pain in my chest. Like indigestion, only a hundred times worse than any indigestion I've ever known. I tried to reach the nearest bench, but my legs just wouldn't let me. I fell over, Charlie! In the street! It was all very humiliatin'.'

‘Bollocks!' Woodend said.

‘Watch your language!' Joan warned him.

‘It's a hospital, not a church,' Woodend told her. ‘Anyway, what I meant was, you'd no cause to feel humiliated. You couldn't help bein' taken ill. What do they think it was?'

‘A heart attack. They're almost certain it was. They think it was quite a mild one, but they say I'll still need plenty of rest, which means you'll have to go in a minute.'

‘Aye, I suppose I will,' Woodend agreed.

‘Anyway, you're probably itchin' to get right back to work on that case of yours.'

Woodend felt as if he had been struck in the stomach with a sledgehammer, wielded by a very large – and very angry – navvy.

‘The case doesn't matter a toss to me,' he protested.

‘Your cases
always
matter to you, Charlie. That's just the way you are,' Joan said, her tone suggesting that it was his dishonesty at that particular moment – rather than the obsession which drove most of his life – that she really disapproved of.

‘Anyway, the investigation's all over, bar the shoutin',' Woodend said awkwardly.

‘Then you should be off celebratin' with your new mate, Paco.'

That's just what I was doin' while they were sticking all them tubes in you, love, Woodend thought guiltily – except that it hadn't turned out to be much of a celebration at all.

‘I want to stay here,' he said.

‘They won't let you stay here. There's sick people to deal with, an' they don't want you gettin' in the way.'

‘Then I'll go an' sit in the waitin' room.'

‘There'd be no point in that. They won't let you see me again until the mornin', so you might as well go back to the hotel, have a few pints an' then get your head down.'

‘If you're sure,' Woodend said hesitantly.

‘I'm sure.'

‘Well, I'll be off then.'

He had almost reached the door when Joan said, ‘Charlie?'

He turned round. ‘What is it, love?'

‘I was just thinkin'.'

‘What about?'

‘All your life you've drunk like a fish, smoked like a chimney an' lived off greasy food. An'
I'm
the one who gets the heart attack. Odd, isn't it?'

‘Odd?' Woodend repeated. ‘It's not
odd
! It's bloody unfair – that's what it is.'

Paco Ruiz entered the foyer of the hotel where the
brigadistas
had been staying – where all of them, with the exception of Sant, were
still
staying. He was very clear about his reasons for being there. He was looking for evidence –
any
evidence – which would prove that he had been right, and Woodend had been wrong.

He recognized the man behind the desk. His name was Manolo, and several months earlier, when he had landed himself in trouble, it had been Paco who had pulled him out.

The desk man positively beamed with pleasure when he saw who was entering the lobby.

‘Señor Ruiz,' he said. ‘What a surprise.' A look of concern crossed his face. ‘You don't want a room, do you? You haven't fallen out with that lovely
señora
of yours?'

Paco grinned. ‘No, I haven't. I'm here to ask a favour.'

‘Name it.'

‘I wondered if it would be possible to see the Frenchman's room.'

‘For you, most things are possible,' the clerk said, but he made no move towards the pigeon holes which held the keys.

‘I'll need some way of getting in,' Paco suggested.

The clerk looked puzzled for a moment, then smiled. ‘Oh, I see what you mean,' he said. ‘But on this occasion, a key will not be necessary.'

‘It won't?'

‘No. The door is open. The maid is in there at this very moment, parcelling up the Frenchman's things.'

‘So the police have finished with the room already, have they?' Paco asked, surprised.

The other man shrugged. ‘The first time they came, when they were searching for evidence, they were upstairs for a long time. The second time – after the Frenchman had been charged with the murder – they had no sooner gone up than they were coming down again.'

‘So the second time they didn't really search at all?'

‘That's right. They said they had all they needed, and as soon as I'd sent the Frenchman's possessions to the Guardia Civil barracks, I could have the room cleaned and let it out again. I didn't argue with them. We've probably already lost three days rent, since I don't imagine the Frenchman will pay for his stay here. So it's time the room started earning its keep again.'

Paco thanked the clerk, and made his way upstairs. He had not expected to hear crying as he approached Sant's room, but that was just what he did hear.

He looked into the room. A young maid – little more than a child – was on her hands and knees, peering under the bed and sobbing.

‘What's the matter?' Paco asked.

The maid jumped up so quickly that she banged her head on the bed, but the pain did not seem to bother her half as much as the fact that someone had seen what she was doing.

‘Are you from the police?' she asked, panicked.

‘No,' Paco said gently. ‘I am a friend of Manolo's. He sent me upstairs to see if you were all right.'

‘Then he knows,' the maid moaned. ‘And soon, everybody will know. My mother! My father! My friends! They will all know.'

‘Know what?'

‘They will say I stole it. But I swear to you, I did not.'

‘Why don't you calm down, take a deep breath and start at the beginning,' Paco suggested.

The maid nodded, then gulped in air as if she had been on the point of suffocating before he arrived.