The Butcher Beyond (6 page)

‘If you were Spanish—' López growled.

‘But I'm not,' Woodend interrupted him. ‘Look, Captain, you tried to make me cave in an' tell you what you seem to think I know. Maximum points for effort, but it simply didn't work. So why don't you just cut your losses an' let me go back to my hotel?'

López glanced down at his watch, then looked as if he hated himself for having done so.

So he's working against the clock, Woodend thought. He knows he can only hold me for a certain amount of time, and that time's just about running out.

‘Would you stand up, please?' López asked.

Woodend stood. The Captain walked around the table, and took up a position behind Woodend's back. There was a click, and the handcuffs fell away from the Chief Inspector's wrists.

‘Your consul wishes to speak to you at the first hour of the morning,' the Captain said. ‘Your hotel will be able to give you the address of his office.'

‘So my consul's known all along that I've been here?'

‘Of course,' López said innocently. ‘You surely do not imagine that we would invite a senior English policeman to come to the barracks for a discussion without first informing his diplomatic representative.'

So that was the official version of what had happened, was it?

There had been a discussion – an interchange of ideas – between two experienced police officers.

‘How will my consul feel about the fact that I was brought here in handcuffs?' Woodend asked.

‘But you were
not
handcuffed,' López said.

Woodend held out his wrists for the Spanish policeman to inspect. ‘So what's that?' he asked, indicating the reddening of the skin. ‘A rash?'

‘Ah yes, you
were
handcuffed,' López said. ‘I remember now. The two officers I sent to bring you in were very inexperienced – and perhaps a little over-zealous. They should never have shackled you. It was all a misunderstanding, which we greatly regret.'

‘You may be over-zealous, but I'd never have accused you of being inexperienced,' Woodend said.

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand.'

‘Those two officers who brought me in? One of them was you.'

‘You are mistaken,' López told him. ‘I have been here all evening.'

‘An' I suppose you can produce half a dozen witnesses to swear to that, can you?'

López grinned. ‘At least half a dozen,' he agreed. ‘I will instruct one of my men to drive you back to your hotel.'

‘An' will you let me ride in the front of the car this time – just like a grown-up?'

‘If that is what you wish.'

‘I'll walk,' Woodend said firmly.

‘It is some considerable distance.'

‘I'll still walk,' Woodend repeated.

López shrugged. ‘That is your choice. But please do not fail to mention to your consul in the morning that transportation
was
offered.'

‘Aye, I'll mention it,' Woodend agreed. ‘After all, we wouldn't want him thinkin' the Guardia Civil had treated me unkindly, now would we?'

‘T
his is a bad business,' Ralph Featherington Gore, the British Honorary Consul tut-tutted. ‘A very bad business indeed.'

As if it were my fault, Woodend reflected. As if I'd bloody well
wanted
to see that feller Holloway take a plunge to his death.

He'd suspected he wasn't going to like the Consul the moment he'd noticed that the man was wearing a silk cravat with a horse-head pin – and the fifteen minutes they'd so far spent together in the Consul's office had only confirmed that initial impression.

Featherington Gore was the sort of man who took himself very seriously and expected everyone else to do the same – the sort who believed that the main aim of the people who met him was to do all they could to win his approval. He didn't have to be efficient, his general air seemed to say. He didn't have to work hard at producing results. He was
Ralph Featherington Gore
– and that should have been enough for anyone.

‘Using a fake passport, indeed,' the Consul said disapprovingly. ‘Don't these people realize what damage they're doing to our reputation abroad when they indulge in such unsavoury activities? What is the point in me putting on a good show for the Generalissimo, when people like this Holloway chap then go and let the side down completely?'

‘So you know Franco personally,' Woodend said. ‘A drinkin' mate of yours, is he?'

Featherington Gore shot Woodend a look of intense dislike. ‘I wouldn't put it in quite those terms,' he said, ‘but I have certainly met the
Caudillo
on several occasions.'

You mean you've stood in a reception line while he's strode past you, Woodend translated.

‘I take it you've seen the body,' he said aloud.

Featherington Gore wrinkled his nose in distaste. ‘Yes, I performed my official duty in that regard,' he said. ‘I can't say I was very impressed with his suit. Admittedly, it looked new – but the quality was shocking. Surely he could have made a little effort.'

‘Maybe if he'd known in advance that he was goin' to snuff it, he'd have been a little more careful about what he wore,' Woodend suggested.

‘At any rate, it is a complication without which I could well have done,' Featherington Gore said, ignoring – or misunderstanding – the Chief Inspector's comment. ‘We cannot even release the body, since – thanks to the dead man's deviousness – we have no idea to whom it
should be
released. And, inevitably, by dying in that manner, he has cast the British community here in a very bad light.'

‘Aye, he certainly should have taken that into consideration before he decided to get himself killed,' Woodend agreed.

Featherington Gore looked puzzled. ‘I'm afraid I'm not following you, old chap.'

‘You don't seem to have given much thought to the implications of the murder.'

‘What implications?'

‘Well, for a start, if he was murdered, then somebody must have murdered him.'

‘Oh, I see what you mean,' Featherington Gore said. ‘From Her Majesty's Government's point of view, the most convenient outcome would be if it was discovered that he was killed during the course of a robbery.'

‘Yes, I can see how that might be convenient. But in my experience, robbers an' their victims don't usually have long, intense discussions before they come to blows,' Woodend pointed out.

Featherington Gore frowned. ‘You're sure that's what you heard from your room?'

‘I'm sure.'

‘It couldn't have been a case of Holloway saying, “Are you trying to steal my wallet?” and the other man answering – in
Spanish
, of course – “Don't come any nearer, Englishman, or I'll kill you”?'

‘No,' Woodend said heavily. ‘It couldn't have been that way at all.'

‘Well, if that's the line you intend to adhere to …'

‘It is.'

‘You leave no interpretation open other than that Holloway knew his killer,' Featherington Gore said, miffed.

‘Brilliant!' Woodend said. ‘I wish I'd thought of that.'

‘Of course, that doesn't rule out the possibility that his murderer could be a Spanish criminal. We already have the evidence of his passport and his poor taste in suits to suggest that Mr Holloway did not naturally mix with the better elements of society.'

‘Then again, his murderer could just as easily turn out to be English.'

Featherington Gore shuddered. ‘I sincerely hope that does not, in fact, turn out to be the case.'

‘Have you been in touch with the Ambassador about this inconvenient little murder?'

‘Indeed I have. I sent a telegram to His Excellency this morning. No doubt he will reply with instructions as soon as he is able.'

‘An' in the meantime?'

‘In the meantime, there is very little we can do here on the ground, as it were. As I understand it, the investigation is being led by Captain López, who is a very sound chap – for a Spaniard. As far as you're concerned personally, having delivered your report to me, you now have my permission to continue with the rest of your little holiday.'

‘I wonder if
you
could help
me
,' Woodend said.

The Consul did not seem very keen on the possibility. ‘In what way?' he asked suspiciously.

‘My missus isn't feelin' very well. I'm sure it's nothin' serious, but I'd be happier in my own mind if you could recommend a good doctor – preferably one who speaks English – to give her the once-over.'

‘The “once-over”,' Featherington Gore repeated, as if the term were completely alien to him. ‘I'm not sure I can be of much assistance there. If I require a medical examination, I go to Madrid to see Don Carlos Muñoz, who is a very eminent physician, with an international reputation. However –' he paused for a moment – ‘I'm sure there must
be
competent doctors in this town, and no doubt my secretary – who has probably had reason to consult one herself – will be able to advise you on which to visit.'

Featherington Gore stood up and held out his hand across the desk. Clearly, he considered the interview to be over.

Woodend rose to his feet, too. ‘If there's anythin' else—' he began.

‘Yes, yes,' Featherington Gore interrupted impatiently. ‘If there
is
anything else, I will certainly summon you.'

‘Aye, leave a blue lantern in your bedroom window, an' I'll be there before you know it,' Woodend said.

And having delivered the best parting shot he could think of at that moment, he headed for the door.

He was already turning the handle when Featherington Gore said, ‘Er … Mr Woodend?'

Woodend turned. ‘Yes?'

‘Your passport says that you're a Chief Inspector. Is it accurate?'

‘What, are you suggestin' I'm travellin' on fake papers as well?'

‘No, no,' Featherington Gore hastened to assure him. ‘I'm sure the passport is genuine. I merely wondered if the rank listed was correct.'

‘Ah, you're wonderin' if I've been promoted since the passport was issued,' Woodend said.

But from the expression on his face, that was clearly
not
what Featherington Gore had been wondering at all.

‘It's just that Chief Inspector is a quite senior post,' he said. ‘And you don't seem to … don't seem to …'

‘Dress the part?' Woodend suggested helpfully.

‘Yes, I suppose that is what I mean.'

‘Well then, at least me an' the victim have got
somethin'
in common – even if it's only poor taste in clothes,' Woodend said.

The doctor's office was located on one of the side streets which led off the church square. The brass plaque on the door looked reassuringly professional, but Woodend still had his doubts.

‘I'd be much happier if you'd let me come in with you, lass,' he said to his wife.

Joan sighed. ‘If the doctor speaks reasonable English, I won't need you,' she said.

‘An' what if he doesn't?'

‘If he doesn't, you'd be no more use at makin' him understand what's wrong with me than I would.'

‘I know that, but—'

‘When men go to the doctor's, they take their wives along with them to baby them,' Joan said. ‘We don't mind that. It's like all the other trials and tribulations that go with the marriage licence – just somethin' we have to put up with! But when we're not feelin' well ourselves, we've got enough on our minds without lookin' after you an' all.'

Woodend chuckled, then was serious again. ‘You're sure?'

‘I'm sure. Go an' solve this murder, Charlie – that's the sort of thing you're good at.'

Had he been in England, he'd have jumped at the suggestion – for though he would never have admitted it, going to the local police and offering his services was his idea of a perfect holiday. But this wasn't England. It wasn't even close. He had no idea how police officers in Spain went about their duties – and if they were all like Captain López, he suspected that he didn't really want to find out.

‘Maybe I'll just wander over to the square, an' have a drink,' he said tentatively.

‘You do that,' Joan agreed, ringing the bell. ‘An' when I've finished with the doctor, I'll come an' find you.'

The door was opened by a girl in a maid's uniform. ‘Señora VoooDend?' she asked uncertainly.

‘That's right,' Joan agreed.

‘Please to follow me.'

‘I really don't mind comin' in with you, love,' Woodend said, as his wife took a step over the threshold.

Joan turned slightly. ‘Oh, bugger off, Charlie!' she said – and then she laughed to take the edge off her words.

But it wasn't like Joan to swear under any circumstances, Woodend thought worriedly. It wasn't like her at all. Still, she was inside now, the door was closing, and there was nothing more he could do for the moment.

As he walked towards the square, he realized that he was being followed. One of López's men? Probably! Well, he should at least let the bugger know he'd been spotted.

He came to a halt, and turned round. But it was not a Spanish policeman – either in plain clothes or in uniform – who was on his tail. It was an
ex
-policeman.

‘Mr Ruiz!' he said. ‘What an unexpected pleasure.'

P
aco Ruiz's limp seemed more pronounced that morning, Woodend thought, as the Spaniard led him across the square to a bar which was just clearing away the evidence of workers' breakfasts and preparing itself for the first wave of assaults from the tourist trade.

‘It's worse some days than others,' Ruiz said, as they sat down at one of the tables.