The Exile (14 page)

VILLARREAL, 7.30 P.M., 11 MARCH 1937

She cradled the baby as she talked to the Poet. Being a poet, he was naturally romantic and it had taken very little time for him to fall for her. That was not unusual, given her beauty, rare in an army whore. Most men were glad to have her for the short time their money bought them in her bed, but not the Poet. He was more enamoured by her allegiance to the Cause: it had been his idea for her to give up whoring and join the militia. After the war, they would forget what she had done, he said. Things would be different then, they would shed the old identities forced on them by the class struggle and adopt new ones more suited to the brave new world that would be built upon the ashes of fascism.

At first, she had been enchanted by his idealism and his exotic English accent, though his bourgeois prudishness irritated her. Where others had clamoured for her favours, the Poet kept his distance. Love was an arbitrary and self-indulgent distraction, he argued, a waste of vital energies better spent on preparing for the revolution.

Though she indulged him, she found his opinions tenuous and inconsistent, built as they were on theories and dogma, though she did not say so. That was not the only thing she kept from him. There was another, younger man in her heart. The young soldier who queued patiently for his turn with her in the year before the war. Sometimes she let him stay longer, and they would talk in low voices about a future neither of them could envisage.

She abandoned whoring as war became inevitable, choosing to join a militia to play her part in the defeat of fascism. A while later, the young man and his regiment were despatched to Badajoz. When the city fell, she assumed he was dead or a prisoner.

It was then she volunteered for the undercover mission, posing as a peasant in a woodsman's hut in the mountains, observing the movements of the fascists and relaying them to the Republican command. It was a quiet isolated existence, though it was only when she found she was pregnant that she realised just how isolated she was. In the end, she and the baby survived. And she intended to survive now, as long as the
teniente
did the right thing and helped them. Not as if he had any choice in the matter.

It was dark when a nurse came down into the musty shadows of the cellar. She held whispered conversation with the Moors, mentioning the general's name several times.

The woman looked up from the baby, her face pale as the nurse held out her arms for the child. A routine medical check, the nurse said, the baby would be back in an hour.

She fought hard to keep the child, though it was always a losing battle. Her male comrades shouted support, straining against their bonds impotently as the nurse bustled away up the stairs holding the child. After a moment, one of the Moors ambled after her.

The woman tried to follow the nurse but the Moorish soldiers held her back and bound her to the chair. Her comrades heard her cries but stayed quiet, shamed by their helplessness. Even the Poet had no words for an event like this.

At the top of the stairs, the light faded into night. Far off, they heard the sound of singing and revelry. A party of some sort. And then shouting, growing nearer, the sound of boots as someone came down the stone steps. A dark bulky figure, a curved sword glinting in the darkness. For a moment the dank air was tense and silent.

It was not silent for long.

6

MADRID, JULY 2010, GUARDIA CIVIL LABORATORIO FORENSE NO. 5

Mendez pulled the sheet from the dead girl's body. An emaciated figure, a gaunt face framed by greasy blonde hair. Savage knife wounds to her chest and abdomen.

‘
Joder
, look at that.' Mendez shook her head slowly. ‘The bastard nearly gutted her.'

Galíndez finished putting on her gloves. ‘Who did it, her pimp?'

‘No surprise there.' Mendez put a wad of forms on a desk by the wall. ‘When you've done the samples can you fill these in? You'll have to leave most of the details blank because all we know so far is that she was called Zora Ivanova. How old would you say she is?'

‘Fifteen, sixteen, maybe? She's very skinny.' Galíndez leaned forward to examine the body. ‘And she was using. See? Track marks on both arms. Same old pattern, probably got her hooked and then forced her to go on the game to pay for her next hit. And his, most likely.'

‘You could write the script,' Mendez agreed. ‘Hey, thanks for coming in like this at such short notice. What time did you get back?'

‘Late,' Galíndez said, inspecting needle marks between the girl's toes. ‘As in so late I'm pissed off I had to come in here first thing.'

‘What if I buy you a coffee? Will that get you off my case?'

‘You don't get off that easily.' Galíndez smiled. ‘It's got to be a big one.'

‘Whatever you like,
doctora
. How do you want it?'

‘Strong and black, please.'

‘Hey, that's me you're talking about, Ana.'

Galíndez looked up from the corpse. ‘
Sí
, and too hot to handle.'

‘So my husband says. I'll get the coffee, you two talk amongst yourselves.'

As Mendez went to the vending machine, Galíndez began collecting samples for the DNA test, thinking how strange it was that the presence of a dead body created a sudden need for humour. It might seem odd to an outsider, but it was their way of dealing with the fact that someone had got this frail young woman hooked on heroin before forcing her to work the streets. And then, for some reason, he'd butchered her. If you didn't laugh you'd have to cry. That was what they said in the locker room. And in the
guardia
, no one wanted to be seen crying. That was fine by her.

By the time Mendez got back with the coffee, Galíndez had the tissue samples labelled and ready for the lab. She'd even begun the paperwork, Mendez noticed.

‘Leave the forms,' Mendez said. ‘Just sign them and I'll do the rest. It's only fair.' She paused. ‘Hey, the boss said something about you being on TV this Friday?'

‘I've got to do a five-minute interview with RTVE. I have to say I'm looking forward to going back to work, that sort of thing.'

Mendez noticed a box in the corner of the lab. ‘Is that's why you've been shopping?'

Galíndez nodded. ‘I thought I should look smart for the interview.' She opened the box to show Mendez the boots nestling in a bed of tissue paper.

Mendez whistled, seeing the name on the box. ‘
Hostia
, how much were these?'

‘Far too much.'

‘Let's have a look.' Mendez watched as she pulled the boots on. ‘They look great, Ana.'

‘They do, but I don't think I can walk in them.' Galíndez took a few careful steps, noticing the staccato tap of the heels. ‘
Dios mio
, they're really noisy, aren't they?'

‘Really, really noisy,' Mendez agreed. ‘You'd think for all that money they could quieten them down or something.' She pointed to the plastic bag lying on the floor alongside the shoebox. ‘What else did you get?'

‘This?' Galíndez lifted the bag and took out the sword. ‘It was at the site of the killing up in the Basque country.'

‘You look like Sinbad the Sailor,' Mendez said. ‘It's a scimitar, isn't it?'

‘I think so.' Galíndez held out the sword so Mendez could see the inscription. ‘See?'

Mendez saw the name stamped on the blade. ‘It's Guzmán's?'

‘Seems so. And there were the skeletons of three people he'd killed with this. In fact, I've got them in my car boot. I don't suppose...?'

‘Not again,' Mendez groaned. ‘We've got problems accommodating the recently deceased without you bringing in the remains of people who died seventy-odd years ago.'

Galíndez narrowed her eyes. ‘I just thought, seeing as how you owe me...'

Mendez threw up her hands. ‘Not the evil eye, Ana, I give in. There's a bit of room left in the basement. I'll sort it out for you later. And then we're quits, right?'

‘Absolutely, Sarge. Hey, I don't suppose you know what language this is?'

‘Not really, we speak Spanish in the Dominican Republic. Is it Arabic?'

‘I wondered about that.' Galíndez nodded.

‘I know someone who'll know.' Mendez went over to the phone and dialled an internal number. ‘Can I speak to Teniente Bouchareb, please?' She waited as someone fetched him to the phone. ‘
Hola
, Sami, it's me. Can you pop up to Lab Five for a minute? We need a little of your linguistic expertise. OK, thanks.' She put the phone down. ‘Sami does a lot of translating for ethnic minority prisoners,' she said, seeing Galíndez's inquiring look.

A knock at the door as Lieutenant Bouchareb came in. He pointed to the body on the trolley. ‘I can't interpret for dead people, Sarge.'

‘You're slipping then,' Mendez said. ‘Do you know Ana María Galíndez?'

Bouchareb smiled. ‘You were on one of my diversity induction courses, weren't you?'

‘That's right,' Galíndez said, ‘and I really enjoyed it.' She held out the sword. ‘Any chance you can tell me what this Arabic writing says?'

Bouchareb peered at the sword. ‘It's not Arabic,' he said, ‘it's Persian.'

‘Persian?' Galíndez echoed. ‘Can you read it?'

‘I certainly can, I even know where this comes from. It's a verse by Omar Khayyám.' He took the sword from her and read:

‘“Drink wine. This is life eternal. This is all that youth will give you. It is the season for wine, roses and drunken friends. Be happy for this moment. This moment is your life.”'

Galíndez looked at him, disappointed. ‘I thought Guzmán might have got this from some Moroccan troops in the Civil War. The Persians didn't fight for Franco, did they?'

‘Not as far as I know.'

‘Thanks anyway.'

‘No problem.' Bouchareb bustled out through the swing doors.

Galíndez stared hard at the inscription. ‘Persian.'

‘So now you know,' Mendez said. ‘It's a nice verse, don't you think?'

‘I think it's a bit sickly.' Galíndez was distracted, wondering what Luisa would make of this. She'd probably write a book on how Guzmán was really a romantic poet.

She glanced at her watch. ‘Shit. I'm going to be late for my last appointment with the shrink so he can certify I'm officially fit for work. Another hour of my life wasted.'

‘I don't know why you say that,' Mendez said. ‘An hour with a man who actually listens when you're talking? Heaven.'

Galíndez snatched up her bag. ‘Can I leave the sword here?'

‘Sure,' Mendez said. ‘Maybe you've got some laundry you'd like me to do as well?'

‘Next time.' Galíndez hurried to the door. ‘Got to run.'

‘I wouldn't,' Mendez called after her. ‘Not in those heels.'

MADRID 2010, HOSPITAL CLÍNICO SAN CARLOS

‘Make yourself comfortable, Ana María.' Dr Fernandez waved her to an expensive leather chair as he looked over his notes. Galíndez sank into the chair and listened as Fernandez summarised the course of therapy she'd undertaken with him, noting her cooperation and her refreshing willingness to be open. She was tempted to explain how she'd prepared for each session by reading psychology journals from the university library's online collection. No wonder her responses made her seem such a well-balanced individual: they were based on extensive research. Shrinks needed a bit of directing before they reached the right conclusion.

Not that Fernandez was unpleasant. Certainly he was much nicer than the ones she'd seen as a girl, following her parents' deaths. Dour-faced men bullying and hectoring her.

Pleasant though he was, the course of treatment with Dr Fernandez stuck to the usual pattern. Each session consisted of him trying to isolate some aspect of her life within one psychological category or another, focusing endlessly on irrelevant detail until she wanted to scream with boredom. But attending these sessions was non-negotiable. The
guardia
required confirmation she was psychologically fit to return to work.

‘So what have you been doing this week, Ana?' Fernandez asked.

‘I finished my stint with the Vice Squad and now I'm about to start work back at HQ.' She decided to omit her trip to the Basque country. She wanted to avoid talking about Guzmán.

Fernandez pointed to her skinned knuckles. ‘Did you hurt your hand?'

‘I did it at the gym. Working out helps me cope with stress.'

‘Any more blackouts?'

‘None since the ones last year during the Guzmán investigation.'

‘Do you still think about Guzmán much? Your commanding officer said you were utterly determined to track him down, almost to the point of obsession.'

‘Of course I think about him,' she said. ‘I was carrying out an investigation into his activities. But obsessed with him? Definitely not.'

Fernandez seemed satisfied with her answer. ‘I agree, Ana María.'

Galíndez smiled. She'd worked hard to create that impression.

‘Well, we've reached the end of our sessions,' Fernandez said. ‘As far as I'm concerned, you're fit to go back to work and that's what I'm putting in my report.'

Galíndez could have kissed him. Almost.

‘I'm a little concerned about your amnesia,' he said, consulting his notes. ‘There was so much happened to you as a child, your father's murder and then your mother's suicide. It's no wonder you blanked out your early experiences.'

‘Naturally, it was upsetting, but I got over it.'

‘There's something I'd like to suggest that might help. Nothing radical, just something to try and prompt some recall. Do you still have any of your parents' possessions?'