The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (16 page)

The next photograph brought Galindez to a halt before its grainy, colourless image. The caption told her little:
Unidentified male and female, Granada, 1936
. A woman of indeterminate age – but then everyone looked older in those days, Galindez thought – perhaps thirty, fair hair. Clearly a prisoner. Standing next to her was a young man, thick, oiled hair and a thin moustache. The man had one arm draped around the woman’s shoulder, a nonchalant gesture of affection but for the fact that he was pressing a small snub-nosed automatic pistol against her temple with his other hand. The woman’s face was a complex landscape of pain and fear, the man’s casual menace horrifying. Even so, Galindez wasn’t prepared for the next photograph.

The same woman again, kneeling, leaning forwards, hands crossed across her breasts, looking up at the camera. Her dress had been torn and pulled down to her waist. Her face was bloodied from a large cut over her left eye. Galindez stared in macabre fascination at the transition from the fearful but intact persona in the first photo to this wounded, half-naked state in the next. Unwillingly, Galindez turned to the third picture. She froze, transfixed by the final image of horror.

The woman lay on her back, arms spread wide, as if crucified. She had been shot in the forehead and through the right temple, the left side of her face destroyed by the blast. The remnants of her dress and underwear had been pulled down to her knees in a last spiteful act of humiliation. Galindez had seen gunshot wounds to the face before. But they’d been corpses she’d observed during her training. They could never convey the sequential horror of this obscene transition from life to death captured in the faded monochrome sequence in front of her.

Turning away, Galindez tried to break the spell the triptych of death had put on her. To her side was an enlarged photograph, mounted on a stand. A heavy-set man with dark stubble, his lips set in a humourless line. Next to him, a rather skeletal younger man with thinning hair and a badly fitting suit, a thin, apologetic smile. Both seemed unaware of the camera, their stances suggested they were looking at something or somebody away to their left. Behind them was an arched, iron-banded, double doorway, and by the door, a man in uniform, looking intently at the other two. At the bottom of the photograph the caption:
Comandante Guzmán with Teniente Peralta and unknown sargento, c.1949–1954
.

Finally, Galindez thought, a clear image of her suspect. Perhaps it was the impact of the previous pictures or even a case of projection, but she sensed something far more threatening in Guzmán than in the grinning young assassin with his pistol to the woman’s head. The room suddenly felt cold. Galindez had an urge to be outside, sprawled on the grass with the blaring radio and the translucent water music of the fountain, safe amid the vibrancy of the living, rather than here, surrounded by this exhibition of indifferent violence. Guzmán’s dark hooded eyes glared at her, harsh and unforgiving. A sudden noise. Galindez turned, expecting Luisa, seeing instead a tall, heavily built skinhead, face bristling with piercings. The man didn’t look like a student or a member of staff. Something felt wrong.

‘Who are you?’ she asked.

‘I’m looking for the Guzmán book.’ The skinhead gave her a long look. ‘Know where it is?’

‘Are you part of the team?’

He walked over to the table, scanning the assorted papers strewn across it. ‘I thought it would be here. You have got it, haven’t you?’

‘You mean the diary?’

He scowled at her. ‘No, the book.
Mierda
. Don’t you know what I’m talking about?’ He picked up her bag and casually started rifling through the contents.

‘
Joder
, that’s my fucking bag.’ Galindez grabbed the handle of her bag, angry at his clumsy intimidation. The skinhead held on for a moment and she saw the tattoo on his arm:
SANCHO
.

He let go of the bag, grabbing for Galindez’s wrist. She took a step back and then thrust the flat of her hand into his face, feeling the metal piercings as the heel of her hand connected with his nose. He staggered back in surprise, dribbling snot. He was lucky, she thought: if she’d hit him as she intended, his nose would be all over his face now. She saw his expression harden as he realised he wasn’t dealing with some helpless admin worker.

‘Fucking hell.’ Sancho spat blood and snot onto the carpet. ‘That’s enough of that,
chica,
where’s that book?’

She aimed a kick at his groin but he moved faster, turning and taking the blow on the outside of his thigh before spinning towards her. He threw rapid punches, trying to overwhelm her with speed and power. Galindez retreated, blocking the blows with her forearms, trying to keep distance between them in order to manoeuvre but the attack continued. Intent on blocking the blows to her face, Galindez opened herself up to a vicious punch to her right shoulder. A shaft of shimmering fire radiated down from her shoulder to her fingers, simultaneously numbing and agonisingly sharp. She moved back, staying out of Sancho’s reach, her right arm hanging limply by her side. She tried to lift her fists to defend herself as Sancho approached, but her right hand no longer obeyed her and he laughed at her muted cry of pain.

‘Stop now.’ He spoke as if talking to a child. ‘Just tell me where it is and I’ll go.’

‘
Hijo de puta
.’ Galindez turned sideways, trying a kick to his knee while his weight was on it. Again, he anticipated the attack and twisted away before she could inflict any damage. ‘I don’t think you know, do you?’ He said it casually, but she saw from his clenched fists and the way he was shifting his balance he was about to attack. He came closer. She smelled cigarettes and sweat.

‘
Vamos niña
, I don’t have time to play games,’ Sancho grunted, feinting with his hands, trying to confuse her. ‘Shame to mess up a pretty face like that.’ His voice was almost pleasant. The dark malice in his eyes was not.

Sancho moved subtly, inching towards her, grinning as Galindez tried to keep herself at a distance. And then, as she’d expected, the attack began. He spun forward, his elbow coming straight at her face. Galindez ducked and the blow passed over her head. She tried to defend herself with her good arm but his attack continued and he batted away an attempted block, his other fist slamming into her belly. Galindez heard a strange percussive sound as the air was driven from her lungs. She tried to take a breath and could not. Clutching her stomach with her good arm she sank to her knees, gasping. She realised he was too good for her.
He could have finished me with that punch
.

‘This is fucking ridiculous. Stay there,’ Sancho ordered, moving to the door. He stopped in surprise, seeing Galindez struggle to her feet, her right arm dangling helplessly, her dark hair hanging across her face, and behind it, her eyes almost black with fury.

She glared at him. ‘We aren’t finished.’ She raised her left fist: she was going to attack.

‘For fuck’s sake.’ Sancho came at her, angry and fast. She braced, hoping to anticipate him. Contemptuously, he slapped aside her awkward punch, put his hand on the top of her head and pushed her backwards onto the table. The table gave way, its legs breaking noisily, photographs and papers scattering around her as she sprawled on the floor, shocked by the sudden impact. Sancho moved forward, placing his boot between her legs and then pressed down hard, pinning her in place. Galindez shouted in pain. She bit her lip, determined she would not cry out again.

‘Stay still,’ Sancho growled, maintaining the pressure, towering over her like some victorious gladiator. She lay helpless, clutching her abdomen with her good hand. Sancho’s big combat boot pressed against her crotch, invasive and dominating. She wanted to kill him.

Sancho took his foot away and Galindez rolled onto her side with a stifled groan. ‘Not so tough after all, then,
niña
.’ He paused at the door, seeing Galindez trying unsuccessfully to get to her knees. ‘That’s probably the biggest thrill you’ll get this year,
morena
.’ He smiled, baring yellowing teeth. ‘Unless you get in my way again.’

The door closed behind him. Galindez let out a low growl of pain and frustrated anger. She was still struggling to get to her feet when the door opened.

It was Luisa. ‘Ana María?
Dios mio
, someone get a doctor. Ana? Speak to me, love.
Por dios, querida
.’

Galindez tried to find a position where things hurt a little less. She couldn’t. ‘Don’t fuss, I’m all right.’

‘What happened?’

‘There was a man, a big skinhead,’ Galindez said angrily. ‘Didn’t you see him? He attacked me.’

A young man with a goatee beard handed her a glass of water. He must be Toni, Luisa’s postgraduate, she decided. In the background, she heard Luisa on the phone, talking to campus security.

Ten minutes later, the security men arrived. After a cursory discussion, they left in search of her attacker. Assuring Luisa she still wanted to attend the meeting, Galindez joined Toni and Luisa at the big conference table. Her right arm pulsed with raw pain. At least she was able to move it a little now. She knew it would pass: Sancho had known what he was doing: inflicting pain but no major damage. Apart from the humiliation of course.

Toni looked at his watch. ‘Is Natalia coming?’

Luisa shrugged. ‘I left a note on her desk. Let’s start.’

The door opened and a woman entered. Galindez looked at her briefly. And then she looked again. The newcomer was perhaps two years older than Galindez, blonde hair in a loose ponytail, slim, her expensive T-shirt and skirt very smart compared with the dress of the other staff Galindez had seen so far.

‘
Lo siento
, Luisa, I was held up at the library.’

‘No problem, Tali. We haven’t started yet,’ Luisa said without looking up. ‘This is Ana María Galindez, the forensic investigator from the
guardia civil
I told you about.’

Natalia took Galindez’s hand in a surprisingly strong grip. ‘Natalia Castillo.
Encantada
.’ Pain ran up and down Galindez’s injured arm. She tried not to wince.

Luisa gave Natalia a brief account of the incident with the skinhead. Natalia listened with concern, asking if Galindez felt up to staying in the meeting. The usual Galindez reaction would have been to dismiss such solicitude but she found Natalia’s attention rather pleasing. ‘I’m fine now. Honestly,’ she said. She picked up her pen. Her hand was shaking. She put the pen down again.

‘Ana María shares our passion for
Comandante
Guzmán,’ Luisa said.

Natalia nodded. ‘We’re a passionate bunch, Ana. You’ll fit in well.’

Luisa began to fidget. Galindez suddenly realised: the avoidance of eye contact, the strained tension when either of them spoke. She wondered which one of them broke it off.

‘Right.’ Luisa shuffled her papers. ‘It’s probably best if we tell Ana what we’ve done so far in researching the activities of
Comandante
Guzmán. Toni, could you start?’

Toni peered at his notes. ‘OK. I’ve been cataloguing operations carried out by Guzmán’s men – trying to identify those activities that have traditionally been attributed to him and to see if there’s any evidence to support such claims. Generally speaking, there isn’t. Speaking of which, Ana María, did you come up with anything on those bodies found in the mine at Las Peñas?’

‘Not yet, I’m afraid. The remains are at our lab but live cases take precedence. As soon as I can get a slot in the booking system I’ll be able to examine the skeletons properly.’ It sounded lame, Galindez thought, even though it was true.

‘Fine,’ Toni said. ‘We’ll leave that for another day.’

‘How long was Guzmán’s unit involved in these type of operations?’ Galindez asked.

‘At least fourteen years,’ Luisa said. ‘The Special Brigade’s operations began at the end of the Civil War and continued well into the fifties. Guzmán was given carte blanche to suppress any resistance to the regime in Madrid. Franco did something similar in 1934 after he suppressed the miners’ revolt in Asturias. He appointed a sadistic officer called Lisiado Doval to terrorise the local population. The difference is, there’s evidence of Doval’s direct involvement in that violence – unlike Guzmán. Guzmán reported straight to Franco. That’s where the real blame should be attributed, Ana. The political level.’

‘Trouble is,’ Toni added, ‘Guzmán was very secretive. So much so that he seems to have disappeared in 1953. We’re lucky to know anything at all about him – although we have no idea what happened to him.’ He flicked through his notes. ‘We do know he operated out of the
comisaría
at Calle de Robles.’

‘Calle de Robles?’ Galindez asked. ‘That’s off Calle 30, isn’t it, near the Vallecas bridge?’

‘Yes, that’s right, between the bridge and Puente de Vallecas Metro. Fascinating old street.’ Toni slid a black and white photo across the table: an old building with an arched wooden door crossed with iron bands. ‘This was Guzmán’s HQ. He had a company of forty men, engaged in intelligence gathering and “hard hand” activities.’

‘Franco said Spain needed to be governed with a hard hand,’ Luisa said.

‘Calle de Robles existed and didn’t exist,’ Toni continued. ‘People knew it was a base for the
Brigada Especial
, but most didn’t know just how secret or how powerful it was.’

‘They probably didn’t want to know,’ Tali said.

Natalia had tawny eyes, Galindez noticed. ‘The photo of him with the younger man. Where did that come from?’ she asked.

‘
Teniente
Peralta?’ Luisa said. ‘That was found in Guzmán’s apartment. Hidden under the floorboards.’

‘How did you know it was Guzmán’s
piso
?’

‘His name was on deeds dated 1947. There’s no record of when he sold it since the documents are missing. The current owner bought it in 1971, and when she died, her daughter started renovating the place. The workmen found things under the floorboards and we got involved.’