The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (36 page)

‘Shit.’ Peralta sat lower in his seat, trying not to make eye contact.

Guzmán tensed. ‘Who is it?’

‘Tomás Capuchón,’ Peralta said. ‘One of my informers at the
policía armada
.’

‘Has he seen you?’

‘I don’t think so. He’s over there with a couple of blokes. No one I know.’

‘Try and get him alone,’ Guzmán said. ‘If he comes here he may know our greasy friends. I think you should have a little chat.’

‘I’ll wait till he goes to the toilet,’ Peralta said, ‘and then grab him.’

‘Well, remember to grab him by the arm.’ Guzmán smirked.

The girl was naked now apart from her tattered shoes and was attempting an awkward, uncoordinated dance to the accompaniment of a barrage of obscenities. Peralta felt degraded. When he got home he would have to scrub the smell of this place from his skin. At one point, he looked at the girl on stage and she met his eye. Peralta shrivelled into his seat, ashamed. Confession would be even more lengthy than usual this week.

‘This is a disgrace,’ he yelled into Guzmán’s ear.

‘You’re right, she’s ugly as sin,’ Guzmán said through a cloud of brandy fumes before starting to barrack the stripper again.

‘There he goes.’ Guzmán nudged Peralta, nodding towards Tomás Capuchón as he went through the door at the side of the bar. Peralta got up and followed him.

The corridor leading to the toilets was as grim as the rest of the Bar Dominicana, although the lighting was worse. A single filthy bulb swung from a wire running haphazardly across the ceiling and down one of the mildewed walls. From the bar Peralta heard the muffled braying of the crowd. He followed the corridor and turned a corner. On either side was a battered toilet door. Peralta pushed open the door marked
Caballeros
. The smell hit him at once; it came from a cubical where the cracked toilet brimmed with a fetid growth of shit and newspaper. Capuchón was pissing into a battered urinal. Peralta stood behind him.

‘Won’t be a minute,’ Capuchón said without looking round.

‘Take all the time you want, Tomás,’ Peralta said, ‘I’m only here for a chat.’

The man turned his head. ‘Oh, it’s you,
Sargento
Peralta.’

‘It’s
teniente
now, Capuchón.’ The man’s thin face and protruding front teeth gave him the look of a rat, Peralta thought.

‘Still at the same
comisaría, Teniente
?’

‘No, I transferred. I’m at Calle de Robles now.’

The address had an immediate effect. Capuchón turned. He looked worried.

‘The
Brigada Especial
? They’re a rough lot,
Teniente
. You keep bad company, I must say.’

Peralta moved closer. ‘Never mind your opinion of the forces of law and order,
amigo
, I think you can help me. In fact, Tomás, you’d better help me or you may find yourself paying us a visit at Calle de Robles. Then you can tell my friends there just what bad company they are.’

Peralta saw concern in Capuchón’s face. Not the level of concern Guzmán might inspire, but at least he was making an impact.

‘No need for that,
Teniente
. Just tell me what you want and I’ll be glad to help you. You know me, always willing to help the police. I fought against the Reds in the war you know, I’m one of you lot really.’

‘That’s a real comfort to us, I’m sure, Tomasito. But I want to know about some Dominicans. They’ve come to Madrid with a trade delegation. Or so they say.’

Capuchón went pale. His eyes flickered from Peralta to the door. ‘Sorry. Can’t help.’

The words spluttered out as he tried to push past Peralta. Peralta slammed his hand against the man’s chest, pushing him back. For a second Capuchón looked as if he would fall into the urinal but he managed to steady himself by clutching the filthy washbasin. Panting, he stood at bay, darting frantic glances at the door. He was sweating.

‘What the hell’s wrong with you?’ Peralta snapped. ‘Christ, they’re a only bunch of foreign hoodlums.’

‘Yeah? Well that’s fine for you to say,
Teniente
, but I don’t know anything about them. So I can’t help you. Would if I could but I can’t. I’d better go.’ His voice cracked as he tried once more to push past Peralta to the door. Once more Peralta stopped him in his tracks, this time with a sharp punch to Capuchón’s midriff.

Capuchón sank to his knees. ‘Let me go. You don’t know what you’re messing with.’

‘I’m going to mess with you, Tomás. Or rather my
jefe
is.
Comandante
Guzmán. Ever heard of him? I thought so. He’s got an interest in these Dominicans and unfortunately for you, he lacks my patience. Come on, let’s be having you.’

Capuchón started babbling. ‘
Bueno
, I’ll do it. But these people are dangerous, I mean really dangerous,
Teniente
. I’ll help you, but if I do, I’ll need your help to get away from Madrid.’

‘That’s easily done, Tomás. But I need to know more about what they’re doing here. You help me, I help you. That’s how it works, you know that. Now, let’s take the air for a minute.’

Peralta guided Capuchón out into the corridor. A fire exit opened onto a courtyard strewn with abandoned boxes and machinery. What light there was came through the dirty windows of the apartments above.

Peralta reached into his pocket for his cigarettes, surprised to find he had none. ‘Got a smoke for me, Tommy?’

Capuchón held out the carton and Peralta took a cigarette and lit it.

‘American cigarettes, Tomás? Ducados not good enough for you now?’ Peralta inhaled deeply

‘They’re not hard to find,
Teniente
. You can get anything on the black market.’

‘I want information,’ Peralta said, ‘and they don’t have that for sale on
el estraperlo
, so tell me about the Dominicans.’

Capuchón shuffled uncomfortably. ‘
Bueno
. They’re setting up some sort of business.’

‘Business?’

‘I don’t know what,
Teniente
– honest. They’ve bought some properties and they’re buying up people as well – putting them on the payroll. Pimps, whores, pickpockets, fences. They offer money up front to work for them.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Whatever they say. These are hard guys,
Teniente
. They don’t mess about. If they buy you, they buy you. One bloke down the road, he crossed them. They cut him up bad.’

‘How bad?’

‘Dead. That bad. They say it was nasty.’

‘Who says?’

‘People on the street. The Dominicans took him to the old bodega near the church of San Rafael. It’s been abandoned since the war. They gave him a hard time and then…’ He drew his hand across his throat.

‘How long since this happened?’ Peralta asked.

‘
Tres dias
. Far as I know he’s still there.’

Peralta took out his notebook.

‘You said they were buying property. Give me some addresses.’

Capuchón reeled off a list of bars, cafés and brothels, pausing to allow Peralta to catch up. Finally, the
teniente
put away his pencil.

‘This is helpful, Tomás.
Comandante
Guzmán will be impressed.’

‘All I want is to be helpful,
Teniente
.’

Peralta held out a hundred peseta note. Capuchón pocketed the bill quickly.

‘One more thing,’ Capuchón said, looking around the darkened courtyard. ‘This place is theirs. It’s the first place they bought. They threatened Mamacita into selling and then hired her to run it for them. You be careful.’

‘Oh? And why would that be?’

‘They’ll know you’re here. And if they know you’re
poli
, things could get nasty.’

Peralta thought of Guzmán’s big Browning and his desire to use it on the Dominicans.

‘They could indeed, Tomás. Are they here tonight?’

‘Not as far as I know.’

‘Make yourself scarce then.’

‘I wouldn’t mess with them,
Teniente
. Seriously.’

‘Let us worry about that. But I want you to call in to the
comisaría
in a few days and update me with anything you’ve heard. And make sure you do, Tommy, won’t you? You don’t want
Comandante
Guzmán having to come and fetch you. You really don’t. Now,
vete. Y buenas noches
.’

‘
Muy buenas, Teniente
.’ Capuchón moved stealthily across the courtyard and disappeared into the murk of an alley on the far side.

Returning to the bar, Peralta felt the smoky warmth sweep over him as he came through the door. The air was drenched with the scent of unwashed bodies. There were fewer people than before, although the noise was just as intense. Guzmán was loudly heckling a juggler, succeeding spectacularly in putting the man off. The clubs crashed to the stage floor and the glowering juggler hurriedly left the stage. Peralta noticed the sarge nursing a drink at a table nearby, a picture of dissolution, indistinguishable from the bar’s regulars.

‘Complete rubbish.’ Guzmán indicated the departing juggler. ‘I could do better.’

‘I’ve got some news,’ Peralta announced, pleased to be able to return to the job in hand. His idea of a good night out didn’t involve strippers, transvestite barmaids or jugglers.

Five minutes later, Peralta and the sarge were struggling to keep up with Guzmán as he hurried down the frozen street.

‘
Jefe
, slow down a minute.’ The sarge was gasping noisily for breath.

Guzmán slowed slightly.

‘Unfit,
Sargento
, that’s you. Too much time with the whores. What’s your excuse,
Teniente
?’

‘Don’t worry about me,’ Peralta said, turning his collar up against the cold. ‘Although it might be easier to take a taxi.’

‘Find one and we’ll take it,’ Guzmán snapped. ‘We need to have a look at that bodega. Any evidence on those
hijos de puta
and we can take them, American trade delegation or no.’

‘The bloke there is dead,
jefe
,’ the sarge moaned, ‘he’ll keep for a few more minutes, we don’t have to run there.’

‘Keen as ever,’ Guzmán growled. ‘Just keep up, man.’

‘There’s a taxi.’ Peralta raised his arm as a cab spluttered towards them.

‘
Gracias
blessed Virgin for answering my prayer,’ the sarge wheezed.

‘You couldn’t spell God,
Sargento
, let alone pray to his mother.’ Guzmán laughed.

MADRID 1953, PLAZA DE SAN RAFAEL

The church of San Rafael loomed across the silent cobbled square, the spire of the church skeletal and menacing, etched black against the faint city light.

‘That’s it.’ Peralta pointed to a decrepit storefront on one side of the church. It was clearly abandoned: peeling walls, boarded up windows, the sign faded from years of neglect.

Guzmán led the way, hugging the shadows as he moved towards the bodega.

The sarge rattled a rusty padlock on the barred doorway. ‘All locked up at the front.’

‘There’s an alleyway down the side,’ Peralta said. ‘We can try round the back.’

The alley was no more than the space between the bodega and the next building. They entered it in single file. Guzmán led the way, his pistol extended before him. They emerged into a small yard littered with debris and bordered with piles of shattered bricks and masonry. Guzmán walked to the rear of the bodega and used his lighter to examine one of the windows. The wooden slats nailed over the window were askew and when Guzmán pulled one, it came away in his hand. Quickly, he stripped away the remaining slats to reveal the gaping window, its glass long gone.

‘Someone’s been here, all right,’ Guzmán said, holstering his pistol. ‘In you go, Sarge.
Teniente
, give the
sargento
a leg up.’

Peralta crouched, bracing himself as the sarge placed a foot in his cupped hands and then the
teniente
lifted him unsteadily, struggling to support his weight. The
sargento
grabbed hold of the window ledge and with some difficulty pulled himself in. A dull thud was followed by a few obscenities before the sarge reappeared and beckoned them to follow. Guzmán hauled himself up and then pulled Peralta up after him. Dusty and panting from the sudden exertion, they found themselves in the wreckage of a large storeroom, shelves filled with ancient bottles, the labels now obscured by dust.

Guzmán snapped open his lighter. Moving carefully across the room, he found the light switch and tried it without success. Holding the lighter aloft, he moved towards the dark outline of a large table. ‘Now we’re talking.’ The struggling lighter flame illuminated old papers and ledgers scattered across the table top and, more importantly, a bundle of old candles. Guzmán lit several candles, nuancing the room with sickly irregular light and sending deep, dancing shadows over the skeletal ruins of the abandoned building.

‘There was heavy fighting around here in the War,’ Guzmán said. ‘They probably shut up shop in a hurry and never came back.’

‘What’s that smell?’ Peralta asked. Against the background odour of dust, damp wood and accumulated neglect was the odour of something rotting. Guzmán and the sarge recognised it at once.

‘Looks like your informant was correct,
Teniente
.’ Guzmán transferred the candle to his left hand as he reached into his coat for the Browning.

‘It’s got to be a corpse,’ the sarge said, drawing his pistol.

They moved slowly, the floorboards groaning as Guzmán led the others to the front of the building. Passing through a doorway, the door hanging raggedly from one hinge, they entered what must have been the bar. There was little of it left. What remained of the tables and chairs were smashed and piled in small heaps.

‘Broken up for firewood,’ Guzmán said, now holding the candle up towards the pool of darkness on the far side of the room. They could make out the bulk of the old bar, the bottles and glasses shrouded in thick layers of cobwebs. Behind the bar was an ancient mirror, flanked by shelves now empty but for an extensive lacework of cobwebs, frosted with the accumulated dust of the fourteen years since the war ended. There was something more recent on the bar. Guzmán lifted his candle higher. Peralta gagged, trying not to retch as the smell became overpowering.