The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) (38 page)

‘And no one tried to stop them?’

‘No one wanted to stop them. The military weren’t committed to the transition. Many of them were actively hostile to democracy.’

‘And do these
Centinelas
still take things from the archive?’

‘We think so,’ Agustín said. ‘It’s difficult to be certain – they’d hardly tell us. But every now and then documents go missing. The state of this place, we probably don’t know the half of it.’

‘
Bien
. If I see someone in a gold ring carrying away your files, I’ll give you a shout.’

‘This is no laughing matter,
señorita
. It never hurts to remember the way things were not so long ago – so we don’t take things today for granted.’

‘
Hombre
, I was only joking,’ Galindez said, irritated. ‘But while you’re here, I’m looking for material relating to police operations in 1953. Can you point me in the right direction?’

‘Of course. The archive is organised into blocks. Each covers about five years. It runs from the late twenties through to the early eighties. The fifties you’ll find down in the first two sections at the far end. But as to whether you’ll find what you’re looking for,’ he shrugged, ‘I can’t say. It’s like doing
El Gordo
. Maybe you win, maybe you don’t.’

‘I don’t do the lottery,
Señor
Benitez.’ Agustín was really starting to annoy Galindez. ‘I’ll see what I can find. Thanks for your help.’

‘I hope you find what you’re looking for,’ he said, stuffily. ‘
Sí Dios quiere
.’

‘To be frank, I rely on attention to detail rather than God’s will.
Buenos dias
.’ Galindez stood up, wondering what it was about Benitez that pissed her off so much. Whatever it was, she thought, it worked. And from his expression, it was mutual.

With Benitez gone, Galindez left her notebooks on one of the round tables before heading into the gloomy warren of shelves. Intermittent beams of struggling sunlight played over the dingy contents of the archive. It was surprisingly cold. A sweater would have been a good idea, she realised, even though they’d forecast a high of thirty-one degrees today for Madrid. And all around her, the files, cartons, boxes, stacks of paper – the detritus of mass bureaucracy. So many files. Some with typed labels, now almost faded away, others illegible, obscured by dust and latticed cobwebs. How appropriate, Galindez thought, the dark bureaucratic memory of Franco’s rule consigned to slow decay among the whispering shadows.

Occasional faint lights illuminated sections of the archive with an insipid pallor. Galindez noticed a label: 1935 –
Guardia Civil
. Idly, she pulled out the file. Grey dust clung to her fingers. Inside, she found a series of memoranda, invoices and letters, relating to the cost of supplying rural
comisarías
around Málaga. Routine logistical inscriptions from a time long gone. Galindez slid the folder back into place alongside a file labelled
Addresses of Prominent Jews and Freemasons in Madrid: A–E
.
1938
. The files seemed to be in almost random order – worse, it was beginning to feel as if all the material had been shuffled into this chaotic state in order to frustrate those seeking something specific. Galindez realised she could spend months in this dismal light, hemmed in by cloistered silence and breathing air infused with the smell of old men and ageing paper and still not find anything.
Joder
.

She reached the far end of the archive. There was a gap of two metres between the end of the rows of shelves and the far wall. Several doors in the wall.
Privado: Solo Empleados
. Another marked
Hombres
. Naturally, she thought, there was a men’s toilet but no door marked
Mujeres
. The archive belonged to a time when women were invisible in so much of Spanish life. A third door was marked
Sala de Emergencia
. God, if that was the only emergency exit, she smiled to herself, all those ancient scholars at the other end would be in real trouble if they had to evacuate the place in a hurry.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the tattered sign on the penultimate row of shelves in the far corner. ‘
1950–1954
.’ She felt a little better now: at least it was the right time period. Nothing for it but to examine everything with a label. That was going to take a while, she was certain. But once she started something, Galindez would see it through. She remembered
Profesora
Suarez’s comment about her when she was finishing her doctorate:
Ana María has a dogged persistence in her approach to work that is both unusual and rewarding in someone of her age
.
Tio
Ramiro thought it was an insult until Carmen calmed him down and explained what the
profesora
meant.

Galindez read the labels on the nearest files:
Report on Trade Union Activities in Barcelona 1952
. Another:
Arrests of Subversive Elements by undercover officers 1951–53, Madrid
. Many files weren’t labelled. Examining a few, Galindez realised that although some might be potentially useful, others should have been consigned to the waste bin sixty years ago. Even when she found sections that might have something of interest, a search like this took considerable time. Her back ached from constant bending to check material on the lower shelves. And then she saw it, a large box file with a yellowing label. Faded typewritten words:
Office of the Capitán-General of Madrid: Correspondence Concerning Comandante Guzmán 1951–52
. Galindez stared at the label, feeling the same excited anticipation she used to have opening her Christmas presents from
Tia
Carmen – although those were usually pieces of scientific equipment. Something related to Guzmán at last. And down to her persistence, not
Señor
Benitez’s reliance on divine will.

Galindez had just started to open the file when she became aware of someone coming down the aisle in her direction. A man in a dark suit, his face half hidden by shadow. She guessed he must be quite old, since he bent forwards and was walking unsteadily, clutching from time to time at a shelf for support. A sudden thought chilled her.
Shit
. What if he was looking for this file? Galindez had a sudden vision of him being some high-ranking librarian or administrator about to announce the file was not available for some reason.
Just my luck. That’ll teach me to mock Benitez
.

Galindez made a snap decision and replaced the file, pushing it to the very back of the shelf, leaving a space in front of it. Anyone glancing down as they passed would only see the empty space. That done, she walked calmly around the end of the row, and turned into the next aisle. Pushing aside a couple of boxes of papers, Galindez was able to peer through the gap to the shelf where she had just concealed the Guzmán file. The old man was getting nearer: she could hear his laboured breathing. Maybe he just needed the toilet – it was a cruelly long journey for the old men who used the archive. Whatever his need, the man suddenly came into her limited field of vision as she peered through the gap between the files. He paused –
hijo de puta
– he paused right by the spot where, half a metre below him, Galindez had left the file. And then, she saw him bend and she heard the noise of something moving on a shelf.
Fuck. Don’t let him find my file
. The man straightened up, his hand grasping the shelf for support. Galindez felt relieved: he wasn’t holding the file.
Now go away, señor
. The man lurched to the end of the row and turned right, in the direction of the emergency exit. Galindez exhaled, realising she had been holding her breath until the man passed her hiding place. As she prepared to retrieve the file, there was a sudden flurry of activity out of her line of sight.

Leaning round the end of the row, she saw the old man struggling, his arms pinioned by two men in suits. He wasn’t putting up much of a fight. Two fit men against one old man wasn’t fair, she decided, whatever he’d done. She tensed, preparing to step in. Then one of them said, ‘
Policía
.’ Galindez drew back behind the shelf. Police – the old man must have done something then. She hazarded another cautious look around the end of the aisle and saw the men bundle the old man through the emergency door. She knew that was the way to do it: make the arrest, then straight out of the nearest exit and into the squad car. And then a sinking feeling:
Did he take the Guzmán file? Shit, what if that’s why the police were after him
? Or maybe he was one of those oddballs who rob libraries for years, filling their grubby homes to overflowing with their stolen collections?

With a resigned sigh, Galindez returned to the shelf where she had hidden the Guzmán file. The empty space on the shelf was now taken up by something in a plastic carrier bag. She picked the bag up. It was heavy: inside were several fat cardboard files bound together with string. She checked the back of the shelf. The Guzmán file was just where she left it. As she reached for the file, Galindez became curious about just what the old guy had been up to. If there was anything of importance in the files he’d left here, maybe she should hand them over to the police. It was worth a look. She put the Guzmán folder into the plastic bag alongside the other files and went back to the far end of the archive. The old men in the leather chairs and at the tables were all engrossed in their old documents. No one looked at her – except one old boy and he wasn’t looking at what she was carrying anyway.

A lengthy queue of elderly scholars snaked back along the corridor leading to the director’s office. Galindez found to her chagrin that they were all waiting to request copies of various papers.
Mierda
. Not one accessible photocopier. She looked down the line, counting at least thirty people. And the line wasn’t moving. The bag of files was heavy and she didn’t even know what she wanted copying. In the university library she’d have copied everything just to be safe. How long would it take them here to copy the mass of papers she was carrying? And worse, what if they refused to copy the Guzmán file? She needed something on him and this was the first evidence she’d come across, other than his diary.

A very un-Galindez-like thought occurred. Why not just borrow the file on Guzmán, copy what she needed and return it later? No one knew it existed anyway. Galindez recognised she was rationalising her intended behaviour like most criminals did.
But I’m not a criminal. I’ll just bend the rules this once, it would save so much time. Christ, I never even had an overdue library book at uni
. She would return the files in a couple of days and no one would ever be any the wiser.
Hostia
, probably no one would even look at them again.

She made her way back to the reception desk. The receptionist was talking on the phone. Galindez signed out in the visitors’ book and strolled to her car, stowing the carrier bag in the boot. She was about to start the engine when she noticed her left palm was wet. She’d been carrying a heavy bag on a very hot day: no wonder her hand was sweaty, she thought. She looked down. It wasn’t sweat on her hand. It was blood. Fresh blood. Galindez got out of the car and opened the boot. It was clear now where the blood came from: the carrier bag was smeared with it around the handle. The old guy must have cut himself. Taking a tissue from her bag, Galindez wiped the blood from her hand before driving away.

12

MADRID 1953, COMISARÍA, CALLE DE ROBLES

‘This has got to stop. It’s humiliating. It lowers morale and it makes you look ridiculous. It has to end. Understood?
Me entiende, Teniente
?’

Guzmán was sprawled in his office chair while Peralta stood uneasily in front of the
comandante
’s desk. Peralta looked at Guzmán shamefacedly.

‘Of course I understand, sir, I can’t help it. It’s just—’

‘Enough. You simply can’t go round spewing up every time you see a dead body. It’s ridiculous. How would you go on if you had to take a few Reds out one night and shoot them? You can’t aim straight if you’re throwing up right, left and centre, can you?’

‘I apologise,
mi Comandante
. It won’t happen again.’

‘Don’t let it, Peralta. I haven’t told anyone but the sarge will. And then the lower ranks will have nothing else to talk about. Don’t give them the means to undermine you. If this becomes a problem,
Teniente
, it’s
your
problem. Understand?’

‘
Si, mi comandante
,’ Peralta said miserably. Guzmán dismissed him.

Peralta had slept little that night, trying to think through what was happening, trying to get a grip on the facts the way they had showed him at the academy. It wasn’t working.

Guzmán called Peralta and the sarge into his office at midday. There were two blackboards set on easels at the far end of the room next to his filing cabinet.

The sarge looked at the blackboards quizzically. ‘We going to be doing drawing?’ he asked. ‘I can do a doggie or a horsey if you like,
jefe
.’ He looked round at Peralta. ‘I ain’t drawing you though.’

‘You’ll be drawing this blackboard out of your arse in a minute.’ Guzmán was writing on the left-hand side board. A name:
Valverde
. Then another,
Positano
. The sarge glowered at Guzmán but he glowered in silence.

‘Right,’ Guzmán said. ‘This is what we have so far. The general – sorry,
Teniente
–
Tio
Valverde, is worried about these Dominicans moving in on his pharmaceutical interests. So he asked me to check them out and mark their cards.’

‘Seems fair,’ the sarge said, ‘you do him a favour and then he owes you one.’

‘True enough,’ Guzmán agreed, leaving out the matter of Valverde’s bribe, ‘but doesn’t it strike you as odd? Franco gave him the monopoly over the importation of medicines into Spain and it makes him wealthy. Fair enough, that’s how it’s done. But why should a bunch of creeps from the Caribbean with a track record as long as your arm pose any threat to the
Capitán-General
of Madrid? Valverde wants it all done on the quiet and even Franco doesn’t want us to bother them. Normally, they wouldn’t think twice about taking them out of circulation. One word to us and that’d be it.’