Blood Wedding (17 page)

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Give me a written report on the Diva incident. Make sure you file everything in duplicate. You may be right about what happened. But support González’ story.’

‘What are you going to do about González, sir?’

‘I’ll speak to—have a word with him. He has to be more careful in future. By the way, I had a phone call from him. Have to ask you this, Max. Did you or did you not . . . um . . . sleep with that girl?’

‘I did not, sir.’

Davila’s eyes twinkled.

Bloody González. He might as well have sent out an ‘alluser’ email. With cartoons. The lads are really going to have fun.

‘If it’s okay, sir, I’ll go through the murdered girl’s materials in my flat. I find it easier to work there.’

‘Okay. Just make sure we can get in touch.’

Max saluted, and left. Praise the Lord. Max walked down the stairs to the basement of the police building. He handed Leila’s computer to one of the technical staff.

‘Can you get into this? It’s quite urgent.’

‘No problem. Give us half an hour.’

His coffee finished, Max returned within the half-hour and collected Leila’s computer.

He followed the little Albayzín bus below the Alhambra viewpoint, El Mirador de San Nicolás, down to the Cuesta de María de la Miel, and found a parking spot close to the chemist. The bougainvillea, purple and red, was still in flower, tumbling over the ancient walls of the houses. He sniffed the air, a mixture of sweet scented flowers and urine, a smell peculiar to the Albayzín. He climbed the narrow stairs slowly to the fourth floor, his flat. He put the bag with the computer, disks, tapes and exercise books on the tiled floor, unlocked the double lock, entered, deposited the bag on the desk, and went straight to the shuttered french doors. He opened the shutters. The Alhambra burst into view, the early evening sun lighting up the blotting paper pink walls. No Sierra Nevada behind it, too cloudy.

He stepped outside on to his small terrace. The geraniums were wilting, in need of water.

Max breathed quietly for a minute, then returned to his desk, set up the computer quickly, removed jacket and tie, and then paused. He remembered a quotation from John Ruskin, ‘Books are the souls of the dead, bound in calfskin.’ Going through Leila’s laptop felt like an invasion of privacy, a lack of respect for the dead. He went to the fridge, took out an open bottle of the Sierra Contraviesa white, poured the cold wine into a glass, sniffed appreciatively at the citrus aroma, took a sip, and returned to his desk and Leila’s computer. This had to be a private conversation.

He started the computer, and then flicked through My Documents, scribbling the contents down on a notepad. Most were thesis-related: thesis notes, thesis chapters, thesis outline, thesis references, thesis supervisor. But there was also a folder marked Poems; another, Novel; and some personal files – finance, jobs, CV. Max turned to the emails. It looked like there were hundreds. He would have to go through every one; any clue would help. He felt sad. What an awful way to get to know Leila.

There were a lot of emails to a Paul Drake, boyfriend probably; yes, definitely boyfriend. The emails started off long and detailed, almost a diary of daily events. But then she launched into her thesis. Boy, did she have the thesis syndrome. Poor sod: he was going to get every detail whether he liked it or not.

Leila went to Granada regularly; the university librarian was very helpful. Most of the historians she wanted to speak to were on holiday, so she would have to wait until they got back. She liked Granada a lot. She had done a tour of Lorca’s last days with an English guide who turned out to be a real expert.

Something I’ve never done, thought Max.

Leila suggested that Paul came over to Spain, though her dad would not approve if they shared a bedroom. She was also having problems with some people in the local Muslim community. Dad had called her in to advise that her behaviour was causing comment. Leila regretted quarrelling with her father.

‘But I’m a free spirit and I’m not going to accept the petty, narrow views of some ignorant Muslims. There is nothing in the Qur’an to say women shouldn’t enjoy life.’

Paul immediately became very sympathetic and sent an email back.

‘Absolutely, honey, absolutely. But I’ve never understood why you became a Muslim in the first place. I understand the family solidarity thing, but it’s not a good time to be Muslim. It could harm your career prospects.’

That was a mistake. Leila’s reply was acid.

‘It was my decision to become a Muslim. I may have become interested in Islam because of my dad’s rediscovery of his faith and my mother’s death. But I need a spiritual life, and for me Islam is the correct path.’

Paul made no response. Leila returned to her thesis descriptions. She had discovered the librarian of Diva’s little library.

‘Ricardo, the librarian in Diva, has a lot of information on Diva during the Civil War. People are still reluctant to talk about that period. Spanish governments ignore the mass graves all over Spain. But people, people who I’ve met, are still looking for relatives who ‘disappeared’. And Ricardo confirmed what I had heard from others; that there is a mass grave somewhere outside Diva. It’s beginning to be like a detective novel, trying to find out what happened here.’

Max looked at the list of names and email addresses he had noted down. Most seemed to be connected to her thesis: librarians in Granada and Diva; people who she had interviewed in Diva and Granada. The other names were probably members of the Muslim community and her boyfriend.

Max stood up and stretched his legs. He went to the fridge, and took out a small bowl of olives. Enough for today: amazing how much time it takes to go through material on a computer. He needed a break; maybe some of the usual gang were in La Taberna.

The next day, Max continued with the emails. There were emails to her thesis supervisor. Then a lot of emails to a Shona Monroe, clearly a close friend. These were more revealing.

‘I think Paul’s more of a conformist than I realized, and he’s probably worried a Muslim girl would do his career no good.’

And they were gossipy.

‘After Friday prayers the men eat together in one room, and the women in another. I bet the men have interesting political discussions or deep theological disputes. With us women, it’s babies and recipes. Boring! I mentioned my thesis once, and was told that’s most interesting, but a bit controversial. Controversial! I ask you!’

Yet again, Max warmed to Leila.

There were descriptions of the various men she had met. She found handsome Spaniards very appealing. The librarian at the University of Granada was cute, as well as helpful. Hell, Max Romero was on her list!

‘He’s a nice cop – interested in my thesis. Did his degree at Glasgow Uni. What a small world! Been for a coffee with him twice. He put me in touch with his grandmother, Paula. It’s great to have someone in Diva who understands what I’m trying to do in my thesis . . . AND he’s really flirtatious, and that’s quite fun.’

The next emails concerned Paula. ‘She’s fantastic. We really have a good laugh though some of the things she tells me about are so sad.’

And then finally, there was something significant.

‘The cute cop is still interested. But I’m keen on someone else now. Tell you all about it later.’

Well, thought Max sadly, I wouldn’t have got anywhere. He felt a stab of pain. Murder, even more than accidents, leaves a strong sense of a vacuum, of what might have been.

But, as he was nearing the end of the emails, Max at last found a clue. Leila returned to the person she was keen on.

‘He’s tall, dark and handsome. How conventional can I get? But married with children. Typical!’

Can’t be Hassan then, thought Max.

Shona’s reply was sensible, warning Leila to steer clear of married men with children. ‘All they want is a bit on the side.’

And then Shona was leaving. Bother.

‘Off to Nepal tomorrow. I’ll email when I hit civilization. Take care, and don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’

Leila’s final email to Shona: ‘Have a great trip. See you when I get back. Be good, if that’s possible. I think I’m really in love this time. Tell you all about it when you get back. Love Leila.’

Blast. Absolutely nothing. No mention of Hassan or the guys up the hill. Hassan couldn’t be the dreamboat with wife and kids. What was it that Guevarra had said: there was gossip about Leila and a married man in the community. That’s the only real clue so far. Better phone Guevarra to ensure she really did chase up that gossip. He took a sip of wine, and paused.

Okay. He needed to contact just about everyone Leila sent emails to, and check with Shona Monroe when she got back.

The more he got to know Leila, the more he liked her. He looked at the row of tapes. He needed some fresh air before tackling them.

Back in the flat Max switched on the tape recorder, and played the first of Paula’s tapes. He laughed aloud. Paula was . . . well, so Paula. Paula interviewed Leila as much as the other way round. Leila told Paula all about her family. Her mother had committed suicide when the cancer became too much to bear. Her father was seeing another woman at the time, and he thought it might have been that which pushed her mum over the edge. But it wasn’t. Her mother had even left a note, telling Ahmed to remarry soon. He didn’t, became grief-stricken, and rediscovered his Muslim faith. He later decided to help set up a Muslim community in Spain. Leila was a bit vague on her own faith.

‘Paula, I suppose it is partly out of sympathy with my father. But it wasn’t just that. Mum’s death sort of pushed me to ask what really matters in life; who am I, that sort of thing. I had never felt Scottish, and even less Christian. Becoming a Muslim was part of discovering myself. Can’t say I’m there yet.’

‘Leila, I’m eighty-three. I’m not sure you ever get there.’

Tape 2 was all about Paula’s meeting Lorca. Invariably Paula did a bit of matchmaking. Blast Paula’s keen eyes: how did she know he was keen on Leila? Tape 3 dealt with Diva on the eve of Civil War. Tapes 4 and 5 were the family. Max was shocked at how close she’d been to getting raped by the soldiers who came looking for her brother. She had never talked about it. He couldn’t bring up the subject now: she’d be embarrassed. The tapes confirmed what he had suspected: that grandpa had been a strong Franco supporter.
Mi abuelo!
Max had such happy memories of grandpa teaching him how to ride a bike . . . and going with Juan to catch fish in the river. Leila had given Paula the website address of ‘The Spanish Civil War Disappeared’, and other websites on the period.

So that’s why Paula insisted on getting a computer, thought Max. He smiled: Paula had never given up learning, she was always trying out something new. He hoped he would be like her if he ever reached her age. But there was nothing in the tapes relevant to Leila’s death. Although Leila had promised to investigate the circumstances surrounding Antonio’s disappearance, there was nothing on what she had found – if she had found anything. Maybe Paula knew more?

The tape of Leila’s interview with Ricardo, the librarian, was interesting. Diva had really been on the front line of the Civil War. And yes, it had been González’ grandfather who had shot Manuel Paz, El Gato. So it wasn’t all bullshit. Amazing. El Gato had returned from France after the Civil War to establish a guerrilla resistance in the hills around Diva. The guerrillas were convinced that Britain and the USA would help them to overthrow Franco. Max knew this part of the history.

Leila:
So what happened then?

Ricardo:
Apparently the Americans were quite keen. But the British had persuaded them that this would destabilize Spain, and might bring back the Communists.

Leila:
Gosh. I never knew this. So what finally happened?

Ricardo:
Well, with the Cold War hotting up, Eisenhower eventually cut a deal with Franco in 1956, and got the huge American base at Rota as a reward. And after that . . . well, there was no international pressure on Spain to move towards democracy.

What’s new, thought Max. So much for bringing democracy to the poor, benighted world.

Alfredo, the librarian in Granada, likewise offered nothing that might throw any light on Leila’s death. In his second interview, Leila asked lots of questions about Lorca’s death. The librarian felt that this had been thoroughly covered, by British, French and American historians, as well as Spanish, and had given her a reading list.

Alfredo:
There’s been a lot of speculation. There was a view that Lorca had been murdered by a homosexual lover, another, that he was killed by the Reds because he was about to come out in support of Franco.

Leila:
But recent research has shown this was just black propaganda.

Alfredo:
Absolutely. Lorca almost certainly was arrested by a group of members of Acción Popular, out to make a name for themselves. He was then shot on the orders of Comandante Valdés on 18
^th
or 19
^th
August 1936. It was one of the hottest days in an unusually hot August.

Leila:
Yeah, that’s Ian Gibson. Great book, don’t you think?

Alfredo:
Interesting, but it has its weaknesses. My reading is that Lorca was actually well hidden and protected in the house of the Rosales family. Somebody must have betrayed Lorca’s hiding place to political fanatics of Acción Popular. There’s still a mystery to solve. You know, there just might be more in the Guardia Civil archives. They weren’t open at the time Gibson was carrying out his research.

Leila:
Betrayal? That’s interesting. I’ve been working on that hypothesis.

Alfredo:
If you do find anything, come and see me. It would be quite a coup.

Max grinned: cunning bastard. That’s a nifty chat-up line.

But he was still puzzled. There was the family connection through Paula to Lorca, but why did Leila have such an interest in Lorca’s death? It wasn’t part of her thesis topic. Maybe Leila wanted to make a name for herself . . . discover something new about Lorca. Maybe she was just fascinated by the thought of conspiracy or cover-up. Who knows?