Blood Wedding (25 page)

‘Hell,’ said Max. ‘That’s not going to do much good.’

‘Hmm . . . The Ibn Rush’d Centre’s an odd set-up. I need to do more homework. Any news on Hassan Khan?’ asked Martín.

‘Not good. Ahmed Mahfouz saw him in hospital, and he wants him back in the Muslim community. A friend, Zaida Alhuecema, offered to take him in to help him recover.’

‘Okay. Keep me informed. That bastard Allende may try to pull another fast one.’

‘So, it’s stalemate.’

‘Looks like the only thing we can do is keep checking on the Ibn Rush’d Centre. What are you going to do now?’

‘Granada in August is just too much. I’ve a long weekend booked, so I’ll go down to the coast. Maybe I should invite Linda?’

‘You’d have more chance with López,’ said Martín, laughing.

Just lazing on the beach for a few days did Max a world of good. He tried chatting up a few girls. There were some real beauties on the beach. But they only hunted in packs, and on his own . . . well, he got nowhere. Was he getting too old? Definitely putting on weight. At least he had a good book,
The Flanders Panel
by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. So he just lay on the beach, dozing, girl-watching, and reading. He remembered the book was the one Javeed had been reading when they first visited his centre. As he got towards the end of the book, Max realized something was wrong. Very odd . . . Hassan’s account of the chess game with Javeed seemed remarkably similar to the one in the book. Have to check his notes on that. It was all too pat. Jorge was bound to be a good chess player – he’d better ask him about those final moves in the book.

Max returned to Granada with an all-over tan. The city was still sweltering, the main streets protected from the fierce sun by white canvas shades. Without them even the tourists would be too hot to shop. Davila and Bonila were on holiday. Navarro was nowhere to be seen. The incident with Hassan was all but forgotten. Old news. But some damage had been done to the Partido Popular. The full police investigation was scheduled for October.

Max phoned the hospital. Hassan had been released into the care of Zaida Alhuecema.

‘Physically he should recover,’ the doctor said. ‘But mentally, although I’m not an expert, I think he may be suffering from post-traumatic stress disorder. In this case, he can’t stand being touched by strangers. If touched, he has a compulsion to wash. The trauma seems to have left him with delusional problems relating to Islam. But he could get worse. Might even turn violent or attempt to commit selfharm. And then we’d have to take him back in. I’ve asked one of the Diva doctors to visit him daily, but unfortunately, as you know, the local clinic doesn’t have a mental health unit. I’ve sent my report to Comisario Bonila, if you want full details.’

‘And the others?’ asked Max.

‘I’ve examined them all. Can’t say they’re in great shape. Sleep deprivation, bruising, but nothing serious. Nothing to worry about.’

Max phoned Inspector Jefe Rodrigo Dacosta, in charge during Bonila’s absence. He confirmed what the doctor had said.

‘My advice, Max, is for you and everyone who interviewed that lad to stay away from him. The doctors say it could trigger something if he sees you. We’ve released the others, but we’ll keep an eye on them all until they return to their own countries. For what it’s worth we’ve asked these countries to maintain surveillance on them all. There’s EU money in that Centre, and some bloody Green MEP is sure to get on to it. Also some posh lawyer here from God knows where has pitched up threatening to sue us for compensation. Bad precedent if we allow that. Our tactic is to get them out of the country as soon as possible.’

‘Thanks, sir, I’ll take your advice. But there’s still the murder investigation into the Muslim girl in Diva . . . and we haven’t ruled out Hassan Khan there. Do you want me to continue to help on that?’

‘Continue to help where you can. But do it carefully. You might want to visit the Ibn Rush’d Centre before they leave, and see if you can find out anything more. You never know.’

‘I’ll do that, sir.’

Tis all a Chequer-board of Nights and Days
Where Destiny with men for Pieces plays:

Edward FitzGerald,
The Rubáiyat of Omar Khayyám

The next morning Max arose early, made a cup of mint tea, and drank it on his terrace. He stared up at the Alhambra, hoping for inspiration. Without outside pressure, the official police inquiry would be fudged, and someone – Navarro? – gets a slap on the wrist. Max sat and thought. Then he remembered a murder five years go. Paco had stabbed his girlfriend in a flamenco club, then got religion in jail. Decent guy once you got to know him . . . and Paco just might know what had really happened to Hassan. Paco was one of Jorge’s parishioners: nobody would be surprised if Jorge made a pastoral visit. Max picked up the phone and called him.

‘Max, what’s up? It’s not even eight.’

‘I know, Jorge. But I’m worried the police inquiry will do its usual, hum, haw, but, under the exceptional circumstances, unfortunate incident . . . and clear that bastard Navarro. I was wondering – could you talk to Paco and find out what really happened?’

‘That’s a good idea. I’ve already got a prison visit booked for this afternoon.’

‘We have to make sure nothing can get back to Paco. You know what could happen to him if it does.’

‘No problem. It’s just a routine pastoral visit. I’ll be seeing other prisoners as well. Leave it to me.’

‘Great.’

‘Just thought of something. The Archbishop. He’s a rightwing son of a bitch on most issues.’

‘That’s true.’

‘But he’s very keen to maintain good relations with the Muslims . . . and he’s worried about the impact of the Hassan Khan case.’

‘So what’s the plan?’

‘I’ll get the Muslim leaders to visit the Archbishop . . . to ask that justice is seen to be done, and that there is no whitewash . . . something like that. Then if Paco tells me what happened, I’ll pass it on to the Muslim Association, and they can inform the Archbishop. That way there will be no names mentioned, and everything will be completely confidential.’

‘That sounds neat.’

‘The Archbishop, I’m sure, will write to Comisario Bonila emphasizing the importance of an open and thorough investigation, and explaining that he, the Archbishop, has received reliable evidence of Navarro’s involvement. That’ll worry Bonila, and whether he likes it or not he’ll have to be seen to be doing something.’

‘That will be great, Jorge. Can you do it as soon as possible?’

Max drove down to his office. There was a pile of papers to clear, a mountain of forms to fill in. It was so hot that even Davila’s shirt had lost its starch.

At the end of the day, Max went home to his flat, took a shower, and lay on his bed listening to Handel’s
Theodora
on the BBC World Service. The death duet moved him to tears. At the end of the broadcast, he dressed and walked down to the Sacromonte road. He sat outside at Pibe’s, ordered a
tubo
of beer, and began to catch up on his copies of
El País
. The news was dominated by the Palestinian/Israeli negotiations. The USA was on a roll, and determined to push through a peace deal. It looked as if all the concessions were to come from the Palestinian side. Max wondered what Javeed would think of all this.

The next day at noon he received a call from Jorge.

‘You were right, Max. Paco and I did a deal. His girlfriend’s mother won’t let his little girl visit him, and he’s desperate to see the kid. So the deal is . . . I persuade the
abuela
to let the girl see her dad, and Paco tells me what happened. I know the
abuela
, and she won’t say no to me . . . so he told me the story.’

‘Okay.’

‘It’s exactly as you thought. According to Paco, one of the inmates got the whisper that Inspector Navarro had arranged for the boy to be placed overnight in D Section. He thinks it was probably agreed high up.’

‘This is getting interesting.’

‘The cell door was left unlocked. The guards let the guys in the prison know they had a free hand – something about softening the lad up before further questioning. Paco claims he had nothing to do with what happened next. But those involved overdid it, and the boy was carted off to hospital next morning.’

‘Right.’

‘But there’s more. The story is that Inspector Navarro is a real bad one, that he’s part of an underage prostitute ring – some place in the Albayzín.’

‘Christ!’

‘Doesn’t surprise me. I’d heard a whisper last year. I’ll work on that one.’

‘Take care, Jorge. That Navarro is a ruthless bastard.’

‘Don’t worry. The Blessed Virgin will protect me. And I’ve already advised the Muslim leaders about Hassan Khan. They have an interview with His Grace tomorrow.’

‘Jorge!’

‘It’s okay. I’m seeing His Right Holiness this evening. We don’t get on. He thinks I’m a troublemaker, and I think he’s a pompous reactionary. But he’s a shrewd operator. The Pope has ordered the Church to maintain good relations with the Muslims, so a few well-planted words followed by a delegation from the Muslims and then a strong letter from the Archbishop to Bonila should do the trick.’

‘Thanks, Jorge. I feel better already.’

‘Now you can do me a favour. I promised Paco I would get a present for his little girl. No idea what little girls like these days. So could you get me something, and I’ll pass it on?’

‘Sure, but . . .’

‘Just ask Encarnación. I think they’re the same age.’

‘You might be embarrassed by what little girls like these days, something to do with some bloody pop star or footballer.’

‘Me, nothing can embarrass me any more. You should eavesdrop on what I hear in confession sometime.’

‘I’ll pass on that one.’

Two days later Max set out for Capa. The long winding road up the mountain reminded him of the raid. He had to admit he still didn’t know for sure. The evidence against them was weak, circumstantial at the best. But something was not quite right. They could still be plotting something, and here he was going out on a limb to help them. He just hoped he hadn’t got it wrong. Max sympathized with the Palestinian cause: their treatment by the USA and Israel was appalling . . . but this suicide bombing . . . he couldn’t agree with that.

Max stopped for a beer at a roadside bar before Diva. The constant curves required concentration, and with the heat he felt tired and thirsty. He needed a break before the steep, twisting climb up to Capa. The bar usually had a copy of
El País
. He went into the bar, ordered a beer, and looked around. Someone else was reading it, so he had to make do with yesterday’s
Granada Hoy
. A ‘traffic chaos’ front page again. Max agreed: getting round the city was hell these days. But the roadworks had to be done – increasing prosperity meant more cars, and cars needed roads. Finally, the person reading
El País
left. Max grabbed it, and settled down with another beer in the corner of the pub. ‘USA and EU Pressure on Palestine Negotiators to Sign Intense.’
El País
predicted that in a week or so the Palestinians would give in, and sign. As always it was the fine detail which mattered: in return for international and Israeli recognition of a Palestinian state, Palestine would have to recognize Israel, crack down on any terrorist attacks on Israel, recognize the new boundaries, and give up any claims to the right of the Palestinian exiles to return to any part of Israel. And yes, of course the EU would help Palestine with finance. Max looked at the proposed boundary lines. Hell . . . they can’t possibly sign that. The Palestine state would not be viable, and would be subject to total economic and political domination by Israel. The USA was apparently threatening that if they didn’t sign they would give Israel carte blanche to invade to take out any so-called terrorist cells.

Shit, what am I doing, trying to solve the world’s problems, Max thought. I’ve got a murder case, and a possible terrorist case, on my hands – that’s more than enough. He felt reluctant to move. He had no real excuse for visiting the Centre; he was just fishing for more information, some clue or other. He should probably apologize for what had happened, and let them know that this time there would be a thorough investigation. ‘Never apologize unless you really have to or else we will spend half our lives apologizing,’ one of his police training teachers had advised. Best go.

Max arrived at the Centre just as the sun began to dip below the mountain top. He drove his car as close to the main entrance as he could. As he stopped the engine, a bearded man appeared, dressed in a djellaba, a loose white robe. It was the Algerian, Omar. Shit, thought Max. He’d been hoping to see Javeed first.

Max got out of the car as Omar approached.

‘What the . . .’ said Omar, and he bent down, and picked up a rock, closing in on Max.

Max raised his hands in a peace gesture. ‘I’ve come to talk to Javeed,’ he pleaded.

Omar stopped, the rock raised above his head. ‘You . . . you filthy, murdering bastard!’

And he threw the rock at Max. Max stepped back, the rock hitting him hard on his ribs. He yelled in pain, fell backwards, and blacked out briefly as his head hit a boulder. Omar picked up another rock, and raised it above his head.

‘Omar, stop,’ a sharp voice rang out.

Omar paused. Javeed walked towards Max.

‘Sub-Inspector Romero? Are you brave, or just stupid?’ he said.

Max, his head splitting, his ribs throbbing with pain, struggled up. He rubbed the back of his head: blood stained his fingers. He looked down at his torn shirt, blood oozing from the cut on his ribs. He winced. ‘I’ve just come to talk.’

‘Talk? What’s there to talk about? Your police killed my friend, let scum rape Hassan, and then planted pornography on one of our hard disks. And you just want to talk?’

Javeed glanced at Max’s side, blood seeping through and staining his shirt. ‘You’d better come inside.’

Max followed Javeed into the house. Omar came too, the rock still in his hand.

‘Take your shirt off,’ said Javeed. ‘Omar, fetch the first aid box. And get rid of that rock.’