Blood Wedding (3 page)

‘Just the weekend.’

‘Your land’s a jungle. Mariana saw a tiger in it last week.’

‘Okay, okay. Point taken. Never thought it would be so much work.’

‘Just get on with it, city boy, before it’s too hot.’

By one o’clock, Max had managed to clear the last major patch of weeds. He still had time to wash, get changed and drive up to the supermarket before it shut at two. Home again, he sat quietly under the old olive tree, waving his hands to keep the noisy flies away from his sandwich. The black clouds had come right down the valley. Rain would arrive soon. Max picked up his book – a new biography of Federico García Lorca. At the end of the third chapter, he glanced at his watch. 4.40 p.m. – time to go to Ahmed’s. As he walked up the track to his parked car, the rain began to fall.

Saturday, at exactly five in the afternoon, Max arrived at Ahmed Mahfouz’s house. Rain was falling heavily as he rang the bell. Ahmed opened the door.

‘Hola,
Max. Good to see you.
Wa’ alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuk.
In the Name of Allah, Most Gracious, Most Merciful. All praise and thanks are due to Allah, and peace and blessings be upon his Messenger. Not too wet, I hope? Do you need a towel?

‘Wa’ alaykum As-Salamu wa Rahmatullahi wa Barakatuk.
No, I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Let’s go to my study. It’s more comfortable there. Leila’s not back yet – looks like she’s not gone far. So she shouldn’t be long. Tea?’

‘Thanks.’

Max looked round the neat study, lined with books, classical and Arabic music CDs, photographs of Leila graduating, Leila on her mother’s knee, Leila on holiday. The photographs did not do her justice. He looked at the book lying on the table,
Islam: Art and Architecture.
He opened the pages at random: a photo of the Great Mosque of Cordoba. The alternating brick and cream stone columns always made him feel slightly dizzy.

‘Good photo,’ said Ahmed. ‘An oasis in stone, quite mystical.’

He placed the tray on the table, and poured the jasmine tea into small elegant glasses.

‘Yes,’ replied Max. ‘Here’s to the Golden Age of Andalusia, the most tolerant and artistic place in the world.’

‘I agree. So what’s it about this time?’

‘Well . . . I’m worried this war is going to put a real strain on inter-community relations. I was hoping you might have some ideas.’

‘This invasion of Iraq is a terrible mistake. No Muslim can support it. It’s only increasing support for the extremists. I was thinking . . . we need more popular education on Islam and the history of the Middle East. Perhaps an exhibition of modern Islamic culture would help, just to show we are not all fanatics. Maybe something on food and music.’

‘That could be useful. If you could work up some ideas, I’ll look into funding.’

‘I’ll talk to my colleagues . . . and Leila of course. I’ll try to get you an outline next week.’

‘Thanks.’

‘It has always been good to work with you, Max.’

‘That’s the easy thing I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘And the difficult thing?’

‘We think there might be some terrorist cells here in Andalusia. We’d be grateful if you reported anything suspicious to us.’

‘You mean act as a spy? You’re crazy. Look, you know I have no sympathy with terrorism, but I can’t go reporting every odd character I come across who happens to be a Muslim.’

‘We’re not asking you to do that. Just to report the real fanatics.’

‘But who are they? Every Muslim sympathizes with the Palestinians, and hates this war. But I’m not going to write a dossier on everyone I know. How could you even think of it?’

‘No. No. But Spain could be a target now.’

‘But terrorists aren’t going to tell me if they’re planning to blow something up, are they?’

‘Okay, okay. How’s Leila? How’s her thesis going?’

‘She’s fine. She was hoping to see you. I don’t know what could have happened to her. I’ll ask her to give you a ring when she gets back.’

‘Sure. It would be nice if she phoned.’

Max stood up. He looked at Ahmed’s lined, ascetic face. He liked him, and did not want to press him hard. But his superiors wanted information on terrorist sympathizers.

‘How do you think this invasion in Iraq will end?’ Max asked Ahmed.

‘It will be a disaster. The American, British and Spanish governments have made a terrible mistake . . . they just don’t realize it yet. There’ll be resistance, fanatics flooding into Iraq, and probably civil war. The Yanks won’t have the stomach to stay the course. And then, who knows?’

‘I really don’t understand why the British and Spanish governments are so keen to support the Yanks.’

‘Me neither. You’d have thought, given our histories, we’d have known better.’

‘Yes, but our leaders don’t. Not much understanding of history.’

‘More tea, Max?’

‘No thanks. I really have to go now.’

Max drove back to his
cortijo.
He knew many Muslims regarded him as a police spy. But
simpatico.
A nice guy. And someone who actually knew something about Islam. Pity about Leila. He grimaced as he passed the skips with rubbish strewn all around them. Bloody hippies. He must complain to the council. The rubbish was becoming a health hazard as well as an eyesore. Now that he owned a
cortijo,
he did not want the value of his property falling because of a rubbish tip on the way to his home.

Once inside, Max took out a beer. He had looked forward to having a pleasant evening with Leila. She would probably call when she got home. He finished his beer and read his book for a while. The heat was oppressive – he needed a shower. He was getting out of the shower when the phone rang.

Leila, he thought. That’s nice. ‘Hola.’

‘Sub-Inspector Max Romero?’ A woman’s voice. But not Leila’s.

‘Sí.’

‘Cabo Anita Guevarra. It’s urgent. We’ve found a body. It’s Teniente González’ day off, and we can’t get hold of him. Sargento León knew you were in Diva, and would very much like your assistance. I’ll be at the station.’

‘I’ll be there as soon as I can.’

It took Max less than ten minutes to walk up the goat track to the Diva police station. Cabo Anita Guevarra was waiting for him at the door. Max glanced at her. She looked young enough to have come straight from a convent school. She was definitely pretty, very slim. Too slim . . . better to have something to grab. Shit, I’m beginning to sound like the other cops, thought Max.

‘Thanks for coming so quickly. I’ll drive you over, could be murder.’ Anita had a pleasant, low voice.

‘Do you have an ID for the body yet?’

‘Not sure, but Sargento León thinks you probably knew her.’

Oh God. Isabel? Mariana? Macarena? Dolores?

They drove in silence. There was a police car stationed at the side of the Jola road, just before the road bridge over the ravine. Cabo Guevarra drew up beside the green tape that cordoned off the road. Sargento Mario León came over to greet him, chest puffed up with importance.

‘Thanks for coming, Max. I think you might recognize the body.’

Max felt a flood of relief: at least it wasn’t family.

‘Where is she?’

‘Under the bridge. We’ll have to get down the ravine. But the path isn’t too bad.’

They clambered down. The banks, usually bone dry at this time of year, were slippery with mud. The water was still ankle deep at the bottom. They scrambled along the riverbed and under the road bridge. The body of a young woman lay in the mud, crudely covered with a few branches of oleander, white flowers still gleaming.

‘Recognize her?’

Oh sweet Jesus, he was never going to have that date with Leila. He reached for his inhaler and took a quick puff. Leila, Leila.

‘What happened?’

‘We don’t know. Broken neck, we think. Jaime, the goatherd, had to scramble down after his dog, and found the body. Not well hidden, is it?’

‘No. But then it might have taken days for someone to look under the bridge. She’s Leila Mahfouz, the daughter of one of the British Muslims. God, I had tea with her father this afternoon. She was due home any minute . . . I’ll tell him if you like.’

‘Thanks. Definitely Muslim? Is that going to complicate things?’

‘Yes, could do. We’ll have to move fast. Muslims like to bury their dead within twenty-four hours.’

‘Didn’t know that. I’ll tell Forensics. Can’t be too politically correct these days. The duty
juez de instrucción
is arriving any minute.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Juez Falcón. He’s fine – lets us get on with it. I’ll tell him about the twenty-four hours. Thanks for the advice.’

Max bent over the body. ‘Look, her watch is broken, stopped at five exactly. Could have broken when she fell over the ravine.’

‘Maybe, but that’s an old trick. Kill her, change the time on her watch, break the watch, and the killer, of course, has an alibi for that time.’

Max took another quick puff of his inhaler as they climbed up the bank.

‘Okay, Max, we’ll have to wait here for the
policía científica,
Forensics and the judge to arrive . . . Anita, you got hold of the boss yet?’

‘Still no luck,’ replied Anita.

León turned back to Max. ‘Can’t understand why he’s not answering his mobile. He’ll be annoyed he’s missing the excitement. It’s our first Muslim. Look, Max, I know you have a lot of experience with Muslims, and you’re in Homicide. I’d be grateful if you could keep us straight on this one. We don’t want any more complaints.’

‘Mmm.’

‘I know you and González don’t get on too well. But we can’t be too politically correct these days, you know, and . . . well . . . the Teniente has had some problems recently, and . . . you know what he’s like, drowns his sorrows. He won’t admit it of course, but I’m sure he would really appreciate any help you can give.’

‘It’s not my patch, Mario.’

‘I know, but . . . you know how he is.’

‘Mmm. Okay, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Thanks. Cabo Guevarra will drive you back to town. Could you ask the father to ID the body?’

‘Sure. I’ll see what I can do to help.’

‘Shall we go, sir?’ said Guevarra.

Max got into the car beside her. He felt guilty that all he could think of was the waste of a lovely body.

Guevarra was very pale.

‘Your first body?’

‘Sí.
I suppose you get used to it.’

‘Not really.’

‘You knew her then, sir?’

‘Yes. I saw her father this afternoon.’

‘A pretty girl. You couldn’t miss her in a town like this.’

‘Sí,
very pretty.’

‘The Teniente won’t like it. He hates having to deal with the foreigners.’

They arrived in silence at Ahmed’s house. Max rang the doorbell.

‘Max what a surprise! I’m still waiting for Leila. I hope you haven’t found a terrorist gang.’

‘Nothing like that. Can I come in?’

‘Certainly. The study again?’

This time Max preferred to stand . . . Ahmed looked at him, waiting.

‘I’ve very bad news for you Ahmed.’ It was somehow reassuring to use his first name. ‘The police have just found Leila’s body. She’s—she’s dead.’

‘Dead? What do you mean? She can’t be—no, can’t be.’ His voice started to break.

‘It looks like murder.’

‘Murder? I don’t understand.’

‘Neither do we. We suspect her neck was broken, and her body hidden in the Jola ravine.’

‘My precious Leila, my precious Leila.’ Ahmed tried to hold back the tears, but sobs came.

‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.’ Max put his arm around the crumpled shoulders. There was nothing he could say. ‘I’m so sorry, Ahmed. When you feel up to it, we would like you to formally identify the body. You can do it now or later, whatever you prefer. If now, we can do it before she’s taken away. Or we could go to the mortuary in Granada in a couple of hours.’

‘Now . . . but . . . I must have a few minutes alone to pray.’

Ahmed stumbled from the room. There was a racking, retching sound. Ahmed was bent over double, vomit on the floor. Max gently helped him up. Ahmed muttered his thanks, closed his eyes, and in a whisper stammered out his prayer.

‘In the name of Allah, the compassionate, the merciful. All praise belongs to Allah, the Lord of all being. He is compassionate and merciful. He is the master of the day of judgement. The day of judgement is certain to come; this is beyond doubt. Those who are in the grave, God will raise to life.’

Ahmed turned to Max, repeated his thanks, and staggered off to the bathroom. Max returned to the study, stood awkwardly, turning the pages of the book on the table, seeking comfort. There was none. Ahmed returned pale, but upright.

‘Let’s go. No . . . I need some white cloth to shroud her. Just wait a minute, please.’

Ahmed left and returned a few minutes later with two white sheets on his arm. Guevarra was waiting outside in the car. With quiet dignity, Ahmed thanked her for waiting. He asked no more questions. Only the shaking of his hands betrayed him. It was dark now. González had finally arrived, and was talking to Judge Falcón. An ambulance and the forensics van partially blocked the road. Leila’s body was already in the ambulance, covered by a red blanket. A line of a Lorca poem went through Max’s head: ‘Everything else was death, only death.’

González came over to Max, sweating profusely and smelling of alcohol. ‘I gather León asked you to come and help, Max. But we can manage. Bad news this. Always happens on the day off, doesn’t it. Sod’s law. I was working on my land, and the mobile reception is lousy. I barely had time for a wash and brush up, and get into uniform. Don’t want Falcón to think we’re a bunch of scruffs.’

He turned to Ahmed. ‘Thanks for coming straight away. But we need a formal identification of the body. Are you okay to look?’ González sounded surprisingly gentle.

‘Is she—is she . . .?’

‘It’s okay, her face is fine.’

Ahmed and González entered the ambulance. Guevarra was crying. She fumbled in her pocket, and took out a pack of cigarettes. ‘A cigarette, sir?’

‘No thanks.’

A grim-faced González was the first to come out.
‘Sí
. It’s his daughter. He’ll be out soon. He says he has to shroud the body.’