Blood Wedding (38 page)

‘Do? Why ask me?’

‘I didn’t want to find out all this, but I wasn’t sure about Hassan. I really wasn’t. So I tried to do my job as a police officer, and got more than I bargained for.’

‘Do you think Juan might have . . .?’

‘I don’t know. He swears he didn’t harm her, but I’m not convinced a court would believe him.’

‘So?’

‘You’ve met my
abuela
. She’s eighty-three. It’s her birthday soon. She brought Juan up after his parents died, and we’ve got a big family party arranged. I just want her to have a few happy days before I hand over my notes to my superior officers. I fear his arrest might kill her.’

‘I see. You want to keep your concerns to yourself? You’ve told me now.’

‘At least until after her birthday.’

‘I suppose the press conference will go ahead whatever you say.’

‘Yes.’

‘And you believe Juan?’

‘I do.’

‘So it could still be Hassan or someone else.’

‘Yes.’

Ahmed frowned, and stood up, lost in concentration. ‘Max, I would like to know the truth. But give me a few days to think. I should talk to Juan.’

Max stood up, and embraced Ahmed. ‘Thanks. You are very kind.’

‘I am only doing what Allah the Merciful would recommend.’

‘For that I am truly grateful.’

Max returned to Paula’s. Fortunately Juan was staying in Granada that evening. Max sat and talked with Paula about Antonio until the evening meal was ready. Paula was tired, too tired to go through the whole notebook. Max was grateful for that: he did not want her excitement and pleasure spoilt by the last pages. After the meal, Paula went to her bed early, exhausted by the day’s events. Max stayed to play games of cards with Encarnita and Leonardo. Encarnita soon got bored.

‘Tito
Max. Tell me the story again . . . about
Blood Wedding.’

‘Just a short one. I’m tired. And you must go to bed soon.’

‘Only when you’ve finished.’

‘Okay then. A long time ago, when Paula was a little girl like you, there’s a farm, a bit like this.’

‘Does it have a kitten like David?’

‘Probably. Yes. Well . . . the people on the farms then don’t have much money, and they work very hard on the land. Men are always quarrelling – over little bits of land, over water for their vegetables, and sometimes there are fights and people are killed.’

‘That’s very bad. We always have water for our vegetables here. Don’t we?’

‘Yes . . . There’s a woman who lives alone with her son. The son’s father and brother had been killed in a knife fight.’

‘That’s terrible, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. It is. The son is about to marry a girl who lives in a cave.’

‘In a cave? I’d like to live in a cave. Leonardo says he knows where a cave is, and he says he will show me when I’m bigger.’

‘That’s good. It’s time Leonardo showed you things.’

‘He always says he’s too busy.’

‘But to return to the story. The bride is still in love with Leonardo.’

‘Leonardo? Can’t be, silly. That’s my brother.’

‘No. Another Leonardo. He’s married, and has a baby son.’

‘Oh.’

‘The girl’s a good girl, and gets up very early to make the bread and sew the clothes.’

‘That’s good . . . but I don’t think I would like to get up so early. Why didn’t they buy their bread in a shop?’

‘They were a long way from shops. Well, everyone starts to prepare for the wedding. The bride has some lovely presents from the bridegroom and from his mother: she gets lacy silk stockings.’

‘That’s nice. Did she get presents from Leonardo too?’

‘I don’t know . . . but he loves her. Anyway . . . the night before the wedding, the bride runs away with Leonardo.’

‘And they gallop away on his horse?’

‘Yes . . . but the bridegroom finds out, and he is very angry. So he follows after them. And he catches up with them.’

‘So what happens?’

‘The moon appears and speaks. Then Leonardo and the bridegroom have a big fight . . . with knives. And they kill each other. The bride is very sad.’

‘I’m not surprised. Does she keep the presents?’

‘I don’t think so. It’s a tale of revenge.’

‘What’s that?’

‘It’s when somebody does something bad to you. And you decide to do something bad back.’

‘Like when Leonardo pulls my hair. And then I hide his football shirt. He shouts when he can’t find it.’

‘Yes. Something like that. I’m tired now, young lady. And it’s time for your bed. That’s all for tonight.’

Max kissed Isabel and the children goodnight, and retreated to the guest bedroom. He read for a while, and then fell asleep. He woke at dawn with the cock crowing, but soon fell asleep again.

Run, run,
Bring the wool,
I feel them coming
Covered with mud.

Frederico García Lorca,
Bodas de Sangre (Blood Wedding)

in a version by Ted Hughes

The next morning Max put on his uniform, and went down for breakfast. Isabel was in the kitchen, washing up. ‘Morning, Max. How are the ribs?’

‘Better, thanks . . . had the best night’s sleep for ages.’

‘That’s good.
La virgen María
must have been looking after you. Coffee?’

‘Thanks. Where are the children?’

‘Big night tomorrow, so they’re getting a lie-in.’

‘Where’s Paula?’

‘She didn’t sleep much last night . . . I think she’s even more excited than Encarnita. So she’s sleeping in this morning. Toast?’

‘Let me get it. You’ve enough to do without waiting on me.’

‘Thanks.’

‘Did Juan phone?’

‘Yes. He said he’d be back this afternoon.
Santa María
, he still sounds a bit stressed.’

‘Probably work.’

‘I’m not sure. He’ll make a lot of money on the Recina mill conversion, so he could take it a bit easier now.’ Isabel turned, and looked at Max. ‘My . . . the best uniform. Important meeting?’

‘Press conference – announcing
los magistrados’
ruling on Leila’s death.’

‘Yes, I heard about that. Everyone’s saying it’s that poor lad who killed himself. But if it’s a press do, you can’t go with your shirt looking like that! Take it off, and I’ll iron it for you.’

‘Thanks. It’s one thing I’ve never learnt to do well. Are you ladies going to be suitably dressed for the performance?’

‘Well, Paula will be wearing the “Persian Rose” shawl. But her good black silk was looking a bit rusty, so we found something rather similar in a tiny shop in Realejo.’

‘And Encarnita?’

‘I found a very pretty dress . . . ivory and violet silk . . . but Princesa Encarnita was having none of it. She insists on showing off her new
traje de Sevillanas
in true Spanish traditional style. We have a flamenco dancer . . . a red one.’

‘And yourself?’

‘Well, I didn’t really need anything new, but Juan insisted. So I found a copper silk with an organza jacket.’

‘Wow. Juan and I are going to be seriously outclassed.’

‘Particularly if I don’t iron your shirt. Poor Leonardo wants to wear his Seville football shirt. But Juan insists he wear a suit. Leonardo will be sulking all evening.’

‘That’s a bit brutal.’

‘But Juan is taking him to watch the Sevilla play when the season starts.’

The Diva police station was buzzing. The media were there in force. González was strutting about, being visible and affable.

‘Ah, Max. Good to see you. You know everyone. This is Roberto Cervantes from Channel TVE and Carmen Solera from
Granada Hoy
, Antonio Robinson from
Ideal
, and over there is Enrique Bardem from
El País.’

González finally called the meeting to begin. In his best Sunday voice, Teniente González explained the latest findings. He concluded, ‘So, in light of all the evidence, and in accordance with the decision of
los magistrados
, the case has been archived. The balance of probability is that our sole suspect, Hassan Khan, was responsible for Leila Mahfouz’s death. It is unclear whether it was manslaughter or deliberate murder. Señor Khan took his own life last week, so there will be no further investigation.’

Flashbulbs popped. Teniente González beamed to the crowd, and continued, ‘But before I answer any questions, I would like to thank the Granada police for their cooperation, and in particular Sub-Inspector Romero whose help has been invaluable in bringing this case to a satisfactory conclusion.’

Max winced, and hoped he did not have to make a speech. It was going well for Gonzo so far. Be a promotion in it for him. Then the reporter from
El País
asked, ‘Hassan Khan along with his companions had been arrested on terrorist charges. There had been some unfortunate incidents relating to those arrests, and all except Hassan Khan were eventually released without charge. Does this mean there is – was – no danger of their being in any way involved with terrorism?’

‘I wouldn’t go as far as that,’ said González. ‘But that’s more the province of the Granada police. Perhaps Sub-Inspector Romero would like to comment.’

‘All the suspects were released because of lack of evidence. But we are still keeping an open mind,’ said Max.

‘What does an open mind mean in this case?’ asked the girl from
Granada
Hoy.

‘Well, we are still pursuing certain discrepancies in their stories. However none of them are in Spain, and we have asked the relevant authorities in their respective countries to gather more information as well as keep them under surveillance.’

‘Do you believe that or know that?’ asked the
El País
reporter.

‘We have no reason to doubt our allies in the war on terrorism. We are cooperating fully within the EU.’

‘What information have you received from the relevant EU countries?’ asked a TV interviewer.

Hell, thought Max. This is going down a tack we don’t want. ‘I’m sure the media appreciate that such information is highly confidential. I suggest if you want to ask any further questions you should approach the relevant officers in Madrid who are coordinating all of this. Today we should concentrate on the highly successful cooperation between the Diva Guardia Civil and the Policia Nacional in Granada. I should like to pay tribute to the painstaking and careful work of our colleagues here in Diva, and in particular, to the leadership offered by Teniente González throughout this case.’

González puffed his chest out, acknowledging the tribute. There were more questions, but finally the conference came to an end. González came up to Max. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We may have had our little difficulties, but we worked well as a team in the end. We are having a small celebration. Will you join us?’

‘Thanks. But I have to get back to Granada.’

Max went round the corner to his parked car, and set off for Granada as quickly as he could. At the Suspiro del Moro his mobile rang.

‘Dígame. Sí
, Comisario Bonila. I’m on my way back to Granada right now. I’ll be there in about half an hour.’ Damn, he thought. This could really mess up Paula’s birthday for me.

Max increased his speed, and arrived at the police car park in twenty-five minutes. He went straight to Bonila’s office on the top floor. The whole top brass were there, from Bonila up to Cifuentes and General López.

‘Come in, Max. I’ve been explaining to everyone, so I’ll just summarize for you. Inspectora Jefe Concha called an hour ago. She got an email from the Anti-Terrorist Unit in London. They finally got round to doing something on Javeed Dharwish. Clearly hadn’t bothered their arses until now. But as they were unable to make contact with him, as they put it, they broke into his flat in London. The place had been cleaned out: laptop gone, phone messages cleared from the landline, nothing to identify him or link him to anything. Neighbours didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything. He has literally just disappeared.’

‘What?’ said Max.

‘Yes. But that’s not the worst. Inspectora Jefe Concha requested that they take the place apart – so they took up the floorboards. And under the floorboards of his bedroom they found a diagram of Malaga Airport.’

‘Malaga Airport?’

‘Yes. We now all agree that Malaga Airport could be, is likely to be, the target of a terrorist attack.’

‘And the others,’ asked Max. ‘The Moroccan guy, the Iraqi we sent back to Germany, the Algerian to France?’

‘Disappeared as well.’

‘Inspectora Jefe Concha is convinced they will be linking up with ETA for a planned attack.’

‘ETA? I don’t understand the connection. We never had any evidence of that,’ said Max.

‘Yes. But new evidence has come to light. One of the ETA prisoners in Bilbao confessed that ETA had made contact with Islamic terrorists for a spectacular. We are now convinced that the target is Malaga Airport.’

‘Confession? Beaten out of him? Bribed out him?’

‘Sub-Inspector Romero, that is enough. I understand from Inspector Jefe Davila that you have still not recovered fully from your accident. So we are asking you to be on standby here in Granada in my office. Your knowledge of English might be useful. We are all going to Malaga as soon as possible. I am leaving Inspector Jefe Felipe Chávez in charge. Report to him.’

‘Yes, sir.’

Bonila turned to the others in the room. ‘Gentlemen, we must go.’

They all departed, leaving a bewildered Max sitting in Bonila’s office. He needed a coffee fast. Had he been sidelined? Should he believe the ETA stuff? If the Brits said Javeed had disappeared, and diagrams of an airport were hidden under a floorboard . . . well, they’d no reason to make it up. It didn’t look good. But the ETA connection? He should phone Martín, and find out what was going on.

Finishing his coffee, Max returned to Bonila’s office. He looked around at the fake antique leather-covered desk, at the swivel high-backed chair, at the certificates on the wall, at the photos of Bonila with wife and two boys, with the mayor, with various politicians – all the insignia of a man of power but little taste. Max sat at the desk. Could this be him in twenty years? Would he want that? Was he willing to make the shabby compromises, the constant economizing with the truth to get there? He picked up the phone and dialled Martín.