Blood Wedding (7 page)

‘You sure can,’ said González. He showed his identity card. ‘We’re police officers. We’re looking for a young man called Hassan Khan.’

‘Yes. He’s here.’

‘Good. We need to speak to him.’

‘Is this about Leila?’

‘Leila Mahfouz . . . yes.’

‘Okay. Hassan was just about to phone you. He was her friend.’

‘How did you know about the girl?’

‘We were invited to the funeral. But come in. Follow me. I’ll show you into the dining room, and then find Hassan.’

‘Your name, please.’

‘I am Dr Javeed Dharwish, Director of the centre.’

They entered a dining room, plain but comfortable with a long wooden table and ten wooden chairs, maps of Spain on the wall. There was a large kitchen, well equipped, off the dining room. Max noticed a mobile phone on the table: it had a booster antenna, which you had to buy in the States. Next to the phone was a small Moroccan dish filled with mints wrapped in silver paper. He also noticed a powerful radio. Come to think of it, the roof of the farmhouse had a large antenna on top of it, and a mass of solar panels.

‘If you wait here, I will go and fetch Hassan,’ said Javeed.

‘Well,’ said González. ‘What do you think?’

‘Not much here,’ replied León, ‘pretty sparse.’

‘Of course it is. They’d have hidden everything. I smell a bunch of Muslim terrorists.’ said González.

The thought had crossed Max’s mind, but he wasn’t going to admit that to González. ‘No evidence of that. If it were a bunch of American Boy Scouts we’d have thought it was okay.’

‘Sure. But what’s a bunch of Muslim blokes doing living here except they’re up to no good? Speaking of which, he’s been gone a long time. He could have warned Hassan to do a runner.’

Javeed and Hassan entered the room. Hassan looked pale and worried. He introduced himself to the policemen. González glared threateningly at him.

Max asked him if he knew Leila. Hassan confirmed that he did, and muttered how shocked he was at what had happened. He volunteered he had been with her for most of Thursday afternoon, walking from Pampa to Diva.

‘Just walking?’ interrupted González.

‘Just walking and talking. There’s not much else to do between P—Pampa and Diva.’

Hassan’s story tallied with everything they knew.

‘Did you meet her on Friday?’ asked González.

‘Yes. We met after Friday p—prayers.’

‘Oh. So you were in Diva on Friday. And on Saturday?’

‘Yes. I went in with Javeed . . . to the supermarket. We drove back up about seven in the evening. But I didn’t see Leila.’

‘How did you know something had happened to her?’

‘Javeed told me. Zaida from the mosque phoned him. I still can’t take it in.’

‘Do you know what happened to her?’

‘How would I know? Zaida just said she was dead.’

Tears welled up in his eyes, but he refrained from crying.

‘When did you find out?’ continued González.

‘Sunday. Before the funeral. I wanted to go. But Javeed said I was too ill.’

‘Why?’

Javeed butted in. ‘He was very upset, and had a bad migraine. The others went, but I stayed with Hassan.’

Max turned to Hassan. ‘Why were you upset?’

‘We were close friends. I was very fond of her. Her death and . . . well, we had a row after p—prayers, a silly one . . . gave me migraine.’

‘A quarrel? Over what?’

‘Nothing really.’

Javeed came in again. ‘I told Hassan he had to concentrate on his work and the course, and it was better not to get involved with Leila.’

‘That’s enough for me,’ interrupted González. ‘We’d like to take Hassan in for questioning. We can hold him for seventy-two hours if the judge consents, you know.’

Max was inclined to agree. He felt they would get a lot more out of young Hassan when Javeed wasn’t present.

Javeed replied, ‘Are you arresting him? If so I’d have to check with my lawyer first.’

‘At this stage we are not formally arresting him. Just want to ask him some questions. But do check with your lawyer,’ said González.

‘Before you phone, could you tell us about the centre?’ asked Max.

‘Sure. The Ibn Rush’d Centre is named after the great Andalusian Islamic philosopher – Averroes, he’s called in the West. It is an adventure training centre, set up less than a year ago, for young European Muslim entrepreneurs.’

‘Muslim entrepreneurs?’ interrupted González.

‘Sure. What’s odd about that? I’m a business consultant, specializing in training courses for businessmen. In Britain there’s John Baltimore’s place in Scotland, in France, Pierre Boulez has a centre in the Alps, and in Spain Javier Solaga has one in the Picos de Europa. We realized there wasn’t a training place for up-and-coming young Muslims, and decided to make it a European centre. We got money from the EU. But most of our other funds come from Muslim businessmen, based in Europe. Would you like a brochure?’

‘Yes. And any other information you have,’ said González.

Javeed left the room, returning after five minutes.

‘The lawyer recommended we cooperate as we have nothing to hide. But he insists he has to be present before any questioning. And here are some leaflets, our brochure, even our business plan if you’re interested. We also have a website.’

‘But what do you do here? That looks like an assault course outside,’ asked Max.

‘Yes, it is. Our practice is partly based on Baltimore’s course in Scotland. He used to be an SAS officer, and developed a course that tests people to their limits. It brings out leadership, resilience and innovation. You know what you’re made of when you’ve finished here. We chose this area because of its Islamic past, with mosques not too far away, and because the mountains here are ideal for training. We’ve only just begun, but I think it will go well.’

González interrupted. ‘Any weapons?’

‘No. I’ve an old rifle for shooting rabbits and suchlike. They’re tasty.’

‘Do you mind if we look around?’ asked Max.

‘Not at all. Let me show you. We’re quite proud of what we’ve done here in such a short time.’

Throughout the conversation, Hassan stood pale and frightened, anxiously looking from one policeman to another.

‘León, you keep an eye on the young lad here,’ ordered González.

‘He won’t cause any problems. He’ll do all he can to help. He’s very upset about the girl’s death,’ Javeed assured them. ‘This is the dining room, sparse but well equipped. We do our own cooking and cleaning. Everything is run to schedule. It’s certainly no holiday camp. I can give you some books on the theory and practice if you want. It’s a well-established training technique now, though every director brings something of his own experience to it. Mine of course is unique as I bring an Islamic slant. Muslims make good businessmen, you know. Making money honestly and spending it wisely is not against Muhammad’s teachings. All praise to Allah.’

They moved out of the dining room into the TV and living room. Comfortable but not luxurious. Next was a small library with five computers set up in it. Max glanced at the shelves. Books in Arabic, English, French and Spanish. Mostly management books. But there were also novels.

‘Nice computers,’ Max commented.

They moved on into a dormitory, clean, but spartan. Then into a bathroom, another dormitory and another bathroom.

‘This is my office – there’s a powerful computer here as well.’ Javeed smiled as he emphasized ‘powerful’. ‘There’s also a fax, telephone, everything. Next door is my bedroom.’

Max noticed it was impeccably organized, not a paper out of place. A complete contrast to his own office. There was a faded photo on the desk of a very beautiful, dark-haired woman.

‘Your wife?’

‘Was. She’s dead.’ He offered no other comment. Both Max and González said nothing.

‘And this is my bedroom.’

They entered a small room off the office. Again, everything impeccably in order. Max walked over to the bedside table. A novel lay open on the top. Max looked at the cover:
The Flanders Panel
by Arturo Pérez-Reverte, with a picture of a white knight and a black bishop.

‘I’m told that’s good,’ he said, turning to Javeed. ‘I must read it sometime.’

‘I’m enjoying it,’ replied Javeed. ‘The details on chess are good. He’s really done his homework.’

‘Yes?’

‘I was a good player myself . . . once.’

They went back to the dining room, and then through a door into the open countryside.

‘We have a large water tank up there,’ said Javeed pointing upwards. ‘Big enough to splash in after a hot day in the hills. And over here is a small prayer room. I’ll show you around, but I’d be grateful if you would take your shoes off.’

Max and González followed Javeed, removed their shoes, and entered the small prayer room. González had clearly never been inside a Muslim prayer room before.

‘Pretty bare.’

‘You don’t need ornaments to worship Allah.’

Max turned to Javeed. ‘Thanks. We’d be grateful if you and the others here could come down to the Diva police station tomorrow with all your documentation. How many are you?’

‘There’s seven of us. Hassan is the Centre’s administrative assistant, and is also doing the course part-time. The others are training up in the hills. There are not many trainees at the moment, but we have only just started.’

‘That’s enough. We’ll take Hassan with us now,’ said González.

‘Okay. The lawyer agrees. But we must emphasize that Hassan is going with you voluntarily, and we are all keen to cooperate. My lawyer will be in Diva tomorrow at ten, and insists he is present during questioning. This is a goodwill gesture, to show we have nothing to hide.’

‘Okay,’ mumbled González.

They went back to the dining room, and ordered Hassan to follow them after he had packed a small case.

‘You can drive, León,’ said González. Once in the car, González took out his handcuffs, and snapped them on Hassan’s wrists.

‘Hey. There’s no need to do that,’ intervened Max.

‘Yes there is. I’m not having the young bastard trying to escape. That Dr Dharwish was just too smooth to be true. Notice how he talked down to us – superior git. I just know there’s something up.’

‘I thought he was very polite and helpful. Quite an impressive set-up he’s organized there. In any case, you don’t think the EU would give money to the centre if it wasn’t okay, do you?’

‘That EU bureaucracy doesn’t know its arse from its elbow. Look at the cock-ups it’s made all over Andalusia. Mind you, we need the money. I’m not happy about letting in all those East Europeans – it will mean less money for us. Someone told me they’re even thinking of letting in the bloody Turks. They’re not European, not even Christian. Hey. You know what’s odd about that place – they didn’t even have a picture of a saint or anything, even in that prayer room of theirs.’

‘Muslims don’t. Haven’t you been round the Alhambra?’

‘No. Can’t stand that arty stuff. I don’t like all this Muslim baloney, Al Andaluz and all that shit. Don’t like all that fuss over that poofter poet, what’s his name, Lorca, either. You know . . . got shot in the Civil War for siding with the Red rebels.’

‘They weren’t rebels; they were the democratically elected government of Spain. It was Franco who was the rebel.’

‘Not in my book. Franco saved us from the Commies, and kept our Christian traditions alive. I remember my dad telling me what those Red bastards did, raping nuns and all that. Franco kept good law and order. He wouldn’t have allowed all these Muslim immigrants in, nor those hippy scruffs either.’

They were approaching Diva now. Hassan had not said a word.

‘Out you get, lad,’ said León as he stopped the car outside the police station.

González and Hassan went on ahead.

‘Best keep off politics with the boss. He reckons he missed promotion for years because he supported Franco. Mind you, he’s not wrong about a lot of things,’ said León.

As González got to the door of the police station, Max called out, ‘I’ll help you question the young suspect tomorrow. But only until lunchtime. I have to be back in Granada for the afternoon. Remember to write officially to Granada so I can continue to help.’

González disappeared into the Guardia Civil building. There was a black horseshoe nailed on the outside wall.

Jorobados y nocturnos,
Por donde animan ordenan,
Silencios de goma oscura
Y miedos de fina arena.

Hunchbacked and nocturnal,
They command where they appear,
The silence of dark rubber
And ears of fine sand.

Frederico García Lorca,
Romance de la Guardia Civil Española

Max arrived before nine at the police station. He pointedly looked at his watch when González entered fifteen minutes late.

‘Good morning. Shall we begin? Don’t have much time.’

González grunted, and turned to Cabo Guevarra. ‘Girlie, get us two coffees.’

Guevarra returned five minutes later.

‘Gracias.
Max, one for you. Okay. Let’s get the show on the road. What we got? Bugger all. If we had any brains we’d have questioned the lad last night, and stopped poncing about. But Max here said we had to wait for his lawyer. The lad’s our prime suspect. Probably got given the heave. She starts playing silly buggers, he swipes her, and she’s down the ravine. Just got to get the bugger to confess.’

‘But only in a legal way,’ interrupted Max

‘Sure, only legal. But there’s legal and legal. No new evidence. Still no mobile. Spoke to the doc. Says she could have been pushed, could have jumped, could have stumbled, could have been hit. Difficult to say with broken necks. Okay I’ll kick off with questions to the lad. Then Max can take over. Try the bad cop, good cop routine. Any questions? Any opinions?’

Guevarra looked at Max in disbelief. ‘I felt the father’s grief was genuine. For me he’s not in the frame.’

González guffawed. ‘Two years in the force now, girlie? The grieving parent act is the oldest con in the book. But you’re probably right for once. I reckon it’s the boy. But best double check on the dad’s story. Guevarra – you follow that one up. And get any gossip on that community. Always thought they were a little bit doolally. Bloody bunch of hippies playing at being Muslim.’