Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire (12 page)

‘And you'd like to see her killer brought to justice?'

‘Of course I would.'

‘So how did she get the money to travel to England?'

‘I gave it to her.'

‘Why didn't you say that before?'

‘She asked me not to.'

‘Did she say why she had to go to England?'

‘She didn't even say that it was England she was going to.'

‘And yet you were prepared to hand over a wad of money without further explanation? I find that rather unusual.'

‘You wouldn't say that if you'd known Elena. She never asked me for anything she hadn't earned. I virtually had to twist her arm to make her accept her pension.' Melly gulped. ‘Oh, sweet Jesus!'

‘What's the matter?'

‘If I'd never given her that money, she couldn't have gone to England and she'd probably still be alive.'

‘If you hadn't given her the money, it would have made no difference, because she'd have got it from someone else.'

‘Are you sure of that?' Melly asked.

‘I'm positive,' Woodend lied.

Because what would have been the point in increasing Melly's sense of guilt, when all he'd tried to do was help?

‘Yes, she'd have got it from someone else,' Melly agreed, embracing the lie eagerly. He shook his head slowly from side to side. ‘Poor bloody Elena.'

Val de Montaña was typical of the settlements to be found up in the mountains. It consisted of around two hundred houses, a church, a town hall, and a main square. The houses were all three storeys tall – the top two being where the people lived, the bottom one used as a storeroom and stable for the animals in the winter. The church and town hall – two of the pillars of Franco's Spain – were grander than the houses (though not by much) and faced each other across the square.

There was a fountain in the centre of the square, and as Paco parked his little car, an unattended donkey – which had been drinking from the fountain – looked up at him with only mild interest.

Paco got out of the car and headed towards the bar he had spotted at the edge of the square. He always walked with a slight limp, but now – aware that he was being observed – he exaggerated it.

The bar itself was much as he had expected it to be. A zinc counter ran along one wall, and behind the counter were two large barrels, one containing cheap red wine, and the other holding cheap white. There were shelves behind the counter, too, and on them sat the packets of cigarettes, tins of sardines, bags of rice and electric batteries, which the bar sold as a sideline. On prominent display between two of the sets of shelves was a large framed photograph of General Franco, bordered with a black ribbon.

The barman was in his late fifties, but his only two customers – who were sitting at a rickety table in the corner – were much, much older than that.

‘I'd like a glass of white wine, please,' Paco said, placing a peseta on the counter.

The barman poured the wine, and swept the coin up in his hand, all without saying a word or even really looking at his customer.

Paco sipped his wine, and waited.

He did not have to wait long.

‘I noticed you were limping badly when you walked across the square,' one of the old customers said, with mountain-man directness. ‘Have you perhaps had an accident?'

‘You could call it that, if you wanted to,' Paco replied. ‘And no doubt that's what he would call it,' he continued, pointing at the picture of Franco.

‘What do you mean by that?'

‘You ask a lot of questions for a man who has only come out for a drink,' Paco said.

‘You are wrong to see me as no more than an ordinary customer. I own this bar,' the old man said with a hint of pride in his voice. ‘And, as the proprietor, I am naturally curious about my customers.'

‘There are those who would assume that someone who asks so many questions is probably a government spy,' Paco countered.

‘If they did make that assumption, I would take it as an insult,' the old man said hotly.

‘And yet you display the picture of the Butcher of Asturias in this bar of yours,' Paco pointed out.

‘We are sometimes visited by the Guardia Civil patrol,' the old man explained. ‘If we were seen not to be paying respect to our “great fallen leader”, I would be in big trouble.'

‘I don't see any members of the Guardia Civil here now,' Paco said, looking around him.

‘True,' the old man agreed. He turned his gaze on the barman. ‘Return the general to his rightful position, Antonio.'

‘Are you sure, Don Ramon?' the barman asked.

‘I'm sure,' Don Ramon said. ‘Our visitor is an honourable man. I would stake my life on it.'

The barman reached up and turned the photograph around, so that now it was facing the wall.

‘Come and join us,' Don Ramon said to Paco.

Paco walked over to the table – remembering to exaggerate his limp – and sat down.

‘So now that old
hijo de puta
Franco is not watching us, you can perhaps tell us how you hurt your leg,' Don Ramon suggested.

‘I worked in the Valley of the Fallen, outside Madrid, building that great one-hundred-and-fifty-metre-high cross which is supposed to commemorate all our war dead, but which we know is only there to honour the dead who followed Franco,' Paco said.

‘And what happened?'

Paco shrugged. ‘I did not matter – I was a political prisoner, and so expendable. I was sent to work where it was not safe to work, and a block of granite fell on me. I was lucky not to lose the leg.'

He took another sip of wine. That, at least, was true, he thought, though what he intended to follow it with would be a pack of lies.

‘Can I ask you a question now?' he said.

‘It seems only fair.'

‘Did you ever know a woman called Elena Vargas Morales?'

‘It is quite a common name,' Don Ramon said, with sudden caution. ‘Why would you want to know about her?'

‘She had a distant relative living in the United States, who has recently died,' Paco lied.

‘Was his name Arturo Sanchez?' Don Ramon asked.

‘Yes, as a matter of fact, it was,' Paco replied, deciding to take a gamble.

‘I remember the day he left the village,' Don Ramon said. ‘It was a fresh spring morning in 1916, and …'

‘It was spring, all right – but it was 1917,' the other old man, whose name was Don Pedro, interrupted. ‘I know that, because it was the same year that Maria Teresa broke her leg during the fiestas.'

Don Ramon glared at him, in the way that a man will glare when he realizes that he himself is wrong, but doesn't want to openly admit it.

‘It does not matter when Arturo left,' he said. ‘What I want to know is why his death has brought our friend here to the village.'

‘Arturo Sanchez left Elena a legacy,' Paco said. ‘It was, in fact, quite a large one. I have been instructed to find her – and to make a small payment to anyone who assists me in that task.'

‘I can tell you where she is at this very moment,' Don Ramon said, with growing interest.

I strongly suspect you can't
, Paco thought,
because if Louisa Paniatowski is right – and Charlie seems convinced she is – then Elena's currently lying on the slab in the Whitebridge mortuary.

‘You can tell me where Elena Vargas Morales is to be found,' he said aloud, ‘but as you pointed out yourself, it is a common name. To be sure it is the right Elena Vargas Morales, you must tell me a little of her history.'

‘Oh, I can certainly do that,' Don Ramon replied, ‘and a harrowing tale you will find it.'

‘D
o you think I could see the photographs you took with you to your Auntie Pilar's lunch?' Paniatowski asked her daughter, who was sitting at her desk, engaged in a fight to the death with a quadratic equation.

‘Sorry, Mum, didn't hear that,' said Louisa, who was still wondering if multiplying both sides by two had been a good idea.

‘The photographs,' Paniatowski repeated. ‘The ones you took to Spain. Could I see them?'

‘Of course,' Louisa said, slightly mystified. ‘But why would you want to see them?'

‘Your Uncle Charlie thinks that it might have been something that she saw in one of those photographs which made Doña Elena decide to come to England,' Paniatowski explained.

‘So I was right,' Louisa said triumphantly.

‘I never doubted you for a second,' Paniatowski replied.

‘Mum!' said Louisa, giving her one of those looks that made Paniatowski feel – just for a moment – that their roles had been reversed, and she had not only become the child in the relationship, but a rather errant child.

‘All right,' she admitted, ‘I wasn't quite convinced you were right at first.'

Louisa grinned. ‘It was more than that,' she said. ‘You thought that I was being naive and unsophisticated.'

‘Aren't naive and unsophisticated just two different ways of saying the same thing?' Paniatowski asked, to buy herself time. Then she smiled, and added, ‘You're quite right, I did think that. Can I see the pictures now?'

‘Of course,' Louisa said, gratefully pushing the quadratic equation to one side.

It was quite a collection that her daughter had presented her with, Paniatowski thought, flicking through the pictures. There were photographs of the house, of Louisa's school, of Louisa's Uncle Colin and Louisa's friends, but there was nothing there that might have inspired Doña Elena to travel to England.

‘And you're sure this is everything you took with you?' she asked, trying to hide her disappointment.

‘Yes.'

‘You're quite certain there isn't something that you've left out?' Paniatowski persisted.

‘Quite certain,' Louisa affirmed. She paused for a moment. ‘Well, there's the article from the newspaper,' she added.

‘What article from the newspaper?'

‘The one from the
Evening Telegraph
all about the Whitebridge Hispanic Circle.'

‘And why isn't that here?'

‘Because it's not a photograph – and what you asked me for was the photographs I took to Spain,' Louisa said, with maddening logic.

‘Where's the article now?' Paniatowski asked.

‘It's upstairs, back in my scrapbook,' Louisa said. ‘Would you like me to bring it down?'

‘Very much,' Paniatowski told her.

‘Elena married her childhood sweetheart, but then there is nothing unusual in that, because in a village like this, most people marry their childhood sweethearts,' Don Ramon said.

‘That was the way in my village, too,' Paco said.

Don Ramon nodded, and then gave a laugh which sounded like a paper bag being crinkled.

‘I thought so,' he said. ‘You might wear fine clothes now,' he pointed a gnarled finger at Paco's cheap off-the-peg suit, ‘but I had you marked down as a country boy the moment that you walked through the door.'

‘Tell me more about Elena,' Paco said.

‘Her husband had a very good job. He had learned how to repair tractors, and though there were still not many tractors around, there were not many men who knew how to repair them, either. People would come from miles around to ask him to fix their machines. Even the big landowners would treat him with respect, because of his magic hands.'

‘He was a genius with engines,' said Don Pedro. ‘He could raise them from the dead.'

‘When the war broke out in 'thirty-six, he joined the militia immediately,' Don Ramon continued. ‘It was a hard war for him, as it was for everyone. He was wounded twice – once in the chest – but as soon as he had recovered from his injuries, he rejoined his unit.'

‘They made him a captain,' Don Pedro said.

‘Who is telling this story?' Don Ramon demanded.

‘I don't see why it should be you, rather than me, who gets to tell it,' Don Pedro said.

‘Then let me ask you another question,' Don Ramon countered. ‘Who owns this bar?'

Don Pedro sighed theatrically. ‘Tell the story, Ramon,' he said.

‘The militias fought bravely and hard, but Franco had German pilots and Italian soldiers and Moroccan cavalry, and he was bound to win in the end. And when it was over, Elena's husband – and all the other men who had survived – came back to the village.' He paused for a moment, and looked Paco straight in the eye. ‘And do you know why they did that?' he asked, challengingly.

Paco shrugged. ‘Where else were they supposed to go?' he said.

‘Exactly, country boy,' Don Ramon agreed. ‘Where else were they supposed to go?'

‘And why would they even want to go anywhere else?' Don Pedro asked. ‘This village has everything a man could possibly need.'

‘There are times when you almost seem to be talking sense – and this is one of them,' Don Ramon told his old friend. He turned to Paco. ‘The village is not perfect, and only a fool would say it was – but it is better than everywhere else.'

‘Tell me the rest of the story,' Paco prompted.

‘I have forgotten where I was,' Don Ramon admitted.

‘The men came back to the village after the war …'

‘Ah, yes, and eventually, Franco's soldiers came to the village, too. They were led by a lieutenant, and he was the biggest
hijo de puta
within a hundred kilometres of here. The soldiers immediately rounded up all the younger men, and locked them in one of the bigger barns.'

‘Did they arrest you, too?' Paco asked.

‘They did not,' Don Pedro said, perhaps a little sadly. ‘We were too old for war, even then.'

‘The lieutenant said each of those arrested would be questioned in turn,' Don Ramon said. ‘The ones who could convince him they had not fought for the Republic would be released. Those who had fought for it would either be shot or sent to Alicante to stand trial.'