Death's Dark Shadow--A novel of murder in 1970's Yorkshire (2 page)

‘So … so we're really going?'

‘Yes, we really are going. And you know what you need to do now, don't you?'

‘No, I …'

‘You need to ring your Auntie Pilar and let her know the family can expect a visit.'

Louisa's stomach tightened even more.

Oh dear, she thought.

The main shopping street in Calpe was lined with orange trees. It began at the edge of the old town – located at the top of the hill, through fear of pirates – and gently sloped down to the sea.

Sr Garcia's shop was halfway up the hill. It had a double frontage, and – perhaps as a reaction to a government which had deliberately kept the country isolated from the fashions and trends of the rest of Europe for so long – it was conspicuously and aggressively modern.

The storeroom, on the other hand, was still very much a part of old Spain. It was a large, rectangular room, full of crude shelving which was crammed with music centres and tape decks, and – as Sr Garcia had promised them – there was only one door and a small, barred window opening to the outside.

‘If they didn't come through the door – and having seen it, I'm almost sure they didn't – then they must have entered through the ceiling, the floor or one of the walls,' Woodend said.

But the floor was solid concrete, and the ceiling and the walls showed no signs of having been breached.

‘I had a very interesting murder involving a locked room, once …' Woodend began. And then he stopped himself.

That kind of reminiscence was fine when he and Paco were sitting on his terrace (a bottle of Veterano brandy between them), and were reliving Ruiz's time as a homicide inspector in Madrid and his own as a DCI in Whitebridge, but when they were on a case – even a simple robbery like this one – they needed to keep themselves professional.

‘Maybe the goods went out through the window,' Ruiz suggested.

‘To pass them out through the window, they'd first have had to get into the storeroom through the window themselves,' Woodend said, ‘and even a small kid couldn't squeeze through that space.'

‘So maybe it was an inside job,' Ruiz suggested. ‘Maybe one of the employees came into the storeroom during working hours, and passed the equipment to an accomplice who was waiting outside.'

That would be rather risky, Woodend thought – but it would certainly be possible.

‘What's the smallest thing that went missing?' he asked.

Ruiz consulted his notes.

‘A tape deck.'

‘See if you can find one.'

Ruiz handed Woodend a box, and Woodend took it over to the window, but before he even tried to push it through, he could see that it would never fit.

‘There's a lot of packing in that box,' Ruiz said. ‘Perhaps, if we removed that, we could slide the tape deck through.'

Woodend opened the box. The deck had come all the way from Japan, and in order to ensure its safe arrival in Calpe, the manufacturers had encased it in polystyrene blocks, and filled what little space was left with shredded packing.

Woodend stripped it all away, and held the deck up to the barred window. It still wouldn't fit.

‘They must have removed the bars,' he said.

Ruiz shook his head. ‘Whoever did it would be taking a big enough chance just passing the equipment through the window during working hours,' he said. ‘It would be impossible to remove the bars – and then put them back in place again – without being noticed.'

From a logical point of view, Paco was right, Woodend thought, but murder – crime, he corrected himself, not murder, bloody crime! – did not always conform to the rules of logic.

‘Let's go and look at the window from the outside,' he said.

The
cabaña
had been built close to the port. Its original purpose was to store fishermen's nets, but ever since she had lost her job, it had been Elena's home.

And as a home, it was not so bad, she told herself. True, it was only one room, but why would a woman like her need more than one room? True, too, it had no windows at all – just gaps in the brickwork to let air in – but if she wanted more light, she had only to step outside on to the quay, where there was the sun in daytime and street lamps by night. And so what if she had to fetch all her water from the standpipe next to the harbour master's office – that was good exercise.

All in all, it was perfectly satisfactory. She had a bed, she had a table and chair, hooks on which to hang her few clothes, enough crockery and cutlery for her simple needs, and a small paraffin heater for when the weather turned cold. She had the friendship of the fishermen, who would sometimes give her something from their catch. She had the support of the local communist party, which had recently done her the honour of electing her its secretary. And while any woman might want more – that was only natural – none had the right to expect more.

Yet even though she truly did believe all this, she still felt a little awkward when Doña Pilar paid an unexpected call on her that afternoon, because she had been a guest in Doña Pilar's home, and knew that it was a fine farmhouse which had its own bathroom.

‘The reason that I have called is to tell you that I have just had a phone call from my English great-niece, Doña Elena,' Pilar said. ‘You will have heard me talk about her.'

‘I have indeed,' Elena agreed.

‘It seems that she will be coming to visit me soon, and I thought it would be nice to have a party for her.'

‘Is it wise to have a party – of any kind – while the Caudillo is still so ill?' Elena asked.

Pilar frowned with a gravity which only the matriarch of a large family can ever carry off successfully.

‘I understand why you are careful when you are speaking to most people, Doña Elena, but, knowing me as you do, I am a little offended that you should exercise such caution now,' she said.

‘I apologize, Doña Pilar,' Elena said, looking down at the cobblestones. Then she raised her head again, and said, ‘Let me phrase it another way – one that might be more acceptable to you. Is it wise to have a party while that
hijo de puta
Francisco Franco is dying?'

Overhead, a seagull screeched loudly, and Pilar felt a shiver run through the length of her body.

‘He has been ill so many times,' she said. ‘Do you think he is actually dying this time?'

‘I do,' Elena confirmed.

And she was right. The old man had held in his hands the power of life and death over every man and women in Spain for thirty-six long years. He had made full use of that power, ordering the execution of thousands after the Civil War had ended. And though his lust for blood had slowed down as the years went by, he had not stopped. Five men had been executed only months earlier, despite pleas from other heads of state – and even the pope himself – that they should be shown mercy.

But just as he had refused to grant a reprieve to others, so he could not grant one for himself. Despite the fact he had thirty-two doctors in constant attendance, despite the complicated medical machinery which helped support his failing organs and the tubes which led in and out of his body – despite, even, the mummified arm of St Teresa of Avila, which was believed to have miraculous powers, and which always travelled with him – he was dying.

That was why, for days, the radio had played only solemn music, and the newspapers had produced long and elaborate reports in which each of his decaying organs had become a celebrity in its own right.

‘Perhaps it might not be wise to have a party, but it is the right thing to do,' Pilar said firmly. ‘The whole family will be there to welcome little Louisa – and I would like you to be there, too.'

‘I am not family,' Elena pointed out.

‘I have taken you to my heart, Doña Elena and that makes you family,' Pilar said.

‘You're very kind,' Elena said humbly.

‘And you,' said Pilar passionately, ‘are my inspiration.'

The storeroom window overlooked an alley – just as Woodend and Ruiz's own office did – making it easy for someone standing in that alley to be handed the stolen goods with little chance of being seen.

The only problem with that theory was that, rather than there being indications that the bars had been tampered with, there was very clear evidence that they hadn't. The screws were rusted, the screw heads showed no signs of being turned since the day they had been installed. And when Woodend grabbed hold of the bars and shook them, they didn't move at all.

‘The stuff has to have come through the window,' Woodend said. ‘They couldn't possibly have got it out any other way.'

But they hadn't used the window, because if they had …

It was then that he noticed the small pieces of white material on the ground, and bending to pick one up, discovered they were tiny bits of polystyrene.

He straightened up again.

‘When is Sr Garcia expecting his next delivery, Paco?' he asked.

‘Not until the middle of next month,' Ruiz replied.

‘Then there's nothing more that we can do until the middle of next month,' Woodend told him.

‘Nothing?' Paco repeated, astonished.

‘Nothing,' Woodend confirmed.

‘So we'll just let the thief carry on stealing the goods for another three weeks, will we?' Paco asked.

‘Nothing more will be stolen in the next three weeks,' Woodend said confidently. ‘Nothing can be stolen – not until Sr Garcia signs the manifest for the next delivery.'

Paco grinned. ‘You know how it was done, don't you?' he said.

‘Yes,' Woodend agreed. ‘I know how it was done.'

T
he Woodends' main terrace looked out towards the sea at one end, and back towards the mountains at the other, but Paniatowski, who kept striding up and down it, didn't seem to be really appreciating either of the views.

‘For God's sake, Monika, calm down,' Woodend said. ‘It's only an hour since we dropped Louisa off at her Auntie Pilar's place, and you've already walked miles. Carry on like this, and you'll have worn a hole in the terrace by the time we pick her up this evening.'

‘I can't help worrying about how she's getting on,' Paniatowski replied. ‘It's the first time she's ever met any of her Spanish relatives, you know – and she's only fifteen. She's bound to find the whole experience completely intimidating.'

‘No, she won't,' Woodend reassured her. ‘That Doña Pilar will take care of her. You could tell just by looking at the woman that she's got a heart the size of a double-decker bus, and that she loves kids.'

‘She seemed quite formidable to me,' Paniatowski said doubtfully.

‘She is that,' Woodend agreed. ‘In fact, she scared the hell out of me – but then I'm not a pretty fifteen-year-old blood relative, am I? – and I guarantee that when Louisa comes back, she'll be babbling on for days that Auntie Pilar said this, or Auntie Pilar said that.'

‘Yes, she might well be,' said Paniatowski, looking even more unhappy.

‘Ah, so that's it!' Woodend exclaimed. ‘You're not so much worried that Louisa won't like them, as you are that she'll like them too much.'

Paniatowski shuddered.

Yes, there was something to that, she admitted to herself. The girl was only her adopted daughter, and though Louisa's real mother – Maria – had been murdered when she was small, she was still Spanish. And perhaps the idea of being constantly surrounded by a large, loving family – a family to whom she was actually biologically connected – would start to seem appealing.

‘You're an idiot,' Woodend said – though not unkindly.

‘I'm
what
?'

‘An idiot. You're the most important person in the world to your daughter, and that's not going to change until she falls in love, when – quite rightly – you'll be demoted to the number two position.'

‘I know all that, but …' Paniatowski said helplessly.

‘How's
your
love life?' Woodend asked, changing the subject.

Paniatowski shrugged. ‘What with the job and Louisa, I don't seem to have much time for one,' she admitted.

‘Love isn't just going to fall into your lap, you know,' Woodend said, a little sternly. ‘If you want a feller, then you're going to have to make just a little bit of an effort yourself.'

‘Where does this sudden urge to start poking your nose in my private affairs come from?' Paniatowski demanded – and though she was angry, she knew that at least part of it was defensive anger.

‘You're right, it's none of my business,' Woodend admitted. ‘But I'm only asking because I care about you,' he added. ‘And I
do
care about you, Monika – you know that, don't you?'

‘Of course I know it,' Paniatowski replied, calming down a little.

There was the sound of the phone ringing inside the villa, and for a moment, it looked as if Woodend would use that as an excuse to escape.

Then he sank back into his chair, and said, ‘But if I am interfering where I'm not welcome, it's only because I'd like to see you settled before … before …'

‘Before I get too old?' Paniatowski asked, feeling her anger return. ‘Before I become a piece of mutton that no man will even look at – before I find myself left on the shelf?'

‘No, I wasn't going to say that at all,' Woodend replied, sounding uncomfortable.

‘Maybe you wouldn't have used those exact words – but that was certainly the general idea,' Paniatowski countered.

‘I've not handled this well, have I?' Woodend asked.

‘No, you bloody well haven't!' Paniatowski agreed.

‘Am I interrupting something?' asked a voice from the doorway, and Woodend and Paniatowski turned to see Joan standing there.

‘No, you're not interrupting, lass,' Woodend told her. ‘We were just chatting about things in general.'