The Butcher Beyond Read online

  Did Sutcliffe still think of himself as Moses? It was more than likely, from the way he talked.

  Did Schneider ever look in the mirror and see Magic Fingers staring back at him? Did he even play the accordion any more?

  And what about Dupont? The Catalan socialists had called him Whistling Death, because nobody they had ever met before could handle a throwing knife like he could. Was it a name he still felt comfortable with? Did he feel proud when he thought of it?

  And finally there was Roberts. The Gambler. He’d bet on anything – from the turn of a single card to how long it would be before the sun emerged from behind the clouds. He’d risk anything – his last peseta, his own life – without a second’s thought. Roberts’s recklessness had landed them in danger more than once, but it had also saved them from certain death in several tight spots. They all owed Roberts, and they knew it, but the only debts he’d ever attempted to collect from any of them had been gambling debts.

  Mitchell cleared his throat. ‘The reason that I’ve called this meeting—’ he began.

  ‘You’ve called this meeting?’ Roberts said, with an amused smile playing on his lips. ‘Who died and made you leader?’

  ‘Pete Medwin did,’ Mitchell said.

  Pete Medwin really had been their leader. He’d been a funny little man who, even in his twenties, had been starting to lose his hair – but they’d have followed him anywhere.

  Roberts looked uncharacteristically stricken by the reminder. ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry … I didn’t mean to … It’s just so hard to think of Pete Medwin as really …’

  ‘It’s all right,’ Mitchell assured him. ‘If you’d like somebody else to take charge instead of me …’

  Roberts shook his head. ‘No. You’re the obvious choice. You’re the one Pete would have chosen himself.’

  The others nodded.

  ‘This is going to be a bit like the old days,’ Mitchell said. ‘There are two things we need to do. The first is to assess our current situation. The second is to decide how that assessment will affect our plans. Firstly, our current situation. What do López and Woodend actually know?’

  ‘They know, despite our protestations, that we are not strangers to one another,’ Dupont said, speaking in Spanish – the only language they had all once shared with any degree of facility. ‘They know we are bound together by ties which are stronger than steel.’

  ‘Do you think they know about the Brigade?’ Schneider asked.

  Dupont shook his head. ‘Not yet. But it is only a matter of time before they do.’

  ‘What else?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘They may suspect that we are not who we claim to be, but they have no idea of our real identities,’ Schneider said.

  ‘And since they do only suspect, that must mean that they do not yet know that our passports are forgeries,’ Dupont pointed out.

  ‘How can you be sure of that?’

  ‘Because using fake travel documents is a crime in itself, and we are not yet in gaol.’

  ‘But again, it is only a matter of time before they find out,’ Schneider said.

  ‘Which is why we must take a decision now about our future plans,’ Mitchell told his comrades. ‘We came here as representatives of the group who survived the massacre on the beach. We had a mission – to try Durán for his crimes and, if we found him guilty, to execute him. We are now faced with two choices. We can leave like curs – with our tails between our legs – or we can go ahead with the operation as planned. Which is it to be?’

  ‘I vote we leave,’ Roberts said.

  Mitchell was stunned. He had expected some opposition – but not from Roberts. Never from Roberts.

  ‘I can’t believe what I’ve just heard,’ he said. ‘Your whole life’s been a gamble. Why won’t you take a little gamble now?’

  Roberts smiled again, though perhaps a little sadly this time. ‘There are two kinds of gamblers,’ he said. ‘There’s the one who relies on blind chance – on random happenings. He will bet on the first bird to leave the tree, because neither he nor the man he is betting against has any real idea which bird it will be. Then there’s the other kind – the one who will hold back until he’s done his research. When he bets against a man in poker, it’s because he knows how that man thinks. When he puts his money on a horse, it’s because he has studied its form.’

  ‘And which one are you?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘I have been both in my time,’ Roberts said. ‘You all know that.’

  ‘Well, then?’

  ‘Both kinds of gamblers would tell you what I’m about to tell you now. We can’t rely on blind chance, because our opponent has foreknowledge. Durán knows we are here – Pete Medwin’s death is all the proof we need of that. And if we weigh up the odds, what do we find? Durán probably has a private army he can use against us if he needs to. But he probably won’t even have to – because he has all the apparatus of the state on his side. The pack is stacked against us, my friends. The odds against us succeeding are astronomical.’

  ‘What do you think, Magic Fingers?’ Mitchell asked – using the old name deliberately, to try to conjure up the old spirit.

  ‘We came here because of crimes left unpunished,’ the German said. ‘We came to see justice done. And now there is more blood on Durán’s hands than there ever was. Are we to let him get away with that? Is that the lesson we are to leave him with? That the mistake is not to murder – it is not to murder enough?’

  ‘So you’ll stay?’

  ‘I will stay.’

  ‘Dupont?’

  ‘Me, also.’

  ‘Sutcliffe?’

  ‘For the Lord my God is a mighty God!’ Sutcliffe said. ‘He will not be mocked, nor will He be denied!’

  Mitchell coughed awkwardly. ‘Does that mean that you’re with us?’ he asked.

  ‘I am with you. For am I not His right hand – the sword with which He will wreak His revenge?’

  Mitchell breathed a small sigh of relief. ‘Then it’s still possible,’ he said. ‘With four of us, it’s still possible.’ He turned to Roberts. ‘Perhaps you’re right, old friend. Perhaps our enterprise is doomed, as you calculate. You may be the only wise one amongst us.’ He gestured towards the door. ‘Leave now. There’s no one here who will hold it against you.’

  Roberts’s smile had turned wistful. ‘I remember a visit I made to a dog track, years ago,’ he said. ‘I was desperate for money, and if I lost my stake that night, I would have nothing. But there was no reason why I should lose, you see.’

  ‘Why not?’ Mitchell asked.

  ‘Because I knew in advance that the race was fixed, and a certain dog was going to win. Then, as I was standing there in the paddock, I saw this other dog being led round. He was smaller than the rest, and even at a distance I could see he didn’t have the right build to ever become a true champion. Even if the race hadn’t been nobbled, he wouldn’t have won. But I could tell, just by looking at him, that once the traps were open, he would put his heart and soul on running as fast he could. I placed all my money on him.’

  ‘And you won – against all the odds?’ Dupont asked.

  Roberts laughed. ‘What a romantic fool you can be, sometimes,’ he said. ‘No, of course I didn’t win. I lost – just as I’d expected to.’

  ‘Then I do not see …’

  ‘But I felt better for having bet on that dog – for backing his spirit with my cash. And now I look at you four. You won’t win the race – but when you lose, I want to be there supporting you.’

  They slapped him on the back. They told him he was the bravest of the whole bunch of them. It was a good feeling they had, sitting around in that small hotel room. It was almost like being back in the old days.

  Twenty-Two

  The Alcalde knew that something had gone seriously wrong the moment López entered his office. There was a swagger in the way the man walked – a look of insolence in his eyes. Only that morning, the Captain would have g
ot down on his knees and licked the boots of the future Provincial Governor if he had deemed that to be necessary in order to get on. Now there was no evidence at all of his former subservient attitude. Now he looked very much as if he thought he was the man in charge.

  López strode over to the visitor’s chair, and sat down on it without being invited to.

  A bad sign, the Mayor thought. A very bad sign.

  ‘I think you forget yourself, Captain López,’ he said aloud.

  ‘And I’m sure there are a lot of things you’d rather forget, Your Excellency,’ the Captain replied. ‘It is a strange system which governs us, is it not? The Generalissimo is reputed not to take bribes himself – why should he, when he can have all he needs simply for the asking? – but he is not averse to others doing so. Government ministers accept millions of duros worth of such “gifts”. I myself can be bought for a few hundred. You, I would think – as someone who is less important than a minister, but more important than a humble police captain – fall somewhere in between.’

  ‘This is outrageous!’ Durán said, though his heart was sinking too fast for him to be able to infuse the comment with any real anger.

  ‘Most people would never dare to order a captain in the Guardia Civil out of their houses,’ López said, ‘but you are the Alcalde, and you have the power to get away with it. So if you’re as outraged as you claim, why don’t you tell me to go? Better yet, why don’t you have me thrown out?’

  Durán felt a chill run through his corpulent body. ‘I will hear what you have to say,’ he told López.

  ‘The point about the corruption in our country is that it is permitted corruption,’ López continued. ‘The Caudillo does not sanction every bribe that a captain takes, but he knows that we do take bribes, and he does not mind. But Franco is still a soldier down to his bootstraps, and disobeying orders is the worst crime he can conceive of. His men raped in the war – but only when he said it was all right for them to rape. His men stole in the war – but only with his approval.’

  ‘Get to the point,’ Durán said.

  But López was enjoying himself too much to do that quite yet. ‘This morning, you were visited by a Francisco Ruiz,’ he said.

  ‘You have been watching my house?’ Durán demanded.

  ‘That much is obvious. How else could I have known that the man came to see you? But to continue. Ruiz was a homicide detective before the war. Now he makes a sort of living as a private detective for the poor and downtrodden. You are neither poor nor downtrodden, so what did he come to see you about?’

  ‘That is none of your bloody business!’ the Alcalde protested.

  ‘But it is,’ López contradicted him. ‘You made it my business – you made everything you do my business – when you started telling me how I should conduct my murder inquiry.’

  ‘The course of action I suggested was for your own good,’ Durán said weakly.

  ‘The course of action you ordered was for nobody’s benefit but your own, Your Excellency. But in the light of my recent discoveries, none of that really matters any more.’

  Durán felt himself start to tremble, though he was still not quite sure what it was he had to be afraid of. ‘What do you mean?’ he asked.

  ‘After Ruiz left your house, I had him followed. I fully expected an ex-detective like him to spot his tail eventually, but he didn’t. Perhaps Ruiz has lost his edge. Or maybe he was simply so intent on his investigation that nothing else seemed to exist for him. Which do you think it was, Your Excellency?’

  López paused, as if he expected some response to his question.

  ‘I don’t know, and I don’t care,’ Durán said. ‘I have no interest at all in the man.’

  López grinned. ‘You should have,’ he said, ‘because Ruiz obviously has a great deal of interest in you. He talked to several people during the course of the day, and though most of them were far too lowly to have anything at all to do with such an eminent man as yourself, it was you they discussed. And here is the important point, Your Excellency – after Ruiz talked to them, my man did, too.’

  ‘I see,’ Durán said heavily.

  ‘What they had to tell him – these people of no apparent consequence – was very illuminating. So illuminating, in fact, that I – unlike that fool of an English policeman – have almost a complete picture of what has been going on. Why don’t you show me the photographs?’

  ‘What photographs?’

  ‘The ones which you carelessly left lying around on your desk yesterday, and which you have since, no doubt – now that it is far too late – locked away in a drawer.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ Durán protested.

  ‘Show me the photographs!’ López repeated.

  Durán opened a drawer, took out the pictures, and handed them across the desk.

  López examined one of them closely. ‘A group of men in an olive grove,’ he said. ‘I would guess this was taken in March 1939, just before Alicante fell to the Generalissimo’s victorious army. Would I be right?’

  ‘You’d be right,’ Durán agreed.

  ‘The faces are not very clear, but it is certainly easier to distinguish them when you know what you’re looking for.’ López pointed to the head of one of the figures. ‘I would say this is Medwin. Am I right?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  ‘This one looks like Sutcliffe. And here is Mitchell, the American. How did you know they had returned? Were you still watching for them – even after all these years?’

  ‘It is always wise for a man in my position to take precautions,’ Durán said.

  ‘Yes, I can understand that,’ López agreed, ‘because if I’d been in their position, I’d certainly have done all within my power to pay you a return visit. So, they came back – and you were faced with a real dilemma. You could not have them thrown into prison, because you were afraid that once they were locked up they would start telling stories you would much rather have left untold. So what did you do? You killed one of them, in the hope that it would panic the others into running away.’

  ‘I did no such thing!’

  ‘Oh, not personally. You are too old and too fat to do your own killing any more. But you arranged for him to be killed. The problem was, they didn’t run away, did they? And now you were facing an even worse problem. They were the natural suspects for the murder, and you were afraid that if I arrested one of them, he would tell me all about what happened in March 1939.’

  ‘I swear I did not order Medwin’s death,’ Durán said.

  ‘Medwin’s death is not really important one way or the other,’ López said. ‘He was a brigadista, which in the Generalissimo’s eyes makes him a war criminal. It could never be openly acknowledged that you had him killed, but it certainly would not have done your career any harm. What would have harmed you – and can still harm you – is the secret which you hoped Medwin’s death would bury for ever.’

  ‘I do not know what you are talking about,’ Durán said – but he did not sound convincing, even to himself.

  ‘In March 1939, the Caudillo issued a directive that anything of value which was captured from the fleeing enemy was to be handed over to the new military authorities,’ López said. ‘Do you remember that directive?’

  ‘No. I never saw it.’

  ‘You’re lying. But even if you weren’t, it makes no difference. Ignorance of the Caudillo’s orders had never been any excuse for not obeying them.’

  ‘What do you want?’ Durán asked dully.

  ‘Ruiz is a problem, but he is only one of the problems you could face over this matter. In exchange for making all these problems go away, I will require a considerable sum of money immediately – though it will be nothing you can’t afford – and a fairly generous share of the pie once you are Provincial Governor.’

  Durán said nothing.

  ‘You’re wondering if I’m bluffing, aren’t you?’ López said.

  ‘So far you have put on a good show, b
ut you have said nothing to show me that I need to fear you as much as I fear the brigadistas,’ Durán said, with unusual candour.

  ‘Then why don’t you let me ask you two questions?’ López suggested.

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Because if you can answer them honestly – and without fear – then I have no hold on you at all.’

  ‘Ask them.’

  ‘The first question is this: what was in the boxes the brigadistas were carrying when they were ambushed on the beach?’

  Durán gulped. ‘And what is your second question?’ he asked.

  ‘The second is: what happened to those boxes after most of those brigadistas had been killed?’

  Twenty-Three

  ‘What would you like to do tonight, lass?’ Woodend asked his wife.

  Joan, who had been sitting by the window and looking out to sea, turned slowly, and with great care, to face him. ‘What would you like to do, Charlie?’ she replied.

  Woodend shrugged. ‘It’s not really up to me. It should be your choice, after I’ve been forced to leave you on your own all day.’

  A slight smile came to Joan’s face. ‘Forced?’ she repeated. ‘Is that what you were?’

  ‘It wasn’t my decision, one way or the other,’ Woodend said awkwardly. ‘The order came directly from the Home Office. Or from the Foreign Office. From some bloody office in London, anyway.’

  ‘But it didn’t exactly spoil your holiday, did it?’

  ‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ Woodend protested. ‘I don’t want to work on this case.’

  ‘Don’t want to work on the case? Or don’t want to work with that Captain López on the case?’

  ‘He’ll never find the killer,’ Woodend said, all the exasperation of the day coming out in a burst of emotion he knew he should never have allowed to be released. ‘I don’t even think he wants to find him!’

  ‘So it is him, rather than the case, that you object to?’

  Woodend sighed. ‘Look, love, if you want me off the investigation, you’ve only to say so.’

  ‘What about your orders?’

  ‘Sod the bloody orders! I’m on holiday. They can’t make me work if I don’t want to. An’ if I get a bollockin’ when we get back to Whitebridge, well, it won’t be the first bollockin’ I’ve ever had, will it?’