The Butcher Beyond Read online

  When the snows melted, they headed for Valencia, travelling by night and hiding by day. It was a miracle they ever made it, but they did.

  They found themselves in a city all but already defeated, but a city which still felt that it owed them a debt.

  ‘Your escape is impossible from Valencia,’ said the official of the crumbling government who received a deputation of the brigadistas in his office. ‘But if you attempt to leave from further down the coast – from a small port rather than a large one – there is a chance that you will make it.’

  ‘Tell us what we have to do,’ Medwin said, because by now Medwin spoke for them all.

  ‘You must go to Benicelda. I am afraid I can spare you no transport to take you there, but—’

  ‘We got this far under our own steam. We can make it a little further down the coast.’

  ‘It has been arranged for a ship to pick you up. The local fishermen will ferry you out to it.’ The official paused. ‘There is one more thing. One more request I have to make of you who have already done so much for us.’

  ‘Name it,’ Medwin said.

  The official pointed to four small crates which were in the corner of the room. ‘Take them with you.’

  ‘May I ask what is in them?’

  ‘All that we can spare. Some gold bullion. Some foreign currency. Works of art which can be sold once you have reached England.’

  ‘And what am I to do with the cash we raise?’

  ‘There are four thousand Basque children in exile in an army camp in England. See that they get the money.’

  ‘An’ that’s what Durán stole,’ Woodend said.

  ‘And that’s what Durán stole,’ Mitchell agreed. ‘I think I hate him more for that than for anything else he did. We were soldiers, and even if the ambush was cowardly, we had always known the risks we were running. But to steal money out of the mouths of children who were probably orphans by then – or would be orphans as soon as Franco got his hands on their parents – was unforgivable.’

  ‘How many of you survived the ambush?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Twelve. But even we didn’t get away totally unscathed. Dupont had been hit in the shoulder, Roberts had taken a couple of bullets in the leg. They slowed us down, the two of them, but we didn’t mind. We only did for them what they’d have done for us, if our positions had been reversed.’

  ‘How did you escape in the end?’

  ‘Over the Pyrenees. Once we were in France, we were fine. The French looked after us. They appreciated that in fighting against fascism, we’d been fighting for them. A few months later, of course, when Hitler invaded, they were involved in the same struggle themselves. But we were long gone by then.’

  ‘How did you find each other again, after all these years?’

  ‘We didn’t have to.’

  Medwin ordered a halt when they reached the orchard, and they took shelter from the sun under the trees. Some of the apples had already fallen to the ground, and were being attacked by a small army of wasps. Birds flew overhead, and tiny insects buzzed busily in the grass.

  Medwin studied his men. Dupont’s shoulder had given him a great deal of trouble during the trek, but now there was only a slight stiffness to show that he had ever been hit. Roberts still walked with a limp, but the gangrene they had feared would set in had never materialized. The rest of them were exhausted and undernourished, but now that they had reached safety at last, they would soon begin to recover their strength.

  From his jacket pocket, Medwin took a folded piece of newspaper. ‘I’ve had this with me since we were in Valencia, but I was waiting for an appropriate time to read it to you,’ he said. ‘That time has now come. This is a speech made by La Pasionaria.’

  ‘La Pasionaria was one of the leaders of the Communists,’ Mitchell explained.

  ‘I know who she was,’ Woodend told him.

  ‘It is the speech she made at the Brigade’s final parade,’ Medwin continued. ‘A parade which we missed because we had a few other things to keep us busy at the time.’

  It wasn’t much of a joke, but it was still the funniest thing they had heard for a long time, and the men laughed appreciatively.

  ‘As I read the words, I want you to imagine that we were there,’ Medwin said, growing more serious. ‘I want you to picture her saying the words to you.’ He cleared his throat. ‘“You can go proudly. You are history. You are legend. You are the heroic example of democracy’s solidarity and universality … We shall not forget you, and when the olive tree of peace puts forth its leaves again, mingled with the laurels of the Spanish Republic’s victory – come back!”’

  There was a lump in Medwin’s throat, and tears in the eyes of all the men he was reading to.

  ‘We can go proudly,’ Medwin said. ‘We are history. We are legend. And just as Spain will not forget us, we must never forget Spain. Or each other. People drift apart. That must not happen to us. We must keep in touch, and if one of us ever needs the others, the others must answer the call.’

  ‘We did keep in touch,’ Mitchell said. ‘And we read the papers – learned of the terrible things that were happening in the country where our comrades had spilled their blood. We didn’t like what we read, but we didn’t think there was anything we could do about it. Then it was announced that that butcher Durán was to have new honours heaped on him, and suddenly it all seemed too much to take.’

  ‘So you came back.’

  ‘Those of us who still could. Two of our comrades are dead, the others are not strong enough to travel. But we six, who still had the strength, did came back – as we had been invited to by La Pasionaria – to see justice done.’

  ‘Who killed Durán?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘It has to have been one of you.’

  ‘He must have had other enemies.’

  ‘Enemies who could have killed him at any time, but who waited until you were here before they did it?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘I’ll find the murderer, you know,’ Woodend said. ‘I always do.’

  ‘But why should you want to? If anyone ever deserved to die, it was that bastard Durán.’

  ‘An’ what about the others – the two young men who were killed. Did they deserve to die, too?’

  ‘One of them perhaps did.’

  ‘Why’s that?’

  ‘Someone pushed Pete Medwin off that balcony, and since it is unlikely it was Durán himself, it was probably one of them.’

  ‘An’ what if it wasn’t? What if it was somebody else who was working for Durán?’

  ‘Then their deaths were unfortunate.’

  ‘Unfortunate?’

  ‘Wrong!’ Mitchell corrected himself. ‘Then their deaths were wrong.’

  ‘But they’re still dead, aren’t they? There’s no way you can turn back the clock, an’ make it right again.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘That’s the trouble with vigilante justice,’ Woodend said. ‘Once you’ve decided you’ve got the right to play God, you don’t just cross the line – you stop seein’ that there’s any line there at all.’

  Twenty-Eight

  The constable who arrived at the interrogation room with Schneider was not the same one who had escorted Mitchell.

  In fact he was very different, Woodend thought.

  This man’s eyes had a keener intelligence. He didn’t look like a constable – a foot-soldier, a drudge – at all. Which meant that he probably wasn’t. So what he was likely to be instead, Woodend decided, was the lieutenant that López had mentioned earlier – the one who had learned his English at the University of Salamanca.

  Woodend fixed his gaze on the corner of the room. ‘I’m afraid I’m goin’ to have to ask you to leave, officer,’ he said, in a flat, toneless voice.

  ‘¿Qué?’ the Spanish policeman said.

  Woodend swung round to face him. ‘How did you know I was talkin’ to you?’ he asked.

  The o
ther man looked confused – as well he might.

  So already López was going back on his word. Already he was trying to elbow his way into an investigation which he had promised Woodend he could conduct with complete independence. Well, the Chief Inspector supposed, that was only to be expected.

  ‘If you want to keep on pretendin’ to be a complete bloody ignoramus, then I’m perfectly happy to go along with it,’ Woodend said. He turned to Paco Ruiz. ‘Tell the “constable” that he has to leave now.’

  Paco conveyed the message.

  The constable-lieutenant shook his head agitatedly. ‘No es possible.’

  ‘He says—’

  ‘Even with my Spanish, I could understand that much,’ Woodend said. ‘So tell him this! Tell him to make it possible. Tell him that if he doesn’t go now, I’m walkin’ out of here and not comin’ back. Ask him how Captain López is likely to feel when he realizes that my pulling out of the case is all his fault.’

  Paco duly went through the charade, though it was plain from the expression on the officer’s face that no translation was really necessary.

  ‘Well?’ Woodend asked.

  The constable-lieutenant hesitated for a moment, then made his way reluctantly to the door. The moment he had left the room, the portly German brought his hand together and began to clap.

  ‘What’s that in aid of?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Your performance,’ Schneider said.

  ‘My performance?’

  ‘What else would you call it, Chief Inspector? The man was clearly not what he was pretending to be, but it would have done no harm to have him remain. By sending him out against his wishes, you have demonstrated to me that, despite the fact you are a foreigner, you are also a man with authority. This is intended to make me much more willing to answer your questions.’

  ‘Are you suggestin’ that we rehearsed that little confrontation?’

  ‘Of course not. It would have been far less convincing if he had only been playing a part. His reactions were perfectly genuine. You were the only real actor in the piece.’

  ‘It wasn’t like that at all,’ Woodend protested. ‘I just thought that the questionin’ might go easier—’

  He stopped suddenly, as he realized that though Schneider was accusing him of playing a game, the German was playing one himself. He probably didn’t believe a word of what he’d said, but by pretending to believe it, he’d put his interrogator on the defensive – had, in effect, taken charge.

  ‘You thought the questioning would go easier if …?’ Schneider asked innocently.

  ‘Sit down,’ Woodend said gruffly.

  The German studied the chair the Chief Inspector had indicated. ‘Very narrow,’ he said. ‘I would be uncomfortable on that. Which is, of course, your intention.’

  ‘It’s no wider or narrower than any other chair in this station,’ Woodend told him. ‘You can accuse me of plannin’ a lot of things, but you can’t blame me for your own fat arse. So will you sit down, please, Herr Schneider.’

  The German sat. ‘It is not so bad after all,’ he conceded.

  ‘You must have learned your basic English in the Brigade,’ Woodend said. ‘But it’s much better than basic now, so I expect you took advanced courses once you were back in Germany. Am I right?’

  ‘I studied the language at the University of Bonn,’ Schneider said. ‘Or perhaps it was the University of Berlin. Then again, perhaps I married an English woman.’ He laughed. ‘If you are trying to make me say things which will help you to uncover my background, Chief Inspector, you will have to be much more subtle than that.’

  ‘Even if you don’t let anythin’ slip, how long do you think it will be before your government is able to provide us with documents which establish your true identity?’ Woodend asked.

  Schneider shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘I should think it will not take more than a day or two. We Germans keep very good records. But that is still no reason why I should do your work for you.’

  ‘You don’t seem very concerned about us finding out who you really are.’

  ‘Why should I be?’

  ‘Mitchell was.’

  ‘Mitchell has had problems in his country as a result of what he did in Spain. His government doesn’t like it at all. In fact, American members of the Brigade were not allowed to fight against the Reich in the Second World War. Did you know that? They were not to be trusted, you see. My government does not view things in quite the same light. I am not a man who fought for the communists, but one who fought against the fascists – and in Germany that makes me a hero.’

  ‘You’re not worried that because you’re travellin’ under false papers you might actually go to prison here in Spain?’

  ‘Perhaps. But after my years in the concentration camp that Adolf Hitler—’ Schneider broke off and smiled – but it was a worried smile. ‘Very clever, Chief Inspector,’ he said.

  The German raised his hands, so that, though the palms were pointing towards each other, they were at least two feet apart. His fingers began to undulate, as though he was playing something.

  A piano accordion! Woodend thought. In his mind, he was playing a piano accordion.

  ‘Now you’re concerned, aren’t you?’ he asked. ‘You might have survived the concentration camp, but you were a lot younger then.’

  Schneider’s fingers came to a rest. He looked considerably calmer than he had a few moments earlier.

  ‘As I said, I am a hero,’ he told Woodend. ‘My government will not let me remain in a Spanish prison for long.’

  ‘Unless we can prove that you were implicated in the murder of Antonio Durán and his two bodyguards.’

  ‘But I was not. And I have an alibi to prove it.’

  ‘What kind of alibi?’

  ‘I was with my comrades.’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘No, I was not with all of them all night. But at the time Durán was probably killed, I was certainly with one of them.’

  ‘An’ which one of them might that be?’

  ‘I was with Dupont.’

  ‘Ah, I see,’ Woodend said thoughtfully. ‘You were with Dupont.’ He searched around in his mind for some sharp mental instrument he could use to break through Schneider’s veneer of confidence. ‘Are you lovers?’ he asked. ‘Is that why you spent the night together?’

  Schneider laughed. ‘Are you hoping to shame me into confessing to the murder? Do you think I would rather be taken for a killer than be thought a homosexual?’

  ‘I don’t know. Which one are you?’

  ‘Neither! I have seven children. And Dupont claims to have three mistresses. Of course, he is French, so he may be exaggerating a little, to make himself seem more virile than he really is.’

  ‘So if it wasn’t for sex, why did you spend the night together?’

  ‘For security, of course. After Medwin was killed, we decided that there was safety in numbers.’

  ‘So why didn’t all of you stay together?’

  ‘Perhaps we would have done once – when we were young. But we are getting old, and we are getting soft. Two of us could sleep quite comfortably in one of those modest hotel rooms. More would have been difficult.’

  ‘Then who got left out?’

  ‘I am sorry?’

  ‘Only two could sleep in one room, and there were five of you. So who got left out?’

  ‘Mitchell.’

  ‘Why him?’

  ‘It was his choice, not ours. He told us that he would prefer to be alone.’

  ‘Why do you think that was?’

  ‘I didn’t think at all. If you want to know the answer, you must ask him yourself.’

  Dupont seemed as much at ease as his German comrade had.

  ‘So you spent the night of the murder with Schneider, did you?’ Woodend asked.

  ‘Oui.’

  ‘An’ is he still as good a lover as he used to be?’

  Dupont smirked. ‘You English are so funny.’

 
‘Are we? In what way?’

  ‘You are so afraid of being thought a homosexual zat if you brush against each other accidentally, you are full of apology. Ze exception, of course, is if you are playing le rugby. Zen you maul each other as much as you wish. Me, I am French. I do not lust after uzzer men, but if I did, I would not be ashame of it. And my friend, Schneider, he have seven children – or so he claim.’

  ‘You don’t believe him?’

  ‘Per’aps he have two or three. He only say seven to make him look like a stallion.’

  ‘This isn’t a joke!’ Woodend said, finally losing his temper.

  ‘It is not?’

  ‘Four men have been killed!’

  ‘One man have been killed – one man and three vermin.’

  ‘You didn’t even know the two guards who were murdered. What right do you have to call them vermin?’

  ‘I judge a man by the company he keep. If I were not me, I would be proud to be one of my comrades instead. Any man who work for that butcher Durán deserve what he get. Beside, somebody kill Medwin. You don’t think that was one of Durán’s bodyguards?’

  ‘You can’t go takin’ the law into your hands,’ Woodend said.

  ‘Why not?’ Dupont asked. ‘It seem to work out pretty well for that bastard Franco.’

  Woodend and Ruiz sat at a table in the bar closest to the Guardia Civil barracks. Woodend had asked for a beer, the Spaniard had chosen sol y sombra – a near-lethal mixture of brandy and anis.

  ‘They’ve worked out their story together, and they think that they’re untouchable,’ Woodend complained.

  ‘Perhaps they are. Perhaps, after all, they are not guilty.’

  ‘They came here to kill Durán. They thought they had reason enough for that before they ever set foot in Spain. Then one of their number is murdered, and they suspect – naturally enough – that Durán is behind it. They wouldn’t be human if they just sat back and took that.’

  ‘They wouldn’t be human if they just sat back and took it,’ Paco repeated. ‘Do you know what your problem is, Charlie?’

  ‘No, but I’m sure you’re about to tell me.’

  ‘At least part of you is on their side. And does that part of you truly want to see them punished for murdering the Alcalde?’