things. “You seem to think that it’s highly unlikely that Corporal López sent this girl regular payments, Sergeant. May I ask why?”
“I assume you’re aware of the salary a corporal earns, Sergeant.” Rota’s voice was blistering. “I think it highly unlikely that López would have devoted so much of it to an affair like this. And he had no other source of income.”
A suspicion had presented itself to Tejada while García was talking. He did his best to ignore it, but it was now jumping up and down on the threshold of his brain and banging the knocker. “Are you sure he had no other source of income?” he asked. “Corporal García suggested that his parents might have objected to this girl. He wasn’t from a wealthy family, perhaps?”
“I suppose it’s possible.” Rota’s voice was tight. “But I doubt it. And that’s more than one question, Sergeant.”
“Indeed.” Tejada stood up. “Thank you.”
Sergeant de Rota saw him to the door of the post and bid him a sullen farewell. Tejada hardly noticed. His mind was working frantically. For all his hostility Rota had managed to suggest a suspect for the post’s link to the black market. Given García’s unexpected disclosure and Rota’s insistence that Paco could not have afforded to make payments to Isabel, the obvious inference was that Paco had found some clandestine source of income. Then Rota had practically insisted that Paco did not come from a wealthy family. Tejada walked slowly along the Calle Alcalá, frowning heavily. Paco had been a proud Falangist. And he had never boasted, of course. It was just within the bounds of possibility that someone who did not know him well might imagine that he came from a humble background. Possible, Tejada thought, but not likely. But if Rota had been talking to someone who’d never met Paco, he’d have set up a nice suspect: a man sending off sums of money he couldn’t afford to an unexpected destination. A very neat little piece of character assassination. “Oh, no, he couldn’t have had any other source of income.” And all the while knowing that I’m looking for someone with precisely that.
He reached the end of the Calle Alcalá. The Puerta del Sol stretched in front of him, an elongated diamond shape, pockmarked by bombardment and now enlivened by the soldiers on parade. The logical thing would be to continue back to the post and make a report. Lieutenant Ramos, he knew, would be waiting for him, probably cursing impatiently, with a list of other tasks. But Ramos had insisted that the theft of rations was important, too. And Captain Morales had agreed. Tejada skirted the Puerta del Sol and bore leftward, heading for the Calle Tres Peces. It was time to seek out María Alejandra Palomino.
If Tejada had not been preoccupied with his thoughts as he crossed the Calle Atocha he might have noticed the gaunt man in ill-fitting civilian clothes and a cap that partially hid his face, who cast a stricken look at him and shrank into a doorway. Even if he had noticed the man and marked his behavior as suspicious, he would have had no way of knowing that he had just crossed paths with the uncle of the little girl he intended to see.
Chapter 9
G onzalo was early for his appointment with the smugglers. With the help of a few sections of orange, Carmen had persuaded her unwilling daughter to go to school that morning. Aleja had agreed under protest, and only with the assurance that her mother would walk with her. Gonzalo, who had taken to sleeping late, had awakened hearing the argument, but feigned unconsciousness.
He was still lying on the couch, willing time to move faster, when Carmen returned several hours later. “Did she go to school?” he asked.
“Yes.” Carmen sank into a chair and rubbed her temples. “I believe I’ve had a headache for the last six months.”
“Only one?” Gonzalo asked, without opening his eyes. His sister snorted, but did not reply. “Did you find work?” he
“I assume you’re aware of the salary a corporal earns, Sergeant.” Rota’s voice was blistering. “I think it highly unlikely that López would have devoted so much of it to an affair like this. And he had no other source of income.”
A suspicion had presented itself to Tejada while García was talking. He did his best to ignore it, but it was now jumping up and down on the threshold of his brain and banging the knocker. “Are you sure he had no other source of income?” he asked. “Corporal García suggested that his parents might have objected to this girl. He wasn’t from a wealthy family, perhaps?”
“I suppose it’s possible.” Rota’s voice was tight. “But I doubt it. And that’s more than one question, Sergeant.”
“Indeed.” Tejada stood up. “Thank you.”
Sergeant de Rota saw him to the door of the post and bid him a sullen farewell. Tejada hardly noticed. His mind was working frantically. For all his hostility Rota had managed to suggest a suspect for the post’s link to the black market. Given García’s unexpected disclosure and Rota’s insistence that Paco could not have afforded to make payments to Isabel, the obvious inference was that Paco had found some clandestine source of income. Then Rota had practically insisted that Paco did not come from a wealthy family. Tejada walked slowly along the Calle Alcalá, frowning heavily. Paco had been a proud Falangist. And he had never boasted, of course. It was just within the bounds of possibility that someone who did not know him well might imagine that he came from a humble background. Possible, Tejada thought, but not likely. But if Rota had been talking to someone who’d never met Paco, he’d have set up a nice suspect: a man sending off sums of money he couldn’t afford to an unexpected destination. A very neat little piece of character assassination. “Oh, no, he couldn’t have had any other source of income.” And all the while knowing that I’m looking for someone with precisely that.
He reached the end of the Calle Alcalá. The Puerta del Sol stretched in front of him, an elongated diamond shape, pockmarked by bombardment and now enlivened by the soldiers on parade. The logical thing would be to continue back to the post and make a report. Lieutenant Ramos, he knew, would be waiting for him, probably cursing impatiently, with a list of other tasks. But Ramos had insisted that the theft of rations was important, too. And Captain Morales had agreed. Tejada skirted the Puerta del Sol and bore leftward, heading for the Calle Tres Peces. It was time to seek out María Alejandra Palomino.
If Tejada had not been preoccupied with his thoughts as he crossed the Calle Atocha he might have noticed the gaunt man in ill-fitting civilian clothes and a cap that partially hid his face, who cast a stricken look at him and shrank into a doorway. Even if he had noticed the man and marked his behavior as suspicious, he would have had no way of knowing that he had just crossed paths with the uncle of the little girl he intended to see.
Chapter 9
G onzalo was early for his appointment with the smugglers. With the help of a few sections of orange, Carmen had persuaded her unwilling daughter to go to school that morning. Aleja had agreed under protest, and only with the assurance that her mother would walk with her. Gonzalo, who had taken to sleeping late, had awakened hearing the argument, but feigned unconsciousness.
He was still lying on the couch, willing time to move faster, when Carmen returned several hours later. “Did she go to school?” he asked.
“Yes.” Carmen sank into a chair and rubbed her temples. “I believe I’ve had a headache for the last six months.”
“Only one?” Gonzalo asked, without opening his eyes. His sister snorted, but did not reply. “Did you find work?” he
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