âDinnerâs on me if you come to Madrid.â
Atienza gave her a wave of acknowledgement and went back to his patrol car.
GalÃndez waited for him to drive away before she started her engine. It was dark now, nothing to see but the endless stream of headlights in the opposite lane. She had just taken a bite of chorizo sandwich when her phone buzzed. She took the call, glad for the distraction.
âAna? Itâs Mendez. Iâve got a problem.â
âOnly one?â
âWell, two when you get here. Iâve got a body in the chiller, some hooker who got carved up. I need someone from forensics to sign it off and youâre the only one who isnât sick or having a baby â at least as far as I know, anyway. Can you do the DNA stuff for me?â
âIâm near Vitoria right now. Can I do it tomorrow?â
âSure. Seven thirty,â Mendez said. She hung up.
The road to Madrid became a blur as GalÃndez turned her thoughts back to the rusty sword on the back seat. A sword that had killed the three people whose skeletons were bagged up in her boot. Three more killings to be added to the list of Guzmánâs bloody deeds. It was unlikely sheâd ever know why those people were killed but at least there could be no doubt as to the killerâs identity. His name was inscribed on the blade, for Godâs sake.
VILLARREAL, 10 MARCH 1937
Next morning, Ochoa was ordered to photograph the prisoners. The three men ignored him. The woman was nursing the baby and she lowered her head to shield the child from the camera with a curtain of black hair.
Later, as Ochoa passed General Torresâs tent, he heard Torres and the teniente talking. Curious, Ochoa paused and lit a cigarette, glancing round as he blew a long breath of smoke into the damp air. There were no guards nearby and he sidled closer to listen to their discussion.
The general was giving orders for the execution of the prisoners.
Foreign journalists had arrived, the general said. Reporters from the Catholic Herald : their accounts of the war were key to winning the support of the US government. Because of that, it was best they were not aware of the executions. Which meant, said the general, the teniente should kill them tomorrow evening, while the reporters were being entertained in the mess. There would be ample time to kill the Reds without alerting the Yanquis .
Once the executions were completed, the general went on, it would be a kindness if the baby were to be adopted. He had a couple in mind, good Catholics, members of the party, too. A childless couple like them deserved a child far more than the Red whore down in the cellar.
Adoption would be for the best, the teniente agreed.
A nurse from the Sección Femenina would care for the infant until the new parents could be contacted, General Torres continued. They were a wealthy couple and they would pay handsomely for the child. Naturally, the teniente would be rewarded for his assistance in the matter. And, of course, for his silence.
Naturally, the teniente agreed.
Outside the tent, Ochoa heard footsteps approaching and saw one of the regular soldiers, a big surly private. The man warned him not to get so close to the generalâs tent. If he didnât want a bullet in the back, he should fuck off out of it.
Ochoa took his advice.
5
SAN SEBASTIÃN, OCTOBER 1954, HOTEL ALMEJA
Guzmán stood at the window of his hotel room looking at the sea through his reflection in the smeared glass. He snatched up the handwritten note and read it again.
You Killed her.
Heâd been wrong to think no one knew him here. Someone knew him very well indeed. Deep in thought, he left his room and went out to get a breath of sea air.
They were pulling a drowned man from the harbour as Guzmán walked along the seafront. A crowd had gathered to watch several men in a rowing boat as they struggled to retrieve the corpse from the dirty water. Finally, the men
Atienza gave her a wave of acknowledgement and went back to his patrol car.
GalÃndez waited for him to drive away before she started her engine. It was dark now, nothing to see but the endless stream of headlights in the opposite lane. She had just taken a bite of chorizo sandwich when her phone buzzed. She took the call, glad for the distraction.
âAna? Itâs Mendez. Iâve got a problem.â
âOnly one?â
âWell, two when you get here. Iâve got a body in the chiller, some hooker who got carved up. I need someone from forensics to sign it off and youâre the only one who isnât sick or having a baby â at least as far as I know, anyway. Can you do the DNA stuff for me?â
âIâm near Vitoria right now. Can I do it tomorrow?â
âSure. Seven thirty,â Mendez said. She hung up.
The road to Madrid became a blur as GalÃndez turned her thoughts back to the rusty sword on the back seat. A sword that had killed the three people whose skeletons were bagged up in her boot. Three more killings to be added to the list of Guzmánâs bloody deeds. It was unlikely sheâd ever know why those people were killed but at least there could be no doubt as to the killerâs identity. His name was inscribed on the blade, for Godâs sake.
VILLARREAL, 10 MARCH 1937
Next morning, Ochoa was ordered to photograph the prisoners. The three men ignored him. The woman was nursing the baby and she lowered her head to shield the child from the camera with a curtain of black hair.
Later, as Ochoa passed General Torresâs tent, he heard Torres and the teniente talking. Curious, Ochoa paused and lit a cigarette, glancing round as he blew a long breath of smoke into the damp air. There were no guards nearby and he sidled closer to listen to their discussion.
The general was giving orders for the execution of the prisoners.
Foreign journalists had arrived, the general said. Reporters from the Catholic Herald : their accounts of the war were key to winning the support of the US government. Because of that, it was best they were not aware of the executions. Which meant, said the general, the teniente should kill them tomorrow evening, while the reporters were being entertained in the mess. There would be ample time to kill the Reds without alerting the Yanquis .
Once the executions were completed, the general went on, it would be a kindness if the baby were to be adopted. He had a couple in mind, good Catholics, members of the party, too. A childless couple like them deserved a child far more than the Red whore down in the cellar.
Adoption would be for the best, the teniente agreed.
A nurse from the Sección Femenina would care for the infant until the new parents could be contacted, General Torres continued. They were a wealthy couple and they would pay handsomely for the child. Naturally, the teniente would be rewarded for his assistance in the matter. And, of course, for his silence.
Naturally, the teniente agreed.
Outside the tent, Ochoa heard footsteps approaching and saw one of the regular soldiers, a big surly private. The man warned him not to get so close to the generalâs tent. If he didnât want a bullet in the back, he should fuck off out of it.
Ochoa took his advice.
5
SAN SEBASTIÃN, OCTOBER 1954, HOTEL ALMEJA
Guzmán stood at the window of his hotel room looking at the sea through his reflection in the smeared glass. He snatched up the handwritten note and read it again.
You Killed her.
Heâd been wrong to think no one knew him here. Someone knew him very well indeed. Deep in thought, he left his room and went out to get a breath of sea air.
They were pulling a drowned man from the harbour as Guzmán walked along the seafront. A crowd had gathered to watch several men in a rowing boat as they struggled to retrieve the corpse from the dirty water. Finally, the men
Similar Books
