The Exile by Mark Oldfield Page B

got a grip on the body and manhandled it aboard. It lay on its back, causing gasps of horror among the spectators as they saw the distorted face, the sodden mop of pale blond hair above wide, staring blue eyes. Some know-it-all in the crowd claimed the man was a sailor, lost from a foreign vessel in the Bahia de Vizcaya. It was a reasonable hypothesis that Guzmán had no reason to doubt, far less to care about, and he left the jabbering crowd by the quay.
    As he walked to the Buick, he sensed movement around him. Slow, subtle actions, men holding newspapers but not reading them, others taking an age to light a cigarette, their eyes following him. He slowed, suddenly aware of more men stepping out from behind parked cars and shop doorways, taking up position. He didn’t have to turn to know there were others behind him.
    A sharp-faced man was walking towards him. The double-breasted leather coat might as well have had Policía painted on the back, Guzmán thought.
    â€˜Inspector Rivas. Head of General Mellado’s Security Police.’
    â€˜Guzmán, head of the Brigada Especial ,’ Guzmán said, staring him down. ‘Although I’m sure you know that, just as you know that I outrank you. What do you want?’
    â€˜I’m investigating the killing of a legionario at General Mellado’s mansion last night.’
    â€˜Legionnaires like killing one another,’ Guzmán said. ‘What’s new?’
    â€˜I understand you were talking to the general’s bodyguards before you left the mansion. What was your conversation about?’
    â€˜One man was my driver earlier in the evening. A big guy with scars on his face. I tipped him a hundred pesetas.’ Guzmán met Rivas’s eye. ‘Why not ask him?’
    â€˜He was the man who was killed. There was no money on him.’
    â€˜Then it’s clear theft was the motive, wouldn’t you say, Inspector?’ Guzmán smiled. ‘Anything else, or shall I call Franco’s HQ and let them explain why obstructing me in the course of my duty has cost you your job?’
    You were with Señorita Torres at the dinner, I believe?’ Rivas said, ignoring his threat.
    Guzmán gritted his teeth. ‘You’d do well not to bother her, bearing in mind who her father is.’
    Rivas shrugged. ‘General Torres doesn’t have the clout he used to.’
    â€˜No? He’s a personal friend of Franco. And since I report to the caudillo ’s HQ, I’ll be very happy to let him know you’re bothering one of his old friends.’ Guzmán stared into Rivas’s eyes until he looked away. ‘Understood?’
    The inspector’s face twitched. ‘I’m not suggesting Señorita Torres is implicated in the killing, Comandante , but you must appreciate I have to carry out a thorough investigation.’
    â€˜Then I suggest you get on with it. And forget about Señorita Torres.’
    â€˜This isn’t Madrid, Comandante ,’ Rivas muttered. He gestured to the men around him and they melted back into the doors and alleyways.
    â€˜Thanks for the geography lesson.’ Guzmán turned and walked across the road, straight towards the surly plain-clothes men on the far pavement. Grudgingly, the men moved aside. Ten paces further on, Guzmán stopped and looked back. Across the road, Inspector Rivas was standing stock-still, watching him. Guzmán shrugged and walked unhurriedly into the narrow streets of the old town, feeling Rivas’s eyes burning into his back as he went.
    SAN SEBASTIÁN 1954, CAFÉ SOL, PLAZA 18 DE JULIO
    There was still an hour before Ochoa’s train got in and Guzmán took a seat at a caf é in the plaza. He inspected the walkway on the far side of the square with a practised eye, noticing brief, hurried movement as someone slipped out of sight behind a kiosk.
    He ordered coffee and a brandy to accompany it. The brandy was cheap and rough