The Sentinel: 1 (Vengeance of Memory) by Mark Oldfield Page B

angered him greatly. At one end of the hall a table had been set out with a large coffee urn and a line of guardia waited in an unruly queue, even though, from the smell of it, the coffee had been made with wood shavings. Guzmán pushed through to the desk. The sargento saluted absently, eyes hollow from lack of sleep and, probably, lack of food. Or teeth, Guzmán thought. Still, the sarge obeyed him and that was enough.
    ‘Who’s in charge of this lot, Sargento ?’
    The sarge waved towards the doors leading to Guzmán’s office. ‘They went to the mess to warm up.’
    ‘I’ll have a word, make sure they know what they’re doing. Anything to report?’
    The sargento nodded. ‘The Red prisoner. Died during the night. Suicide. Hanged himself with his own belt. Tragic no, jefe ?’
    ‘Got off lightly if you ask me.’ Guzmán shrugged.
    ‘He’s arrived, by the way,’ the sargento called as Guzmán walked to the double doors.
    Guzmán turned, his hand on the door. ‘Who?’
    The sargento ’s face oscillated between emaciated weariness and a strong desire to smirk. ‘Acting Teniente Francisco Peralta.’
    ‘Who the fuck is— of course. Joder .’
    The sargento nodded. ‘The capitán-general ’s nephew, jefe . In the flesh.’
    ‘And?’
    ‘And what, jefe ?’
    ‘ Puta madre, coño . What’s he like?’
    The sargento ’s face twitched as he held back a smile. ‘You need to see for yourself, jefe .’
    Guzmán turned on his heel, pulling the door open with such violence it crashed against the wall. He stormed down the corridor and stamped into his office. I’ll kill that fucking sargento. I’ll have him back in the ranks, give him double night shifts until he begs for mercy, toothless bastard .
    A man was sitting in one of the rickety visitors’ chairs by the wall. He jumped up as Guzmán entered.
    ‘ Comandante Guzmán, Acting Teniente Francisco Peralta para servirle .’
    Peralta was tall and exceedingly thin, his cadaverous face suggesting he ate nowhere near as well as his uncle, the capitán-general . Peralta looked older than his twenty-four years, his tallow hair already receding and thin. His dress sense left much to be desired, Guzmán noted. The overcoat was cheap and shabby, the cuffs of his jacket slightly frayed, his shoes soaked. Police wages. Totally impractical for ten centimetres of snow. He was really going to suffer, Guzmán thought happily.
    He seized Peralta’s hand in a quick handshake, quickly crushing any attempt to impress him with a firm grip. Peralta withdrew his hand with a pained expression.
    ‘ Acting Teniente, Peralta? That’s a sudden promotion isn’t it?’ Guzmán slumped into his chair, pointedly not offering his new assistant a seat. On the desk was a sheaf of papers the sargento had left for him. Lists, maps, addresses. Interesting things.
    Peralta remained standing. ‘The temporary promotion came through yesterday. I was as surprised as you about it. May I say I very much look forward to working with you, Comandante Guzmán.’
    ‘No you may not.’ Guzmán gestured wearily towards a chair. ‘Sit.’ It was not a request.
    Peralta indicated the green folder on the desk which Guzmán had been studiously ignoring. ‘Perhaps the comandante would care to have a look at my file, if he has any questions about my experience…’ His voice dried up under Guzmán’s withering gaze.
    ‘Look, son,’ Guzmán said, ‘if I want to read your file I’ll read it, if I want to ask you something I’ll ask it and if I want your fucking advice on something, then I’ll ask you. Until then, speak when you are spoken to. Entiende ?’
    The younger man blushed, making Guzmán twitch with anger.
    ‘I really must protest—’ Peralta began.
    Guzmán pointed a meaty finger at him. ‘Understood? Si o no ?’
    ‘Understood, sir.’
    ‘ Ahora bien , let me outline the work of this department, Acting Teniente. Or better still, let’s start with you telling me what you know