A Darker Night Read online

  The nearest house was a large cortijo, the one with the Dangerous Dogs sign. He looked around for a stick, just in case.

  Stick in hand, Max set off for the cortijo. From the sound of it, there were big dogs somewhere close. As his hand reached for the gate, two mastiffs crashed against the fence. Max jumped back, and the dogs paused, snarling. Then a harsh voice called out.

  ‘Diablo … Tigre. Down, you big bastards.’

  The dogs turned reluctantly. A burly man wearing a security guard’s jacket over dirty jeans was coming down the drive.

  ‘Huevón. Can’t you read?

  ‘Yes, I saw the sign. But I’m here on police business,’ said Max, showing his ID.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘It’s about a neighbour of yours, Francisco Javier Maya. You probably know him as Paco. Lives in the cave over there.’

  ‘Neighbour? Never met him. Didn’t even know anyone lived up there. I’m just the security guard.’

  ‘This gentleman is a gitano, aged about forty. He plays the guitar …’

  ‘Of course I’ve seen loads of gitanos around. It would be hard to miss them. And most of them have guitars, don’t they? What’s up?’

  ‘We found Paco Maya dead, inside the cave.’

  ‘Oh. Murdered?’

  ‘Too soon to say, but I have to check up on a few things. Do you mind if I ask you some questions?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  Max took out his notepad and biro. ‘Do you have your DNI card?’

  ‘Got it here somewhere. Sí, here it is.’

  Max looked at the photo on the card, and then at the man in front of him.

  ‘Fernando Pozo. You live out in Almanjáyar, I see. That’s quite a way from here.’

  ‘I work wherever I’m sent. This place is a bugger to get to. But the boss picks me up in the town centre, and drops me off here.’

  ‘Your boss is?’

  ‘Víctor Bustos. Owns Seguridad Victoriano. You might have seen our van around – “Your Security Is Our Concern”.’

  ‘Do you know who owns this place?’

  ‘Ni idea. Never ask questions. The boss says that’s wise.’

  ‘Did you hear or see anything unusual yesterday?’

  ‘Nah. Usual walkers on the path. But there was this tall guy with long hair on his own, looked like a hippy. I spotted him gawking through the fence. Told him to clear off, and he went. Then ten minutes later, there he was coming down the hill towards the cortijo. He’d circled round the back, crafty bugger. But the dogs got rid of him, no problem.’

  That sounded like Francisco. ‘What time did you see this guy?’

  ‘He pitched up at half past one. Finally got rid of him at quarter to two.’

  ‘How come you’re so sure of the times?’ asked Max.

  ‘I’d got the footie on the radio. The match had just begun when I had to go and chase the hippy away the second time. The dogs were barking, you see. I wasn’t pleased, I can tell you. I missed Seville’s goal.’

  ‘Anybody else come by?’

  ‘Sí. Just after the dogs chased Nosy Parker, a bunch of walkers came by on the path. They had a couple of guiris tagging on.’

  ‘How do you know they were guiris?’

  ‘Well, she was wearing shorts, and had really pale legs, and he had this stupid hat.’

  ‘Hmm, I see. Thanks. That’s all for now. I think I should have a talk with your boss.’

  ‘Doubt he knows anything. And Víctor keeps everything close to his chest anyway.’

  Max returned to his car and drove to the dead man’s nearest neighbour on the other side. He walked down a rough track to an old house covered with ivy and rang the doorbell. It didn’t work. He knocked on the door, but there was no reply. A light was on at the back, so he walked around the side of the house. A woman with oiled grey hair scraped back in gypsy style was in the kitchen. Max tapped gently on the windowpane. The woman jumped, startled.

  ‘Policía Nacional.’

  She motioned to the back door, then opened it a crack.

  ‘It’s nothing to be worried about. I just have a few questions about a neighbour of yours, Paco Maya,’ said Max and he handed over his ID. She examined it carefully, suspiciously.

  ‘Paco!’ she exclaimed. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong.’

  ‘May I come in?’ asked Max.

  ‘I suppose it’s all right. My husband will be home soon. We’re just back from visiting my sister. We’re best off in the kitchen. I was making a cup of coffee.’

  Max followed her into the kitchen. The walls were covered with sparkling ceramic plates, and there were shining copper jugs on the window sill. He sat down on the flowered sofa.

  ‘Paco,’ said the woman. ‘I hope nothing’s wrong. He’s never had much luck, that gitano. Just got out of prison a couple of days ago.’

  ‘Out of prison?’

  ‘Sí. In for a long while. Killed his wife, Lucía.’

  ‘It’s not the Paco who has a little daughter …’ Max searched his memory. ‘Angelita, wasn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right. So you know him then?’

  ‘No, but Abbot Jorge at the Abadía knew him well.’

  ‘Knew …? Ay Dios mío. The Blessed Virgin of Sacromonte. Poor Paco. What happened?’

  ‘We found him dead inside his cave.’

  ‘Dios santo.’ She closed her eyes and crossed herself. ‘Sí, he had a bad heart. You can’t live the way he did and keep your health. Would you like a cigarette?’ She took out a packet of filter cigarettes from her apron pocket and offered one to Max.

  ‘Thanks. But I don’t smoke.’

  ‘May the Blessed Virgin protect him …’

  ‘Here, let me help you. I’ll make the coffee.’

  Max stood up, and helped her to the little armchair. The water in the saucepan was boiling away.

  ‘Gracias. Poor Paco. My husband has liver problems. You can go so quickly, can’t you?’

  ‘Sugar?’ Max asked.

  ‘Dos, por favor.’

  Max made two coffees, both with two sugars. He would have liked milk in his, but didn’t see any. He sat down and took out his notepad.

  ‘Can I ask a few questions?’

  ‘Poor Paco. Who would have believed it? Just out. The good Lord giveth, and the good Lord taketh away. You can call me Concepción,’ she said taking a deep drag of her cigarette.

  ‘Thanks, Concepción. It’s just a few routine questions.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I know about Angelita. And there’s an abuela, isn’t there?’

  ‘Sí. Carmen Espinosa. Angelita lives with her. There’s his sister, Catalina. But Paco and Catalina aren’t close, what with Lucía’s death and all.’

  ‘Do you know where any of these folk live?’

  ‘No, not since the abuela moved away. And Catalina, I haven’t seen her in years.’

  ‘Any other family?’

  ‘Not that I know. His papá died young, not much older than Paco, then his mamá died after he got sent down. Broken heart, I reckon. Did you know, Paco won the prison flamenco song contest?’

  ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

  Concepción started to sing. Her voice was surprisingly good – low and powerful.

  ‘Do what you can, Mother,

  To get me out of here.

  Do all you can, Mother, so I can die in peace,

  On the clean earth we own.’

  ‘That was Paco’s song. He wrote it after his mother died. That was the one that won the competition. Every time I hear it, I weep.’

  Tears rolled down Concepción’s cheeks. She took out a large handkerchief and wiped her eyes, then had another pull at her cigarette.

  ‘Yes. I can understand that. You said he had health problems.’

  ‘Bad heart, like I said. He’d been warned he might not have long to live.’

  ‘I see. Did Paco own that cave?’

  ‘Sí. And the land around it. Plus the plot on the other
side of the track which goes all the way down to the river. The land’s been in his family for years. And you know, he even had proper title deeds. I kept them here for him while he was in jail.’

  ‘Do you still have the deeds with you?’

  ‘No, I gave them back to him when he stopped off here on his way home.’

  ‘Do you have any idea where he might have kept them?’

  ‘He stored them in an old wooden box. I saw him put it away when he got home.’

  ‘Where would that be?’

  ‘In his chest of drawers. He didn’t have many other safe places. Poor Paco. No bloody luck.’

  ‘So he visited you, then?’

  ‘Sí. I made him some food the day he got out of prison.’

  ‘What day was that?’

  ‘Wednesday. Me and my old man were going to stay with my sister in Jaén for a couple of days, and we’ve just got back today.’

  ‘Can you remember what you talked about?’

  ‘We had a bit of a laugh, talked about the old times, but mainly about his little girl. I tried to persuade him to move so he could see her more often. We’re moving, you see. Had a good offer. At our age we can’t cope with all this land.’

  ‘I can understand that,’ said Max. ‘But Paco wouldn’t move?’

  ‘No, never. The grandmother wanted him to sell so that he could help the child, but he wouldn’t.’

  ‘Anything else you remember?’

  ‘Not really. I gave him a hand to clean his house.’

  ‘The cave?’

  ‘Sí. I’d kept my eye on it while he was in prison.’

  ‘Ah. We noticed it had been cleaned recently.’

  ‘I like to see a home clean. We may be poor, but we can always be clean. All these lies about gitanos being dirty. I hate those lies.’ And she looked with pride around her tidy kitchen.

  ‘Did you notice anything unusual about the cave?’

  ‘Sí. The wall had Asesino written on it in red paint. Paco gave it a good coat of whitewash, and he was going to give it another coat later.’

  ‘Asesino,’ said Max. ‘What do you make of that?’

  ‘Lucía’s brothers. A real couple of bad ones. I never let my boys near them. The brothers probably heard Paco was getting out.’

  ‘Do you know their names and where they live?’

  ‘They’re nasty bastards. You won’t let them know I gave you their names, will you? I don’t want trouble.’

  ‘I know that,’ Max said. ‘We’ll keep your name out of it.’

  ‘All right. They did threaten poor Paco. The Blessed Virgin will protect me. Their names are Mauricio and Gregorio. They live somewhere in Almanjáyar. But I don’t know where. The grandmother might know. She dotes on those boys, still thinks the sun shines out of their backsides. She’ll do anything for them.’

  ‘Have you seen the grandmother recently?’

  ‘No. Not since she moved from around here. We quarrelled over those damn boys of hers, so we don’t speak any more. That’s all I’m going to tell you.’

  ‘That’s okay,’ said Max. ‘Thanks very much for your help. Can you think of anyone else who might have wanted to harm Paco?’

  ‘No. Nobody. Apart from the brothers and the grandmother. The old bitch hated him.’

  ‘Okay. Did Paco have his guitar with him when you saw him?’

  ‘Sí. He never went anywhere without it. He said that his dog and his guitar were his best friends. Looked after it better than a baby.’

  ‘We found a little dog outside the door of his cave.’

  ‘That would be his dog, Negrito. We looked after him while Paco was in prison. Negrito still remembered Paco after all these years.’

  ‘The dog was injured when we found him.’

  ‘Injured? He was fine when I left.’

  ‘Could Paco have kicked him?’

  ‘Paco? Never. Even if he were blind drunk, he’d never hurt that dog. Poor Negrito. We’re moving to a small flat. Can’t really have a dog there. Where is he now?’

  ‘We took him to a vet.’

  ‘Vets are useless. And cost a fortune. A few fresh herbs would have helped. But who’ll look after poor Negrito now?’

  ‘Someone’s offered to take him in.’

  ‘That’s good. The dog’s old now. I’d like to see him die happy.’

  ‘Gracias,’ said Max, standing up. ‘Just one last question – did Paco smoke cigars?’

  ‘Cigars? You must be joking. Do you think we’re made of money?’

  ‘Cigarettes?’

  ‘Not now. The man used to smoke like a bloody chimney, but he got clean in jail. Didn’t do him any good though, did it?’

  ‘I notice you smoke filters,’ said Max.

  ‘Sí,’ she replied, stubbing out her cigarette in a ceramic ashtray. ‘The doctor says I should give up, but well … what is there in life if you can’t have a smoke or a little drink now and then?’

  ‘Not much,’ Max agreed. ‘Did you smoke when you were cleaning out the cave?’

  ‘Sí, I always have one after I’ve worked hard. A sort of reward.’

  A car drew up outside.

  ‘That’ll be Manuel, my husband.’ She went to the front door. ‘Manuel,’ she called out. ‘Paco’s dead. A cop’s here, asking questions.’

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Max, joining her at the doorway. ‘I’m just going. Did you see Paco when he came out of prison?’

  ‘No. Only Concepción did. Poor Paco. No luck, este gitano.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might want to harm him? Concepción told me about the Asesino sign.’

  ‘The Espinosa family hated him. But we all knew he didn’t mean to hurt Lucía. It was tragic what happened. Bloody tragic.’

  ‘Thanks for your help. If you remember anything else, call me on this number.’

  Max drove back towards Granada along the Sacromonte road. There was quite a distance between Concepción’s small cortijo and the nearest group of houses. More gitanos. They all knew Paco or knew of him. They’d heard he was out of prison, but hadn’t seen him.

  Max finally arrived at the hamlet of Puente Maríano, underneath the Abadía. He could do with a beer. As he parked the car in the tiny square, the sky suddenly turned dark. A swarm of bees was passing overhead. Max hurried into the bar. There was a tiny, shrivelled woman behind the counter, perched on a high chair.

  ‘Una cerveza, por favor.’

  She slid off the chair and served Max with a bottle of San Miguel. No glass.

  Two grizzled old chaps, bottles in hand, were hunched in the corner. They glanced up at him, and then looked away as soon as they saw his uniform.

  ‘I thought it was going to rain,’ said Max to nobody in particular. ‘But it was a swarm of bees.’

  ‘We could do with rain,’ said one of the grizzled chaps. ‘My goats could do with a bite of green.’

  ‘Sure could,’ added the other. ‘I’ve never known the rains to be this late.’

  Max turned to the woman behind the counter. ‘I’m making a few inquiries about a Paco Maya; lives at the end of the Sacromonte road. Do you know him?’

  She shot a quick glance at the two men. ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Have you seen him?’

  ‘Might have.’

  ‘He was found dead in his cave yesterday.’

  ‘Paco!’ exclaimed the woman. ‘But I saw him on …’ She stopped and then added, ‘He seemed fine then. Normal.’

  ‘That would be Wednesday, the day he was let out of prison,’ said Max.

  The three old folk stared at each other. Then one of the men spoke. ‘So we understand.’

  ‘Did any of you see him?’ asked Max.

  Another pause.

  ‘No. Just me,’ said the woman. ‘He came in here to buy some things. Straight out of prison like. A few eggs, bread, oil.’

  ‘Any cigarettes, or a cigar even?’

  ‘No. No cigars. Are you kidding? But no cigarettes this time. Said he’d quit s
moking for good. He was off the booze too. Who would have thought it?’

  ‘Did you get the impression that he was worried about anything?’

  ‘No. Just happy to be out. He desperately wanted to see his daughter.’

  ‘Angelita?’

  ‘That’s right. Left here with a smile on his face.’

  ‘No car?’

  ‘Car? Never had one. He had to walk from here to his place. Quite a distance.’

  ‘Have you seen his wife’s brothers around?’

  She shot another glance at the two old men. ‘Lucía’s brothers? No, I’ve never seen them.’

  The two men both shook their heads. Max paid for the beer, and left. He had an uncomfortable feeling about this case. But no idea why.

  Chapter 5

  Max looked at his watch. It was late, but he should let Jorge know about Paco’s death. He drove up the steep, dusty road to the Abadía, rang the bell, and waited until one of the priests answered. The Abbot was in the workshop, helping with the preparations for the procession on Holy Wednesday, Los Gitanos.

  The workshop was a scene of organized chaos, with Abbot Jorge apparently in the thick of it. Max smiled. The Abbot’s shirt was bloused over his ample stomach, his sleeves rolled up to the elbows, but Jorge was doing his man of the people show, which meant just standing around making suggestions, while a team of gitanos were doing the actual work.

  Three women were easing elaborate cloth garments on to a statue of the Virgin of Sacromonte. One man was polishing candlesticks, two others polishing the Virgin’s copper throne. Next to Jorge were two men whom Max did not know. One was a priest. Jorge turned and saw Max standing in the doorway.

  ‘Max,’ he exclaimed. ‘Come on in, you heathen, and give us a hand. This is where all the hard work is done for the Insigne, Pontifical, Real, Colegial, Magistral y Sacramental Cofradía del Santísimo Cristo del Consuelo y María Santísima del Sacromonte.’

  Max smiled again. ‘Known to us ordinary folk as the Cofradía de los Gitanos – the Brotherhood of the Gypsies.’