A Darker Night Read online

  In spite of all his radical pretensions, Jorge loved all the extravaganza of the Catholic Church.

  ‘Max, you really should join a cofradía. It’d make a true Spaniard of you.’

  ‘Jorge, you know I find it all a bit … well … over the top. Not my scene really. Look at this cloak … velvet and silver thread.’

  ‘Yes. It’s gorgeous, isn’t it? Let me introduce you to our great benefactor, the man who paid for this fabulous cloak. Max, this is Don Andrés Mendoza.’

  A tall, thin man with his black hair swept back, dressed in a smart grey suit, stepped up and shook Max warmly by the hand.

  ‘Sub-Inspector Max Romero of the Policía Nacional,’ said Max.

  The other man, a priest who looked like an El Greco portrait, smiled.

  ‘And this gentleman,’ said Jorge, ‘is Monsignor Mateo Bien, the Archbishop’s adviser … and my chess partner. He’s a great networker.’

  ‘Very much so,’ said Andrés Mendoza. ‘I came into a fairly substantial sum of money, and wanted to make a donation to a cofradía. I asked Monsignor Bien, and he suggested the Cofradía de los Gitanos. And Abbot Jorge here felt the Virgin needed a new cloak.’

  One of the gitanos stopped his work and turned to Max. ‘Yes, this is our way of honouring God. When we carry our Most Holy Mary of Sacromonte through the streets of Granada, we want her to look her best. It’s an honour for us all.’

  ‘Quite right,’ added Jorge. ‘Even when people were hungry around here they always insisted the Virgin looked her best.’

  ‘Looked her best!’ exclaimed Max. ‘Just look at her crown.’

  ‘Fabulous, isn’t it?’ said Jorge. ‘Cost a fortune.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ said Max. ‘I should know better than to discuss religion in Catholic Granada.’

  Jorge laughed. ‘It’s just that we believe in external professions of our faith. We’re not miserable sods like you Protestants in Scotland.’

  Monsignor Bien and Andrés Mendoza both smiled.

  ‘Abbot Jorge,’ said Andrés Mendoza, ‘it’s been a pleasure working with you. I too am delighted with the cloak, and pleased that in my humble way I can honour the Virgin. And it’s an honour to be associated with such a famous cofradía as Los Gitanos. But we really have to be going now.’

  Jorge beamed, and embraced the two men.

  ‘Thank you, Don Andrés,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in touch soon, I’m sure.’

  ‘Of course. The Abadía has a place deep in my heart, and it will be an honour to help restore it to its former glory.’

  ‘And thank you, Mateo … I really appreciate this.’

  Mateo Bien handed Max his business card. It was small and elegant, with the Opus Dei symbol, a cross embracing the world. Max rummaged in his pocket and found one of his own. It was slightly crumpled.

  The two men shook Max’s hand, nodded to the gypsies, and left.

  ‘Well, Max. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Sad news, Jorge. Paco Maya’s dead. He was found in his cave yesterday.’

  ‘Ay … Poor Paco. But he wasn’t due out until next week.’

  ‘He was released a few days early.’

  ‘Ay … such bad luck. He was so looking forward to seeing his daughter. I will offer a funeral mass.’

  ‘Paco?’ said one of the gypsies. ‘Killed his wife, didn’t he?’

  ‘That’s right,’ said Max. ‘But he was still a good man.’

  ‘And he helped us when we needed help,’ said Jorge.

  ‘Some gitanos have bad luck … all their bloody lives,’ commented another of the gypsies.

  ‘They do that,’ said Jorge.

  ‘I have to go now, Jorge. It’s getting late.’

  ‘Come back soon. I have something I’d like to discuss with you privately.’

  Chapter 6

  On Palm Sunday morning, Max’s car nosed its way along Calle Isabel la Real, negotiated the tight corner on to Cuesta de la Lona, and passed the Moorish gate of Puerta de Monaita, overlooking Granada. The clay-tiled roofs of the old houses on either side of Calle Elvira crowded the foreground. The green and white domes of Renaissance churches, San Jerónimo, San Juan de Dios, San Justo y Pastor, and the cathedral dominated the middle distance and then the unending sprawl of tower block suburbs faded into the hills of the Sierra Elvira.

  Max’s cousin Juan had spent the night in the little flat above his offices in Calle San Juan de Dios. He’d been at another business dinner. Now he was waiting at the kerb, with flowers, a cake for Isabel and a couple of things for the kids.

  ‘I got you some flowers for abuela Paula, Max.’

  ‘Genial. Good idea.’

  ‘Thanks for the lift. My car will be back from the garage tomorrow. How’s the new car then?’

  ‘Great. And thanks for getting such a good discount.’

  ‘No problem. So how’s things?’

  ‘A disaster. Sodding landlord’s just given me notice to quit.’

  ‘Qué! Your lovely little flat?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘And your Promotion Board for Inspector?’

  ‘It’s at the end of this month, and I’ve still got loads of preparation to do.’

  ‘Ay! That’s bad timing.’

  They took the motorway to Motril and the coast. The suburbs of Granada went on and on. There were still derelict farmhouses waiting for the bulldozer, next to the smart new residential blocks, and some old folk were trying to grow vegetables in the spare scraps of land between car showrooms and industrial estates.

  ‘Oh Christ,’ said Max. ‘This is becoming so ugly.’

  ‘Yes. But that’s progress for you. Helps my business.’

  ‘Hmm. And how is business?’

  ‘Slow. But it’ll pick up if I get into the Brotherhood of the Bell, la Cofradía de la Campana.’

  ‘I didn’t think that was your thing.’

  ‘Get real, Max. The networking opportunities are great for me. There are a couple of big builders in it. Guys with connections.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  ‘And it turns out our abuelo was one of the founding members, but don’t mention that to Paula. It’ll just upset her.’

  ‘I won’t. No point in distressing her.’

  ‘Good man. You know, there are some nice new houses on the way to Cenes, and, strictly speaking, they’re not on the market yet. But I know the developer so I could probably get a discount for you to buy off-plan, and then you could make a killing in a couple of years.’

  ‘Juan, I’m not moving out of the Albayzín. End of story.’

  Half an hour later, Max turned the car off the motorway and headed into the mountains towards the town of Diva. They passed through Diva and out along the Jola road to a large farmhouse overlooking the river. Abuela Paula and Isabel were waiting to greet them, the younger woman gently supporting the older, who grasped her walking stick determinedly.

  ‘Oh, Max, Juan.’ Paula hugged them both tightly.

  ‘Abuelita, abuelita. It’s so good to see you.’

  ‘Ay, Max. Lilacs. How lovely. You remembered how much I love them. And Juan, you found my favourite cake.’

  Juan grinned at Max, who slipped his arm around his grandmother’s waist. As they walked towards the house, Leonardo and Encarnita belted back along the lane on their bikes.

  ‘Papá, papá.’

  ‘Leo, Nita. Mind Daddy’s arm.’

  ‘I’m fine, love, I’m fine.’

  ‘Did you get my book, Daddy?’

  ‘My Seville football?’

  ‘I sure did. Would I forget?’ said Juan.

  Isabel rounded up her brood and despatched them into the house to wash their hands, and then disappeared back into the kitchen.

  ‘Lunch should be ready in half an hour,’ she called. ‘Do you want to get changed, Juan?’

  ‘No, just a little glass of wine, and I’ll be ready to face those kids. Ah, Max, here’s Anita. Just on time.’

  Anita Guevarra’s small car crunch
ed up the driveway.

  Max opened the car door, and pecked Anita on the cheek. Paula embraced her warmly.

  ‘How are you, my dear?’

  ‘I’m well, Paula. I’m sorry, I didn’t have time to change. I had to go out and interview a witness this morning.’

  ‘Don’t worry, my dear; you look lovely in your Guardia Civil uniform. Doesn’t she, Max?’

  ‘Very.’

  ‘Green does suit you, my dear.’

  The big garden table had been pulled out of winter storage, back into its old position where the sweet chestnut tree was already casting a delicate shade with its fans of soft new leaves. When all were seated round it, Isabel brought out a large platter of seafood cooked with tomatoes, garlic, saffron and olive oil, rice cooked in fish stock, a golden, wobbling bowl of home-made mayonnaise and a jug of spicy sauce of roasted red peppers, pounded with garlic and capers to a rich purée.

  ‘But this is not paella,’ said Juan.

  ‘No. It is my new recipe,’ said Isabel.

  Conversation buzzed backward and forward across the table: worries about the impact of the proposed water-bottling plant on Diva’s water supply, Leo’s football team, and plans for young Encarnita’s First Holy Communion. When she thought no one would notice, Anita’s bright smile faded a little as she looked at Max.

  ‘So have you heard from the Mayor yet?’ Max asked Paula.

  ‘Sí, he’s agreed in principle we can open up the mass grave. But there’s a legal process to go through.’ Paula turned to Anita. ‘Did you know, my dear, there are still families who don’t want the grave opened?’

  ‘Really? But you have so many friends in the village. I’d have thought …’

  ‘The Quiros brothers are worried about potential costs – tightwads. And the Campos family don’t want another newspaper article denouncing their abuelo for supervising some of the executions.’

  ‘After so long?’

  ‘After so long.’

  ‘The Lorca family don’t want his grave opened, either,’ said Juan. ‘Quite right. No point in opening up old wounds. We’ve got to look forwards, not backwards.’

  ‘Bien,’ said Paula. ‘But we need to give those who were murdered in the Civil War a decent burial.’

  ‘I know how you feel, grandma, but we shouldn’t burden the younger generation with problems which aren’t theirs. And that’s what Cardinal … what’s his name, said.’

  Paula looked tired and upset. ‘Juan,’ she said, ‘I just want Antonio properly buried before I die. I can’t leave him lying in a pit in a ravine. He was my brother.’

  Juan fell silent.

  ‘Ay por Dios,’ said Isabel. ‘Why can’t we just forget the Civil War? Sometimes I think this village has a ghost at every table.’

  ‘Because there are ghosts at every table, Isabel. And wishing won’t make them go away. The dead need justice,’ said Paula.

  Juan concentrated on his dark chocolate and almond cake.

  ‘The cake’s a bit dry, abuela. Shall I get some cream?’

  ‘No, Juan, it’s as it should be. Where did you buy it? Pâtisserie la Giralda? I hope not.’

  ‘No, abuela. I did not.’

  Anita looked at Paula with a half-formed question on her lips.

  ‘My dear, the present owner’s grandfather was an informer for Franco. I would never buy anything from that shop.’

  Leo looked at his great grandmother, and gently punted the new football under the table at his uncle.

  ‘Tio Max, can we have a kickabout? Please. Mum, I’ve eaten everything.’

  Isabel looked relieved. ‘Of course you can, dear.’

  ‘All right, kid. Let’s try out this new ball then. Juan, you coming?’

  ‘Sure. I’ve still got my old skills. I can still beat you to a pulp.’

  The three went off to a worn patch of flat grass at the end of the garden.

  ‘Thanks, kid,’ said Juan. ‘Right. Let’s have penalties. Tio Max’ll be goalie.’

  Max saved the first penalty from Leo. Juan carefully placed the ball, stepped back four paces, grinned at Max, stepped up to the ball, and slid it into the left corner.

  ‘Gooooal!’ he yelled, and punched the air.

  ‘Who won?’ asked Isabel when she finally got them back for coffee.

  ‘Leo did. The boy’s got real talent. Takes after his papá.’

  As Max sipped his digestivo, he turned to Paula. ‘Sorry, abuela, I have to get back early.’

  ‘Oh, so soon?’

  ‘Really sorry, but I’m working on a case.’

  ‘I’ll walk you to your car, Max,’ said Anita.

  Max kissed Anita goodbye, in a brotherly sort of way. She hugged him, but Max didn’t hug back.

  ‘Shall I see you soon, Max?’

  ‘I’m really busy at the moment. I’ll call you as soon as I can.’

  ‘Max, we need to talk. How about a meal together?’

  ‘That’s a good idea. I’ll check my diary and give you a ring.’

  ‘That’s what you always say these days.’

  Paula called from the table: ‘Drive carefully, cariño. I’ll phone you tonight.’

  A few fat drops of rain splashed on the windscreen as he drove through the Granada suburbs. Ten minutes later a traffic cop halted the car.

  ‘Joder!’ said Max aloud. ‘Bloody Holy Week.’

  The procession, el Paso de la Cofradía of Jesús de la Sentencia y María Santísima de las Maravillas, was approaching.

  Five men, robed in black velvet and carrying banners on heavy silver poles, appeared round the corner, followed by a group of black-clad musicians playing a sombre march on drums, clarinet and trumpets. Robed, masked penitents marched behind them. Then came the tragic tableau of Jesus, sentenced to death, chained to a pillar, and whipped by Roman soldiers. The statues were life-size, the blood very bloody. And in the distance he could see the great, swaying bulk of a baroque image of the Virgin of Sorrows, cloaked in red and cloth-of-gold, enthroned on her palio, and carried shoulder-high by a sweating team of costaleros to bless the streets of Granada.

  Max did a U-turn and escaped through the back streets. By the time he reached his flat, the phone was ringing.

  ‘Maximiliano.’

  ‘Hola, abuela.’

  ‘Maximiliano, you are being unkind to Anita.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘You hardly spoke to her, and when she looked at you she seemed so sad. What’s wrong, Max? You can tell your abuela.’

  ‘Abuela … things are a bit difficult right now.’

  ‘Have you met someone else?’

  ‘No, abuela. No.’

  ‘So what’s the problem, then?’

  ‘It’s just …’

  ‘Max, she’s a lovely girl and I don’t want you making her unhappy.’

  ‘I don’t want to make her unhappy either.’

  ‘That’s good … But?’

  ‘Abuela, the spark’s just gone out of the relationship.’

  ‘So you don’t love her any more?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Maximiliano, you should do the right thing and tell her in plain words.’

  ‘But abuela, I don’t want to hurt her.’

  ‘If you don’t want to hurt her, you should be honest and make a clean break of it.’

  ‘But abuela – oh, that’s my milk boiling over. Have to run.’

  ‘Maximiliano, if you were here I’d read your forehead, and I’d know if you were fibbing.’

  There was a gentle click as Paula put the phone down.

  But Max knew she wouldn’t let the matter drop. Great things, families.

  Chapter 7

  The rain finally came on Monday. Max lay in his bed, listening to the heavy drops splashing on to his terrace. He padded to the living-room window. The jasmine in its terracotta pot was dripping water. And beyond the rooftops, the Alhambra was shrouded in cloud, apart from a shaft of light touching the Torre de la Vela.

  D
olores next door was practising her saeta, the flamenco psalm to the Virgin. If the rain stopped, and her Virgin, la Virgen de la Esperanza, left her home church, Dolores would stand on a balcony downtown tonight, and sing, alone and unaccompanied. The procession would stop, the crowd would fall still and silent, then Dolores would have her moment. But right now, things weren’t looking good. Neither for Dolores nor for la Virgen de la Esperanza. Rain would spoil the big day for both of them.

  Max took a quick shower, dressed, and munched a bowl of muesli. After breakfast, he took out his notebook and updated his ‘to do’ list on the Paco Maya case:

  Talk to the boss of Seguridad Victoriano. Find out who owns Cortijo de los Angeles.

  Talk to the sister, Catalina Maya, then to abuela Espinosa. Locate Lucía’s brothers, Gregorio and Mauricio Espinosa.

  Get prison report on Paco Maya’s health.

  Check if lab results back yet.

  Get vet’s report.

  Get tyre photos blown up in lab.

  Umbrella in hand, Max walked down the steep, wet streets of the Albayzín. A stream had already taken over the pathway in Cuesta de San Gregorio. Along Calle Elvira, he dodged the puddles where mud was flowing from the building sites. In Plaza de la Trinidad, where heretics had been burned, the trees still hadn’t recovered from a savage pruning. The sight of the mutilated branches reaching to the sky made Max feel very uncomfortable. Just as Easter did.

  He clocked in and walked up the stairs to his office, his boots leaving muddy prints on the freshly mopped tiles. On the second floor, Comisario Principal Bonila and Comisario Felipe Chávez were talking in the corridor. Chávez looked up as Max walked towards them.

  ‘Max, we were just talking about you.’

  Max paused. ‘Good things, I hope.’

  ‘Well, nothing bad. If you’re free at the moment, could you come into my room for a second?’

  ‘Certainly, sir.’ Max followed Chávez into his office.

  ‘Sit down, Max, and make yourself comfortable. We need a bit of help. You’ve probably seen the posters in town for this Anti-Globalization conference.’

  ‘Sí. They seem to be everywhere.’

  ‘They’ve got permission for a march and demonstration. We are worried there might be violence, and we don’t want a repeat of Genoa.’