A Darker Night Read online

  ‘But the Genoa demonstration was huge,’ said Max. ‘And there seems to have been a lot of police provocation there.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Chávez. ‘The Italian police really messed up. So we want you to go through the websites to see if there’s anything which would help our planning.’

  ‘I’d enjoy that, sir.’

  ‘Good, and we’d like you and Sub-Inspector Belén to attend the conference. See if you can spot the violence brigade, and get names and photos.’

  ‘I may be recognized,’ said Max.

  ‘We’ve thought of that. But your fluent English will be invaluable. And Roberto Belén won’t be known. So even if you get chucked out, he’ll be able to stay.’

  ‘But I’m on a case at the moment.’

  ‘We know. We’re going to ask Davila to release you.’

  ‘I’d rather not, sir, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Is there a problem, Max?’

  ‘We’re still awaiting the autopsy, sir.’

  Chávez glanced at him, sharply. ‘So you think there’s more to it than Davila reported?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Plus, we have a sharp new judge on the case who’s keen as mustard.’

  ‘I see. So the new judge might cause us grief if we don’t do it by the book?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  ‘Let’s compromise, shall we? You spend a little more time on the case now, but the priority is to check those websites and attend the conference. Then you can go back on the case.’

  ‘That seems fair, sir. But what will I tell Inspector Jefe Davila?’

  ‘I’ll sort that out. Any serious problems, just let me know.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘We’ll be having a meeting tomorrow lunchtime, 2 p.m. prompt.’

  ‘I’ll have the report.’

  Max saluted and left. He went into the secretaries’ office. There was a fax on one of the machines, from the prison. Paco Maya had had a chronic heart condition. Any strain might have provoked a heart attack. Max photocopied the report, put the original into an envelope, went downstairs, and slid it under the door of Navarro’s office.

  He returned to his office, switched on his PC and checked his emails. There was a message from Navarro.

  ‘Next of kin is a minor. Daughter, Angelita. Lives with grandmother, Carmen Espinosa, at Calle Libertad, N° 7, Haza Grande. Grandmother informed Sunday. Only other known relative is a sister, Catalina Maya. Address unknown. Interview grandmother, track down and interview sister.’

  Max picked up the phone and dialled the vet.

  ‘El pobrecito. Poor little thing,’ the vet said. ‘Looks like some bastard had kicked him hard. Fortunately the guy wasn’t wearing heavy boots, so there are no broken bones. But the dog is badly bruised. The injury is definitely recent.’

  ‘Can you tell what sort of shoes?’ asked Max.

  ‘Sorry. We can tell the difference between a kick and, say, being hit with a stick, but we can’t go much beyond that.’

  ‘Muchas gracias.’

  Max then checked the address of Seguridad Victoriano. It was quite close as well. So he could go and see the grandmother, stop off at Seguridad Victoriano, then on to Almanjáyar to track down Lucía’s brothers. Max walked to the car park and got into his car. It had stopped raining. It didn’t take him long to drive to the grandmother’s house in Haza Grande.

  On Calle Libertad, three boys were cruising around on bikes and another boy was showing off on a mini motorbike. Max watched them for a while. Flamenco blared from an industrial-strength sound system, perched on a window sill, and a dejected-looking donkey stood tethered to a lamppost. Max knocked on the door of number 7. A stout, unhealthy-looking woman wearing an apron and carpet slippers answered.

  ‘Qué? The cop’s been here already.’

  ‘I know,’ said Max. ‘My sincere condolences for Paco Maya’s death.’

  ‘Only what he deserved,’ she retorted.

  ‘Do you mind if I come in and ask a few more questions?’

  ‘I was just going out. You can ask them here.’

  ‘Vale,’ said Max. ‘I take it you and Paco Maya did not get on.’

  ‘After what he did to my beautiful daughter, what do you expect?’

  ‘And Angelita?’

  ‘She knows what the bastard did to her mamá.’

  A pretty young girl, eight or nine years old, appeared round the street corner, munching something from a paper bag. She saw Max, looked at the boys on the bikes and started to run towards them.

  ‘Angelita, inside this minute or I’ll leather you. Tomasito, Nico, Rafa – go home! Now!’

  The girl looked at her grandmother balefully, but went inside. The boys stared at Max for a moment, then cycled off.

  ‘So that’s Angelita?’

  ‘Sí.’

  Max continued: ‘Paco had a sister, I believe – Catalina.’

  ‘Correcto.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find her?’

  ‘Ni idea. Haven’t seen her for years, ever since she walked out on my Mauricio. Left him broken-hearted. The nasty bitch.’

  ‘Could you tell me where I can contact Gregorio or Mauricio?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘All right. I’m told you went to see Paco in jail to get him to sell his land.’

  ‘Who told you that? That nosy cow, Concepción?’

  ‘But it’s true, isn’t it?’

  ‘Sí.’

  ‘But Paco refused to sell?’

  ‘Sí. I told him it was for Angelita, but he wouldn’t listen. I told my boys, and they said he was a stupid, selfish bastard.’

  ‘So your sons knew you wanted Paco to sell?’

  Carmen Espinosa stared suspiciously at Max. ‘So what?’

  ‘Where can I find your sons?’

  She paused. ‘Ni idea.’ And with that she slammed the door shut in Max’s face.

  The offices of Seguridad Victoriano were located down a side street tucked between dingy grey blocks just off the city centre. Max knocked on the office door and entered. A woman in a tight red dress was sitting behind a desk, painting her nails an even brighter red than her dress. She looked up and smiled coquettishly.

  ‘Un poli. Well … what can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m looking for the boss,’ Max said.

  ‘What a shame. And there I was thinking that you might be looking for me. I could do with a body search.’

  ‘I’d have to arrest you first.’

  ‘I’d look forward to that.’

  ‘Maybe some other time,’ said Max. ‘When I catch you doing something illegal.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to that as well. I’ll have to think of something deliciously illegal.’

  She scraped her chair backwards, and shoved open the door of the inner office. ‘Víctor. There’s a poli here. He wants to see you.’

  Víctor was a small grey man in a crumpled suit. He looked at Max. ‘Don’t tell me the cops need protecting now.’

  Max laughed. ‘No. Not yet. But the way things are going we will do soon. No, I’m here to ask about a property you are protecting, El Cortijo de los Angeles, at the end of Sacromonte.’

  ‘Sí. That’s one of ours.’

  ‘Do you know who the owner is?’

  ‘It’s a company. Gredas SA.’

  ‘And the owner?’

  ‘Ni idea. The fewer questions you ask in this job, the longer you live.’

  ‘But they pay you in advance?’

  ‘Of course. Our company policy. Never take on a job until the cheque’s cleared or we get cash up front.’

  ‘How were you paid for this job?’

  Víctor paused and looked at the woman in red.

  ‘Cash,’ she said.

  ‘En efectivo,’ he echoed.

  ‘And you have a receipt?’

  ‘Sure. We pay our taxes, you know.’

  ‘You don’t happen to have the receipt here, do you?’

  Víctor looked at the woman ag
ain. ‘Sí. We do.’

  ‘Could I see it?’ asked Max.

  Víctor paused, ‘Don’t see why not.’

  The woman opened her desk drawer and took out a big black ledger.

  Max looked at the receipt. ‘Received from … an illegible scribble … the sum of 5,200 euros … but there’s no legible name. And that’s all you know?’

  ‘That’s all we need to know,’ said Víctor.

  ‘Quite a lot of cash to hand over. How did he pay it?’

  The woman smiled at Max. ‘Ten five hundreds and two one hundred notes.’

  Víctor scowled.

  ‘Gracias,’ said Max. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘We’re always pleased to help the police,’ said Víctor, returning to his office at the back.

  ‘My name’s Gloria. Remember that arrest. I’m still thinking about something really wicked to do.’

  ‘I’ll remember,’ said Max. ‘If you recall anything else to do with this case, phone me. Here’s my card.’

  Max returned to his car, drove towards the blocks of grey flats of Almanjáyar, then looked for somewhere safe to park. He called out to a bunch of young men lounging on the kerb. ‘Is there a Policía Local here?’

  They looked at him as if he were from another planet.

  ‘Ningún idea,’ one of them finally replied and then spat on the pavement. ‘Don’t think we have one of them here,’ he added, turning to his mates.

  ‘Never heard of one,’ they echoed.

  Max sighed and started his car.

  ‘You could ask the poli in Granada,’ one of them called out.

  A little further on, there was a church with its gates open. Max parked the car inside the gates, and went to look for the priest. The priest was in the sacristy, folding his vestments. Max coughed and the priest turned. He was young and fresh-faced.

  ‘Father Gerardo Arredondo,’ he said, and shook Max’s outstretched hand.

  ‘Sub-Inspector Max Romero from the Policía Nacional,’ replied Max. ‘Sorry to disturb you. But I’m looking for two gypsy brothers, Mauricio and Gregorio Espinosa. I believe they live around here. Do you know where I can find them?’

  ‘Ah. Don’t know them, but I know their mother. And I know Catalina, Mauricio’s ex-novia. She was a regular at our women’s refuge before she left him.’

  ‘So Mauricio has a record of violence?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. His brother as well.’

  ‘You don’t know where I might find Catalina?’

  ‘No. She’s just moved and I don’t have her new address yet. She moves around so Mauricio can’t go and pay her a visit. But she comes back here to help with the refuge. I have a mobile number for her.’

  The priest fished in his pocket for his own mobile, checked the contacts list and wrote the number down.

  ‘Gracias,’ said Max, carefully folding the piece of paper. ‘Can you think of anyone who would know where the Espinosa brothers live?’

  ‘Well, there’s the mother, of course.’

  ‘Tried her. She wouldn’t tell me.’

  ‘Sí, típico. I would have expected that.’

  ‘Can you think of anyone else?’

  ‘Not anyone who would tell you.’

  ‘That’s unfortunate.’

  ‘But there’s a good chance they might be in the Bar Gitano. If they aren’t in town, sometimes they go to Nerja.’

  ‘Where can I find this bar?’

  ‘At the end of the street.’

  ‘Muchas gracias, padre.’

  It was a surprisingly long walk to the end of the street. It began to rain, and Max lengthened his stride. The Bar Gitano was a rough, unwelcoming place.

  ‘Un carajillo?’ asked the barman.

  ‘Just un café con leche.’

  The barman stared at Max’s blue uniform, and grunted. The bar was full, noisy when he entered, but now uncomfortably silent. The barman banged the coffee down in front of him, poured the hot milk until it ran over the top of the cup, and shuffled away. Max cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m looking for two brothers, Mauricio and Gregorio Espinosa,’ he said. ‘Anyone know where I might find them?’

  ‘Don’t live around here,’ said a skinny guy, stroking an ugly dog’s ears.

  ‘Never heard of them,’ said a fat man in a dirty shirt.

  Max stood up, and stared around. Two pony-tailed guys, who looked as if they might be brothers, were sitting in a corner sipping their carajillos. Max walked towards them.

  ‘Excuse me, señores. Do either of you know Gregorio or Mauricio Espinosa?’ he asked pleasantly.

  ‘Por qué? Who’s asking?’

  ‘I just need to ask them a few questions about the death of a gitano, Paco Maya. He died a few days ago in Sacromonte.’

  ‘Paco!’ exclaimed an old gent seated at the bar. ‘You didn’t –’

  ‘Joder! You stupid old fart.’

  The brothers stood up quickly. One punched Max hard in the stomach, and the other pushed him over a chair, then they both ran out of the bar. Max lay on the floor gasping for breath. Nobody came to help. He pulled himself to his feet, wiping crushed peanuts and cigarette ash from his trousers.

  ‘How much for the coffee?’ he asked the barman. ‘So those two goons were Mauricio and Gregorio Espinosa?’

  There was a deadly silence.

  Max limped back to the church. He had twisted his knee slightly when he fell over the chair. When he got back to his car, the tyres had been slashed. The youths he’d seen earlier were still on the pavement opposite the church, laughing. He phoned the Policía Nacional and explained his situation. Roberto Belén came to rescue him.

  ‘You all right, Max?

  ‘Could have been worse. The car’s still got wheels.’

  ‘Verdad … So this is the infamous Almanjáyar. I never thought it was a gitano area.’

  ‘Poor bloody gitanos. Their caves in Sacromonte got flooded back in the 1950s. They spent twenty years in temporary housing, and then the town hall finally dumped them in Almanjáyar. End of their community, end of their culture.’

  ‘And we have to pick up the pieces,’ said Belén. ‘What’s new? By the way, Inspector Navarro wants to see you.’

  ‘Great.’

  Max took out his mobile and called Catalina Maya’s number. No reply. Back at headquarters, he went to the bathroom, splashed his face with cold water, straightened his tie and uniform, and then walked to Navarro’s office.

  ‘The bastard’s going to enjoy this,’ Max muttered to himself.

  Navarro was at his desk, pretending to be occupied with some report. He kept Max standing, slowly finished what he was reading, and looked up. ‘I’ve got this report from the prison authorities on that gitano. The old lag had a dodgy heart. So what the fuck were you doing farting around in Almanjáyar?’

  ‘A reliable witness reported, sir, that the two brothers of Lucía Maya, that’s Paco’s murdered wife, had threatened to kill Paco as soon as he was out. She’s sure they are the ones who had painted Asesino on his cave wall.’

  ‘Doesn’t mean to say they killed him.’

  Max looked at him challengingly.

  ‘Okay, Max. Yes, I suppose we’d better get them picked up. We can nail them for assaulting a police officer. It won’t do much good though. And in future, report to me before going off. And learn some basic self-defence, for God’s sake.’

  Max remained silent.

  ‘Any joy with the old lady or the sister?’

  ‘I spoke to Señora Espinosa, but she wasn’t giving anything away. So far, I’ve not been able to locate the sister, but I have a mobile number for her.’

  ‘Okay. Davila said you’ve been assigned to another task until Monday. But that doesn’t matter. We can close this bloody case as soon as we have the autopsy report.’

  Max saluted, then headed for the nearest bar. He felt better when he had finished the red wine.

  Back in his office, Max removed his tie and jacket, Goo
gled ‘Anti-Globalization Movement’ and eventually found details of the conference in Granada, with a list of keynote speakers, workshops and plenary sessions.

  There were a lot of talks. ‘The Coming Financial Crisis’, ‘What’s Left of the Left in Europe?’, ‘Women, Migration and Strategies for Self-Determination’. Carlos was giving a talk, ‘Saving the Albayzín’. Max smiled. He would try to go to that one. Then he struck gold. On Thursday morning there was a workshop, ‘The Women’s Movement and Male Violence in Spain’, with Catalina Maya, a plenary session on ‘Sustainability and the Urban Crisis in Granada: Time for Action’ with Francisco Gómez in the afternoon, and a closed session in the evening. A closed session. Drat. That would be the one where they decided tactics for the demo. Okay. There might be a clue to what was planned on the websites of the groups involved.

  Mierda. He found lengthy debates on the dialectic of unity and outflanking, non-violent tactics, sit-ins, lie-ins, die-ins … Max sighed, remembering his student days. And now he was on the other side of the barricades.

  He checked the registration details. It was possible to register at the door, with a ten-euro fee.

  Max closed down his computer, and looked out of the window. It was raining again. He walked into the cloakroom where he had left his umbrella. The umbrella had gone. ‘Joder! You can’t even trust the cops these days.’

  Chapter 8

  On Tuesday morning, Max got up early, finished his notes on the conference and then walked through the wet shining streets to work. There was an email from Guillermo in Forensics waiting for him when he got to his office.

  ‘Max. Copy of my report to the judge attached. The actual cause of death was a heart attack, but there’s evidence suggesting violence shortly before death. Between the tattoos, lividity and old scarring, the bruising was hard to spot, but the deceased seems to have been restrained. This may not be related to the heart attack, but the judge won’t sign it off yet. Looks like you guys are going to have to earn your pay for once. You owe me one. Guillermo.’

  Max skimmed through the attachment. His phone rang. It was Navarro.

  ‘Have you read Guillermo’s report yet?’

  ‘No, just got it.’

  ‘Davila wants a meeting at eleven. Can you do a preliminary report by then? Guillermo can’t attend.’