A Murder of No Consequence Read online

  A MURDER OF NO CONSEQUENCE

  James Garcia Woods

  © James Garcia Woods 1999

  James Garcia Woods has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1999 by Robert Hale Limited.

  This edition published in 2018 by Endeavour Media Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Part Two

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Part Three

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Part One

  Madrid 10–15 July 1936

  Chapter One

  Madrid, that summer, was a city suffocating under a blanket of heat and a dark cloud of fear. Armed gangs roamed the streets like packs of rabid dogs. Shots cut through thick night air; the rattle of machine-gun bullets punctuated the usual afternoon calm. Anarchists shot fascists, socialists killed communists. In the first week of July alone, eleven young men were murdered for their political beliefs. And the Minister of the Interior sat in his office on the Puerta del Sol, and let it happen.

  *

  The driver of the stolen black car, which was heading along one of the wide, tree-lined avenues towards the centre of Retiro Park, knew all about the killings, and regretted that some of them had happened. But there were other deaths, he was convinced, which were necessary; and for one of these, he himself had been responsible only the night before. He had killed without hesitation or remorse, and now, as he drove past the artificial lake and the equestrian statue of Alfonso XII – the last king to rule an empire – he held his left hand up in front of his eyes to see if it was still steady. He could find not even the slightest hint of a tremble. He congratulated himself. There were not many men who could have done what he’d done and still be so calm, he thought smugly.

  In the distance he could see the Crystal Palace, topped by its glass dome. A little further into the park, he told himself, and he could complete his previous evening’s work. He brought the stolen car to a halt beside a clump of trees, and looked around him. The avenue he had driven up was deserted, as he’d expected it to be at that time of the morning. Leaving the engine idling, he got out of the car and opened the boot. Inside it was a long, thin bundle wrapped in a piece of sacking. He picked up the bundle as if it weighed nothing, and headed into the trees. When he re-emerged, a few seconds later, he had only the sacking in his hands.

  Chapter Two

  The park keeper studied the two men walking towards him. One was a little taller than average, had a tight, compact frame, and moved with the grace of a man who was fully aware of his body’s potential. He wore a pin-striped blue suit – which looked like it had been chosen without much thought, but was good on him anyway – and he was clean-shaven. The other man was a little shorter than his compañero, but probably weighed around thirty kilos more. He had a bushy black moustache, and his suit had the appearance of having been bought second-hand from a stall at the Sunday morning Rastro. The keeper was not sure whether or not they were policemen, but he certainly hoped they were, because he was finding the responsibility of looking after the girl’s body a considerable strain.

  The two men drew level with the keeper, and came to a halt. The thinner one reached into his jacket pocket, pulled out a leather wallet and flicked it open to show his warrant card.

  ‘Inspector Ruiz,’ he said, speaking with the accent of a country boy who had lived in Madrid for a considerable time. ‘And this is Constable Fernández. Are you the one who found the body?’

  ‘Yes . . . I . . .’

  ‘Take us to her.’

  The keeper turned and led the two detectives through the trees into a small clearing, where a second keeper was standing guard. The victim was lying sprawled, face upwards, among the roots of a mature elm. She was a pretty girl. Her nose was slim, without being pinched, the wide eyes seemed more astonished than afraid. Beneath her oval chin was a line of ugly black bruises.

  ‘Oh, God!’ Paco Ruiz gasped.

  His partner, Fat Felipe, raised a surprised eyebrow. ‘Something wrong, jefe?’

  Paco shook his head. ‘No, nothing wrong at all.’

  But there was. His first sight of the girl had shocked him. Not because she was so young or pretty, nor because of the nature of her death. It was something else entirely. Though he would swear he’d never seen her before, he had an overpowering feeling that he knew her.

  ‘Jefe . . .?’ Felipe said tentatively.

  Paco took a deep breath, and turned to the man who had discovered the body. ‘What time did you find her?’ he asked.

  ‘Must have been half an hour ago. Maybe a bit more.’

  ‘This spot’s a bit isolated. What brought you here?’

  ‘I . . . I was taking a short cut to the head keeper’s office.’

  ‘And once you’d found her, what did you do then?’

  ‘I looked around for help. I saw Augustin coming up the paseo . . .’

  ‘I was just reporting for duty,’ the second keeper explained.

  ‘. . . and I told him to telephone you. Then I came back here to watch over her.’ He looked down at the girl again. ‘She’s very young, isn’t she?’

  ‘She’s about as old as anybody ever gets,’ Paco said. ‘Was there anyone else around at the time?’

  ‘No one. It’s about the quietest time in the whole day. Most people are in the bars, taking their mid-morning break.’

  That was true enough, Paco thought. ‘You can go,’ he said.

  ‘Go?’ repeated the keeper. ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Just like that,’ Paco agreed. ‘I’ll send someone round to take your statements later.’

  The two keepers made their way back to the paseo. They seemed reluctant to leave, but that was often the way it was with civilians – violent death repelled them, yet at the same time it held a horrible fascination.

  Paco lit a Celtas, took a deep drag, looked down at the girl again, and felt a small, involuntary shudder run through his body.

  ‘You want me to examine her?’ asked Fat Felipe, who had noticed Paco’s reaction, just as he always noticed everything that his boss said or did.

  Paco grinned. ‘No, I’ll do it,’ he said. ‘If you get on the ground, it’ll take a bloody crane to raise you up again.’

  Gritting his teeth, he bent down and placed the back of his hand against the girl’s cheek.

  ‘Is she cold?’ Felipe asked, over Paco’s shoulder.

/>   ‘Very.’

  The peace of the park was suddenly shattered by the sound of gunshots in the distance. Though he’d been under fire many times in Morocco, Paco still felt his stomach churn, and despite the fact he could already feel the weapon pressing against him, he automatically checked his pistol was in his shoulder holster.

  More shots.

  ‘Do you think we should go and see what’s happening?’ Fat Felipe asked.

  ‘No! Public order’s not our job,’ Paco said.

  He turned his attention back to the girl. She was around twenty or twenty-one, he guessed. He, himself, was thirty-six, and had been for more than ten hours. He wondered if he should celebrate his birthday, and decided there wasn’t much to celebrate.

  There was a third burst of shooting in the distance. Paco took the hem of the girl’s blue dress between his finger and thumb, and rubbed softly. He was no expert, but it felt like silk to him.

  ‘Do you think she was killed here, jefe?’ Felipe asked.

  Paco straightened up and looked at the dusty ground around the dead girl. ‘No. There isn’t any sign of a struggle, and even if she’d not been able to do anything else, she’d have lashed out with her feet and left heel-marks in the dirt.’

  ‘Could have been killed somewhere close and brought here,’ Felipe suggested.

  Or murdered miles away, Paco thought.

  From their right came the sound of a siren wailing. It grew louder and louder, until it was almost ear-shattering. Then, through a gap in the trees, they saw a speeding car containing four Guardias de Asalto – the new police force that the government had created because it did not trust the old-established Guardia Civil.

  ‘Here come the guts-and-glory boys,’ Fat Felipe said sourly.

  The car screamed past the copse. Paco lit another cigarette, then cocked his head to look at the girl from another angle. He felt a slight stabbing pain, and wondered why he couldn’t summon up his usual professional objectivity – wondered, in fact, why he seemed as morbidly fascinated with her as the park keepers had been. ‘Does she remind you of anyone, Felipe?’ he asked.

  ‘Somebody I know, do you mean? Or somebody famous?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Paco admitted.

  Fat Felipe shrugged his heavy shoulders. ‘Can’t say she does.’

  Paco bent down again, opened the girl’s bag and laid the contents neatly on the grass in front of him. There was not much – a handkerchief, some cosmetics, a purse, a few hair clips. And a colour postcard of the Virgin of somewhere-or-other.

  ‘A good Catholic,’ Felipe said.

  Yes, and that’s rare enough these days, Paco thought. He opened the purse. It contained a few coins, a metro ticket and a cardboard religious calendar. ‘I know nobody pays much attention to the law any more, but it is still an offence not to carry your DNI on you, isn’t it?’ he asked sarcastically.

  Fat Felipe nodded. ‘Identification papers must be shown to any officer of the law who wishes to see them,’ he quoted, taking the question at face value.

  ‘Then where’s this girl’s identification card?’

  Fat Felipe shrugged again. ‘Maybe the killer took it.’

  ‘And why should he want to do that?’

  ‘To slow down the investigation. We can’t very well work out who’d be likely to kill her when we don’t even know who she is.’

  That made sense. Yet even in a big city like Madrid, the murderer couldn’t imagine that it would take them long to come up with a name. Everybody had family and friends – a grey-haired grandmother or worried father – who would report to one of the police stations that Pili, or Mariluz, had gone missing.

  The Asaltos car passed them again, heading back for the city. It contained the same officers as before, but now, between the two on the back seat, was another man – wearing a blue shirt which was soaked in blood.

  Fat Felipe scratched his backside reflectively. ‘Ever get the feeling we’re wasting our time, jefe?’ he asked, as the sound of the siren faded away.

  Paco ground his cigarette butt under his heel. ‘Wasting our time? What makes you say that?’

  ‘The country’s going to hell,’ Felipe said. ‘The murder rate’s at an all-time high, the detection rate at an all-time low. And it can only get worse. So, when you think about it, does it really matter whether we find the killer in this case or not?’

  Paco looked down at the girl again and tried to imagine her as she would have been in life. Those eyes might once have looked kind and hopeful. The generous mouth must have produced some radiant smiles. Maybe by the time she’d reached thirty-six, she’d have felt sorry for herself too – but she’d never been given that opportunity to make that choice.

  ‘Yes, it matters,’ he said. ‘Even if nobody else gives a damn, it still matters to me.’

  Chapter Three

  Captain Hidalgo swivelled in his chair, and looked up at the photograph hanging on his office wall. There were two men in the picture, one a lieutenant and the other a corporal. They were posing, perhaps a little awkwardly, in front of an adobe fort.

  The lieutenant was a broad, square-headed man. His face – big nose, wide mouth, and eyebrows like scrubbing brushes – looked oddly unfinished, as if it had been carved by a sculptor who had got bored half-way through and given up.

  The corporal was younger. His hair was dark, and his eyes shone with intelligence. He had a long straight nose, a pleasant mouth and a chin which suggested either determination or stubbornness.

  The captain sighed. ‘When was that picture of us taken, Paco?’ he asked.

  ‘June 1921, I think.’

  Hidalgo turned to face his inspector. ‘1921,’ he repeated. ‘Fifteen years ago. When we were young.’ He sighed again. ‘Still, they were great days, weren’t they?’

  Paco, who was standing in the at-ease position, shifted his weight slightly. ‘Great days? Do you really think so?’

  ‘But of course they were. What times we had in Morocco! What sights we saw. What things we did.’

  A thin smile came to Paco’s face. ‘Sometimes, when I hear you describing it with so much enthusiasm, I think we must have been in different armies,’ he said.

  ‘Different armies! What rubbish you can talk!’ Hidalgo snorted, missing the point. ‘Why, weren’t you by my side all the way through the siege of Melilla? And thank God you were there – or I wouldn’t be sitting behind this desk today.’

  ‘And I probably wouldn’t be a policeman.’

  ‘You’d always have been a policeman, whether you’d met me or not,’ Hidalgo told him. ‘You were born to be a policeman.’ He clasped his big hands together. ‘Yes, I still miss Morocco,’ he confessed. ‘Life was a lot less complex than it is here. For a start, you always knew who your enemies were.’ He paused. ‘Now, tell me about this new murder of yours.’

  Paco filled him in on the details. ‘It’s almost certainly a domestic case,’ he said when he reached the end.

  Hidalgo raised his scrubbing brush eyebrows a fraction of an inch. ‘Isn’t it rather early in the investigation to be making such an assumption?’

  Paco shrugged. ‘What else could it be but a domestic? If it had been political, she’d have been shot, not strangled. Sexual, and she’d have been naked, or at least had her clothes disarranged. Robbery, and the murderer would have taken her purse, even though it only contained small change.’

  The captain nodded. ‘Very well, treat it as a domestic killing. But keep me informed of developments.’ He reached across his desk for the stack of papers he had been putting off dealing with. ‘That will be all, Inspector.’

  ‘How many men can I have for this investigation, sir?’ Paco asked.

  ‘Fat Felipe was with you in the park, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then use him.’

  ‘And the rest of the team?’

  ‘There is no rest,’ Hidalgo said.

  ‘But sir—’

  ‘If it’s as simple as you claim,
two men should be enough to wrap it up.’

  ‘I don’t even know the girl’s name,’ Paco protested.

  ‘Are you saying you can’t solve this case without a bigger team?’ Hidalgo asked challengingly. ‘If so, perhaps I’d better put another investigator onto . . .’

  ‘I can solve it,’ Paco interrupted, ‘but it could take days. Now if you’d give me just a couple more men . . .’

  Hidalgo’s eyebrows rose again, this time in an annoyance which was not far from anger. ‘The department is stretched to the bloody limit,’ he said. He picked up the sheaf of documents and shook them in the direction of his inspector. ‘Do you know what all these are?’ he demanded. ‘Case notes on political murders! We have to investigate each and every one of them – even though we know they’re random killings, so there’s no chance of making an arrest. And you want more men? Joder, inspector, you should be kissing my arse for even giving you Fat Felipe.’

  ‘If we allow the trail to go cold—’ Paco persisted.

  The captain raised a hand to silence him, then swung round in his chair so that he was looking out of the window. Almost as if he’d arranged for it to happen, an open car, filled with blue-shirted Falangists, chose that moment to drive by on the other side of the square.

  ‘Look at that!’ he said. There were six young men in that car, each – apart from the driver – waving a machine-gun above his head. ‘You get the message?’ Hidalgo growled.

  ‘“We have the weapons – and we can use them any time we want to”?’

  ‘Exactly. Now why do you think we let them get away with displays like that?’

  ‘Because they have friends in high places?’ Paco guessed.

  ‘No! It’s not because they have friends in high places. It’s because, much as I’d like to throw their aristocratic backsides straight in gaol, much as it offends every instinct I’ve ever had as a policeman to see them carrying on like that, arresting that lot would be like lighting a few sticks of dynamite and then stuffing them down our own pants.’

  ‘You arrested their leader,’ Paco pointed out.