The Exile (66 page)

Leaving the package on the table, she walked unsteadily to the bedroom and tumbled face down onto the bed. She kicked off her shoes and lay still, feeling the dull pounding in her head recede a little. She wondered about calling Isabel. She was still thinking about it as she fell asleep.

It was dark when she woke. Her mouth was dry and her feet ached from the long hours of walking, though at least the headache was gone. The clock on the table said eleven. She leaned over to her bedside table and turned on the radio.

‘...occurred around four o'clock when Calderón returned home. She was shot on the steps of her house by three masked men and was pronounced dead when the emergency services arrived. Police sources suspect the slaying is almost certainly linked to her husband's recent murder when...'

Galíndez turned off the radio and went into the living room. Opening the window, she breathed in the cool night air. Below, a chorus of voices, laughter, the chinking of glasses, the smell of frying mushrooms and garlic. People living their lives.

She went into the kitchen and got a bottle of
agua con gas
from the fridge. The fizzy water was sharp and cold, taking away some of the strange taste in her mouth.

The Amazon package lay on the table. Finally, she would be able to view the reel of film from Ochoa's apartment. Tearing the cardboard wrapper open, she took out the 8mm projector. Her phone vibrated on the table. She picked it up and looked at the screen.
UNKNOWN CALLER
.
A short text message:

You Killed Her

Galíndez put the phone down slowly. Rosario had told her she would get them both killed when they met in the Retiro. And now Rosario was dead, along with her husband and his business partner Jesper Karlsson. She realised she'd been correct when she'd suggested to the two investigators from Asuntos Externos that the killing of the men was some kind of warning. Rosario's was too. They were a warning to Galíndez.

There was only one person she could trust when things got tough and that was Uncle Ramiro. The best thing was to tell him everything, all the dirt on Rosario, the stolen children and GL Sanidad as well as the adoption certificate currently hidden under her carpet. Come clean about it all, before someone decided she'd had enough warnings.

The clock said eleven thirty. Ramiro always worked into the early hours so there was plenty of time to get cleaned up and check Ochoa's film before she made the call.

She went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, letting the hot water pound her aching shoulders as the small bathroom filled with steam. Leaving the fan running, she padded into the bedroom, grabbed a Barcelona shirt from the wardrobe and pulled it on, impatient to see what was on Ochoa's reel of film.

The projector was easy to set up. An instruction sheet with a large diagram in seven languages helped her get the spool of film fixed in place. She arranged a chair alongside the table and focused the projector beam on the wall.
Probably vintage pornography.
She turned out the overhead light and slumped into the chair, reaching for the button to start the film.
A night in, watching a movie all on my own. Been there.

The light of the projector cut through the semi-darkness, filling a section of the wall with a blurred monochrome rectangle. Strange shapes floated across the wall, the result of dirt or dust on the film. And then the image changed as the person holding the camera adjusted the lens, bringing the picture into focus.

A view from a car. The cameraman in the front passenger seat, pointing the camera through the window: streaks of dirt on the glass. The car slowed, passing a line of grey and ochre houses. A bakery, then a grocery by the look of it, shelves outside laden with fruit and vegetables, dried hams and pimientos hanging in the window.

The car came to a halt and the camera moved slightly, showing more of the windscreen. Some fifty metres away were several new-looking houses, the sort they built in the seventies and pulled down in the nineties. The camera focused on the entrance of one of the houses, capturing it in all its grey detail. Galíndez felt a growing sense of unease. Her mouth was dry and her breathing grew faster as she recognised the door that now filled the flickering picture. As the door opened, a figure appeared in the doorway and her body turned to ice. Despite the fluctuating quality of the film, she knew exactly when this film had been taken, and who was about to come through the door. And as the figure came into view, she mouthed a single word. ‘
Papá
.'

Her father, just as he was in photographs. Tall and muscular, his square jaw covered in dark stubble. Deep-set eyes fixed in a stern frown, his
guardia
uniform immaculate, the gun belt gleaming.
Papá
. Her father as she had never known him or, at least, never remembered him: alive. Her skin was painfully cold and she squirmed in the chair, hugging herself, chilled by the sense of encroaching darkness. Knowing this would get worse.

Papá
walked out of the door and down the path. He stopped and turned back to the open door, waiting for someone. And now that someone stepped out from the dark hallway, skipping through the front door into view. A little girl, big dark eyes blinking in the light of a spring morning. Eight-year-old Ana María Galíndez, wearing the uniform of the
Colegio del Niño Jesús
, an oversized satchel swinging from her shoulder as she turned in the direction of the camera, unaware of its presence, cocking her head to one side as her father spoke to her, her face wreathed in a smile.

Galíndez clenched her teeth, trying to stop them chattering, shaking as she watched these flickering images of her obliterated childhood. She blinked, feeling warm tears spill down her cheek. And then a barb of pain lanced through her head, the pain convulsing her, distorting her vision. Her hands tightened on the chair arms.

Little Ana María skipped to the kerb. The camera panned back, revealing a line of parked cars between her and the camera, shielding the unknown observer from view.
Papá
bent low for a goodbye kiss then pointed to the house. The little girl nodded, walking obediently to the door. A sudden recollection:
Mamá used to walk me to school.

Ana María standing by the door, waving. The camera panned back slowly, showing Miguel Galíndez as he crossed the road, car keys in his hand, behind him the blurred shape of the little girl, out of focus. The camera zoomed out as
Papá
opened the car door, throwing his shiny leather tricorne onto the passenger seat before turning to wave goodbye to his daughter. He looked towards the camera, the image shifting as the camera moved to one side to avoid him seeing it, the driver's arm raised towards the windscreen, the hand open in brief greeting.
Papá
waved back in casual acknowledgement. And then the camera zoomed in again as Teniente Miguel Galíndez climbed into his car on that spring day in 1992. Just as he did every day, though today was special. It was the last day of his life.

Tears came down her nose as Galíndez watched the film through a storm of strange lights and needles of pain. Something was very wrong. This was far worse than any of her previous episodes. A thin string of drool hung from her lips. And still she watched.

Papá
closed the car door and the camera panned to the little girl, focusing on her face, her hand waving with the indefatigable persistence of a child, determined to continue until her father drove around the corner and out of sight. The rectangle of light from the projector filled with the child's face as
Papá
started the engine and pulled away from the kerb, capturing her expression of disbelief as the explosion lifted the car into the air, flinging it along the road in a disintegrating fireball, recording the girl's transition from happiness through startled incomprehension to sudden, horrified understanding. The tears. The silent scream. The camera remained fixed on her face as she sank to her knees, looking up as her mother ran from the house, depicted by the camera as a skirt and legs, dark shoes, stumbling past the child in an attempt to save her husband from the inferno now cremating him.

And then the camera moved in slowly, amplifying the child's face, moving inexorably to her eyes, enlarging them into huge, impossibly dark shapes that filled the picture until, with a sudden dry flutter, the spool of film ran out.

Galíndez slid from the chair and lay on the floor, shivering, unable to move. Her mind was on fire and her body trembled with strange spasms. She tried to pull herself forward, feeling the rough carpet against her elbows. A faint sound outside on the stairs.
Help me.
But the words were in her head not her mouth. She looked up, realising the door was ajar. Perhaps she could attract attention, get help. She reached for the door and saw her hand fall limply to the carpet. It was the last thing she saw before she lost consciousness. By the time someone knocked, Galíndez was beyond hearing it.

The door opened. Two men in black ski masks. A fat man holding a pistol, the other short and skinny, carrying a Taser. Both stared at the woman sprawled face down on the floor, the Barcelona shirt rucked up around her legs.

‘What the fuck?' An East European accent. ‘Is she dead?'

The short man knelt by Galíndez's side and felt for a pulse. ‘She's alive. Maybe she's high or drunk. Whatever. She's coming with us.'

It took less than a minute to secure her. The fat man opened a small haversack, waiting as his companion pulled Galíndez's hands behind her back, securing her wrists with plastic flexi cuffs. Her hands now immobilised, he crossed her ankles and bound them with duct tape. Finally, they turned her on her side as the thin man unrolled a black plastic body bag. His companion cut a piece of duct tape and taped it across her eyes. A moment later, he placed a second piece of tape firmly over her mouth. Together, they manhandled her into the black plastic shroud, leaving only her face still showing.

She was easy to carry. One took her shoulders, the other her feet. They went down the stairs with hardly a sound except for the rustling of the black plastic as they negotiated the bend in the stairs. The man in front stumbled.

‘Careful,' the other one said, ‘they won't pay if she's damaged.'

They hurried out across the deserted road to a van parked by the far kerb. Two more men waited by the rear doors, watching as Galíndez was carried to the back of the vehicle. One of the men was tall, his biceps covered in obscene tattoos, the piercings in his face twinkling in the half-light. Standing next to him was an old man, tall and dapper in a suit and tie.

As the East Europeans pushed Galíndez into the van, a cat sidled across the road from the Mushroom Bar and brushed up against the old man's legs. The cat screeched as the old man lashed out, kicking it halfway across the road.

‘Fucking hell,' the big man said. ‘That's a lousy thing to do.'

‘Just do your job, Sancho,' the old man grunted. ‘Or I'll kick you.'

‘We get paid now?' the larger of the two East Europeans asked.

‘You do.' Sancho nodded. ‘She was no trouble then? That's a first.'

‘Fast asleep. I think she's pissed.'

Sancho unzipped the black plastic bag and pinched Galíndez's cheek. There was no response. ‘Is that a Barcelona shirt she's wearing?' he asked, amused.

A nod. ‘Says Messi on the back.'

The old man came closer for a better look. Sancho noticed his odour again: a blend of Cuban cigars and brandy. A dry crackling in his throat that might have been a laugh.

‘She's been wanting to meet me for some time.' He chuckled. ‘It's her lucky day.'

‘You're not kidding. It's going to be a real surprise when she wakes up and finds you standing over her.' Sancho pulled the zip on the body bag higher, leaving only her nose exposed.

‘She thinks she's tough,' the old man muttered. ‘A few hours with me and she'll eat shit if I tell her to.'

Sancho took a drag on his cigarette. ‘Just like the good old days, eh?' He looked round at the others. ‘Anyone want a look at her tits before we set off?' The two East Europeans nodded vigorously as he reached for the zip of the body bag.

‘No,' the old man said. ‘It's always better to undress them just before they're tortured. It adds to the stress.' He glowered at Sancho. ‘I'm used to dealing with professionals.'

‘Oh, you're the expert all right.' Sancho flicked his cigarette into the gutter. ‘Let's get going then, Señor Guzmán.'

The two men got into the cab, and the East Europeans scrambled into the back alongside Galíndez. Sancho started the engine and the van moved off down the cobbled road, heading for Calle de la Colegiata. From the small bar below Galíndez's flat, laughter and loud voices echoed in the night air. A sudden blast of synthesised drumbeats.

The karaoke was beginning.

~

We hope you enjoyed this book.

The Dead
, the next gripping book in the Vengeance of Memory series will be released in spring 2017

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The Exile