Authors: P J Brooke
‘But, sir—’
‘Romero, any attempt to pursue this further will be treated with the utmost seriousness. Do I make myself clear?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Max. He saluted, and left the office. He needed to phone Anita. When he spoke to her, he felt like crying, but managed to hold back any tears.
‘I feared this would happen,’ said Anita. ‘After all, it is the cops. There’s nothing in it for them.’
‘There is such a thing as justice,’ said Max.
‘Justice,’ laughed Anita sardonically. ‘That’s only for crime novels. What are you going to do?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’
‘When can I see you again, Max?’
‘Not just now, but soon. I’m missing you.’
‘Me too, Max. A big hug.’
‘Gracias, Anita. I need it.’
Max went back inside the police station, sat at his desk, and furiously began to fill in all the forms he had left lying on his desk. He went through the motions of being a policeman for the rest of the week. But all his actions were robotic, without feeling. He phoned Anita every evening, and sometimes they talked for over an hour. He thought of phoning Jorge, but decided it was time he grew up and solved this one for himself. He had to work Saturday, so he was unable to leave for Diva until Sunday morning. Before setting off, he phoned Ahmed. He hadn’t seen Ahmed since the terrorist attack. They arranged to meet early on Sunday evening.
Podrán matar al gallo que anuncia el alba,
Pero no pueden impedir que cada día el alba surja de nuevo
.
They could kill the cockerel that announces the dawn
But they cannot stop the sun from rising every day.
Inscription on a memorial to Manuel Gómez Poyato,
executed outside Granada on 5
th
September 1936
The Sunday family meal went well. Paula and Isabel were still getting on. And Juan was still being faithful to Isabel. Max doubted it would last – Juan had a roving eye. But Isabel had learnt to live with that. Jane was over for lunch again.
At the end of the meal, Max said, ‘I promised Ahmed I would call round and see him.’
‘That’s useful,’ said Paula. ‘We promised Jane’s mother we’d run her home. Leonardo . . . you help Isabel with the dishes. It’s time you helped out. Boys have got to learn to cope in kitchens.’
‘Can I come with you?’ said Encarnación.
‘I could do with a run in the car myself. Why don’t we all go? Encarnita and I can have an ice cream while you see Ahmed,’ said Paula.
‘Okay,’ said Max. ‘Bit harsh on Leonardo.’
‘We’ll bring him back some ice cream.’
Max dropped Jane off at her house, left Paula and Encarnita at la Heladería, before stopping at Ahmed’s.
They embraced cordially.
‘Max. Good to see you. I saw you and your cousin Juan on the television . . . Are you well?’
‘Yes, thank you . . . and I read your article about the shootings. It was very perceptive.’
‘It’s all to do with politics, isn’t it? Religion has become a part of the political struggle. Without a just political solution we’ll see a lot more deaths, and Israel and America will keep bombing even more innocent civilians. What’s the word they use – yes, collateral damage.’
‘I agree. I don’t see an end in sight.’
They talked about world events, the elections in Spain. Max told Ahmed about his last conversation with Javeed.
‘So we still don’t know who killed Leila then.’ Ahmed bowed his head, and let the tears trickle down his cheeks. ‘Allah . . . I’ve thought about Juan, Max. I’d be grateful if you drew a veil over Juan’s relationship with Leila. It would only harm his family. It’s over now. However, I would like to see Juan when he has a few minutes.’
‘I’m sure he’d be pleased to talk to you.’
‘I would like a memorial dedicated to Leila. She loved history, but her great passion was to be a novelist. Perhaps you and I could think of some way we might be able to encourage young Muslim writers. We don’t have enough of them in the West.’
‘Perhaps Juan could help you set up a scholarship of some sort.’
‘I think Leila would have liked that.’
‘We’ll do something really good. Ahmed, you asked me to try and find the truth. I think I may have found it.’
Max then told Ahmed about all the evidence against González. Ahmed listened silently, his head bowed. When Max finished, Ahmed said, ‘And what are you going to do with all that evidence, Max?’
Max then explained about his report to Bonila, and Bonila’s response.
‘The problem is . . . I don’t think what I’ve got would stand up in a court of law. I’m not even sure an investigating judge would let it get that far.’
‘I see,’ said Ahmed. ‘That is a problem. But perhaps Allah’s justice is already working.’
‘Allah’s justice?’
‘Yes. It was in the paper on Friday. The autononous regional government, La Junta de Andalucia, is sending an official from Seville to investigate illegal building and illegal building permits in Diva, and has frozen all building permits until they get the situation under control.’
‘Gosh.’
‘Did you not say that Teniente González was expecting permission to sell his land with building consent? And was convinced he’d get it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then Allah, I’m sure, will find a way to stop that. Allah’s justice is wiser and more fitting than that of us mortals.’
Max paused, ‘Perhaps I can be of some little assistance to Allah. I have a friend in La Junta, in the planning department. We were at Glasgow together for a while when he was doing a Master’s in Planning. Let me give him a ring, and perhaps we may be able to come up with some justice.’
‘Allah’s ways are a mystery to man. But He always favours justice. So I am sure He will find a way.’
Max went outside and phoned his friend. After ten minutes he returned, a broad smile on his face.
‘Allah’s ways are indeed a mystery. But I’m sure justice will now be done. A surprise – it is my friend who is coming to Diva to sort out the scandals. We are meeting for lunch in Granada on Wednesday. My friend is a good man. He will take a particular interest in any planned rezoning of Teniente González’ land. Also, I will ask Paula to contact Beatrice, el Gato’s daughter. There is a good chance that she will be able to claim her father’s lands.’
‘That would be very fair,’ replied Ahmed. ‘Max, I was going up to visit the graves. It’s cooler now. I’d be honoured if you could accompany me.’
‘Certainly,’ said Max.
Together they climbed up to the back of town, past the little round church, the scene of so many religious conflicts, to the small plot of land with the two new graves, marked only by plain headstones.
‘I will go and pray,’ said Ahmed. He went to the graves, and bent his head in prayer.
Max breathed in deeply, and turned to watch the rays of the evening sun illuminate the stark beauty of the parched hillside, the silvery green olive trees contrasting with the golden brown earth. He turned back to the graves, and walked to stand beside Ahmed. Max didn’t feel it was right for him to pray. Together, he and Ahmed walked back down in silence. At the bottom Ahmed turned to Max. ‘Thank you, Max. I appreciate it. Ultimately, Max,
La galib ily Alah
, There is no victor but God.
Inshallah.’
‘Inshallah
, Ahmed.’
They embraced and parted. Max phoned Anita – she would come over this evening to
el cortijo
. Max fetched Paula and Encarnita from la Heladería.
As they drove home, Encarnita suddenly said,
‘Tito
Max, do you remember that play we saw?’
‘Blood Wedding?’
‘Yes. Do you remember that lady singing over the baby?
“Sleep little rose,
The horse is weeping.”’
‘Yes?’
‘But horses don’t cry, do they?’
‘No,’ said Max. ‘It’s poetry, using words to express emotions.’
‘But if it’s not true, why say it?’
‘Ah. That’s because our lives are stories, and we act as if those stories are true. But the truth means different things to different people. So we never know which story is true. And some stories are better than others.’
‘But how do you know which one is better,
Tito
Max? Which one?’
‘The one which deep down inside you feel is right.’
THE END
We would like to thank our friends and relations who kindly agreed to act as a peer review group, and provided us with insights and advice, particularly Margaret Brooke, a wise and perceptive reader of detective fiction who read the first complete draft, and told us that we had pinned the murder on the wrong person. We did another draft. We spent happy hours discussing the plot with Chin and Lin Li, Chris Greensmith and Shonah McKechnie. Many thanks for all the suggestions. Very special thanks to Shonah, who had saved that crucial April 2007 draft when we managed to overwrite all our own copies of it. Jan Fairley, a former Director of the Edinburgh Book Festival, and Ewan Wilson of Waterstone’s bookshop in Glasgow confirmed our hope that our manuscript was of publishable quality.
Many thanks to Krystyna Green of Constable & Robinson, who picked out the book from a pile of unsolicited manuscripts, and to Jacqueline Anne Taylor of the Language Clinic, Granada, for her painstaking final checks of the manuscript, which have both added accurate local colour and spared our blushes by weeding out mistakes. Any remaining errors are, of course, our responsibility.
We would also like to thank Val McDermid and Frederic Lindsay for a fun and instructive Arvon Foundation course at Moniack Mhor; Elizabeth Reeder, a truly inspiring teacher, and the members of her Strathclyde University Creative Writing Groups who put up with some awful earlier versions; and also Louise Welsh, Zoë Strachan and the members of the Glasgow University Creative Writing Group for early inspiration, and convincing Phil he could actually write fiction.
We are grateful to members of the Policia Nacional in Granada and the Guardia Civil in Orgiva for their advice and information on the operations of the Spanish police, and to Paco Martinez, a future judge, for his advice on Spanish judicial procedures. Our fictional police here bear very little resemblance to the real forces, which would never have employed Max Romero in the first place.