A Darker Night

by P Brooke, P J Brooke

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

The historic city of Granada is vibrant with the spectacle of its Easter processions; its bars and streets brimming with life. But high in the adjacent Alhambra hills, gypsy guitarist Paco is found dead in a Sacromonte cave. Sub-Inspector Max Romero is brought in to investigate Paco's death. An initially straightforward inquiry, it soon shades into something more sinister when Max reveals a link with a major property speculation in the beautiful Sacromonte valley below the Alhambra Palace; one that involves laundered drug money, city corruption and Opus Dei. As Max sinks ever deeper into a political quagmire, he clashes with old foe Inspector Ernesto Navarro. He discovers that, even in vibrant Granada, amid its beauty and drama, the dead can reach out to the living.

Release date: July 29, 2010

Publisher: C & R Crime

Print pages: 288

Sample

The prison gate closed behind him. Nobody was waiting outside. No friend, no enemy. So, with his guitar in one hand and a cheap plastic holdall in the other, Paco Maya walked alone to the bus stop. There was a bus to the city centre in ten minutes. He lifted his face to the sun, and breathed deeply. They would come for him eventually. But he was free now. He was going home.


Paco got off the bus at the cathedral and walked towards the stop for Sacromonte. But there was María, still working the tourists outside the Royal Chapel. She hadn’t changed. The same old gypsy scam. María glanced at him, then glanced again.


‘Coño, Paco!’ she exclaimed. ‘You’re out!’


She came over, and hugged him tight. Paco kissed her on both cheeks, drinking in her smell of patchouli, garlic and olive oil.


‘Sí. I’m out at last.’


‘I’ll buy you a coffee, carrajillo,’ she said, winking.


‘Por favor, but just the one … for old times’ sake.’


‘We’ll go to the Café Colón.’

They walked along the busy main road to the Café Vía Colón. The black-aproned waiter eyed them suspiciously, hesitated, and then came to take their order.


‘This hasn’t changed,’ said Paco, admiring the gilt angels and mirrors. ‘But I don’t remember ever seeing so many tourists.’


‘Sí, we’ve got an international airport now. So there’s even more daft buggers around. Suckers for the old patter. Good for my business.’


Paco sipped his carrajillo coffee slowly, savouring with every sip the shot of local cognac. ‘Gracias, María. I’ve been waiting years for this. Have you seen Angelita?’


‘She’s fine, Paco. She looks more like her mother every day.’


Paco rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. ‘You know the old cow wants me to sell my bit of land?’


‘Lucía’s mother?’

‘Sí.’


‘Well, you’d get a good price these days.’

Paco frowned. ‘But I can’t do it. I just can’t. So I told the old bitch to go to hell, and I haven’t seen my daughter since.’


‘Another one, Paco?’

‘No. I’m off the booze. And I’m clean, María. I didn’t mean to kill her, you know.’


María glanced at his scarred wrists. ‘I know, Paco. So what are you going to do now?’


‘Go home. Make a bit of money. See my angel.’

‘You’ll get the bookings soon enough. I heard your song on the radio. It’s good. Really good.’


Paco shrugged. ‘I just want my daughter back.’ And his voice broke.


‘Hombre, take it easy.’


Paco wiped his eyes with María’s gaudy handkerchief. ‘Abbot Jorge heard my confession in prison, and he knows my heart.’


‘Perhaps Abbot Jorge can help you again.’

‘I hope so, María. Look, I’ll get this.’

‘No. This one’s on me, Paco. Just got ten euros off a real daft guiri. An Englishman, I think. Read his palm, and told him he was coming into money.’ And she flashed a gold tooth.


Paco stood up and kissed María goodbye. He shouldered his bag, picked up the guitar and walked back to the bus stop. The Sacromonte bus arrived shortly after eleven. He could have walked on a couple of stops, and picked it up when it returned from its loop around the Alhambra and Barranco de los Abogados, but he wanted to see the green woods and the palaces again.


The buildings on Cuesta de Gomérez, the steep narrow road to the Alhambra, had improved. But the old guitar shops were still there. And Narcisco might need a hand in his workshop.


The bus trundled through the old Puerta de los Granados, the Pomegranate Gate, into the lush Alhambra woods, fresh with the bright leaves of spring. It stopped a couple of times, then turned towards to the old gypsy village of Barranco de los Abogados. Ay Dios Santo! It had changed. The gitanos were selling up and moving. But not Paco. He would never sell. Not now. He’d see his days out in that house, just like his old man and his grandfather before him.


In the distance Paco could see the peaks of the Sierra Nevada, where the snow still lingered on the high tops. The bus turned and came back down to Plaza Nueva, then squeezed past the tourists on Paseo de los Tristes. The little river Darro still gurgled in its channel between the road and the cliffs below the Alhambra, but two of the old mansions on the left had become hotels. At the end of Paseo de los Tristes, the bus turned left up Cuesta del Chapiz, then right at the square of Peso de la Harina with its statue of Chorrohumo, the Gypsy King, and then into the valley of Sacromonte. Paco looked back across to the Alhambra, and then down the valley with the steep wooded cliffs below the palaces and the dry cactus-covered hills on the other side.


The bus passed his favourite bar, El Pibe. He would go there with his guitar. Get a few gigs and start earning again.


Would Angelita dance like Lucía did? He’d get her the best teachers …


The bus passed the old city wall and then the ancient cave houses of Barranco de los Negros, where the freed slaves lived after the Christians threw the Moors out. The road snaked along the side of the Darro valley. Orchards and market gardens filled the valley basin. The bus finally stopped at the hamlet of Puente Maríano, sitting modestly below the great abbey of Sacromonte, the Abadía.


Perhaps he would ask Abbot Jorge to let him walk as a penitente in the Paso de los Gitanos, the Easter Procession of the Gypsies.


Paco got out of the bus and went into the tiny bar, which doubled as a shop.


Doña Constancia was still alive, brown and shrivelled as a raisin now, but still running the place. She peered at him.


‘Madre mía,’ she exclaimed. ‘Is that you, Paco?’


‘Sí. I’m back for good now, Constancia.’


‘María Santísima del Sacromonte must have held you in her bosom. I always lit a candle for you.’


‘I’m sure you did, Constancia. You’re a good woman. I need some eggs, sugar, coffee, bread, cheese, sausages, and a bit of your nice ham if you have any in today. And olive oil.’


‘Sí, Paco, my son. Una cervecita while you wait?’


‘No, thanks. I’m on the wagon.’

‘My, you have changed.’

Laden with food, Paco set off to walk to the end of the Sacromonte valley. He noticed a few bus stops, but no sign of any buses. The road turned into a track that led to the ruined monastery of Jesús del Valle. His feet crunched on the baked earth and the dry olive leaves still littering the track. He hoped he wouldn’t see his neighbours. He didn’t want to talk any more. He just wanted to be home. He was lucky: very few people were about. He stopped and paused when he came to the last house before his own.


Would his dog still be alive? Surely Conchi would have said if he’d died …


As Paco stood there looking at the old farm building, a small black dog ran up to him, barking.


‘Negrito!’


The dog jumped up at him. Conchi opened the bleached wooden door of her house.


‘Por el amor de Dios. It’s Paco. Ay. Mi Paquito. Come on in. Don’t just stand there like a payo. Cerveza? Café?’


‘Coffee would be fine, Conchi.’

Negrito followed him inside, snapping at his heels.

‘Look,’ said Conchi. ‘He remembers.’

Paco ruffled Negrito’s ears, and the dog yelped with pleasure.


‘I won’t stay long. I need to get back to my place.’

‘Nonsense, man. You look as if you haven’t had a good meal in years.’


‘That does smell good.’

‘There, I knew you’d want something. I’ve got a good stew on the stove. Coffee first, and then we’ll eat. Manuel’s in town. Some business deal.’


‘How is he, Conchi?’

‘Hombre, we’re all getting older, and you know he’s not a well man. It’s liver problems now. But how are you? I heard you had a heart attack.’


‘Sí. Have to take it easy.’


‘That’s right, amigo. You don’t want to go as young as your father.’ She smiled at him affectionately. ‘You’ve still got your mother’s good looks, but Dios mío, you need to put on some weight.’


‘I’m sure I will now I’m out. And you are looking good, Conchi.’


‘I’m still dancing, you know. It keeps me slim.’ Conchi straightened her shoulders, and clapped her hands in a flamenco rhythm.


‘So how are the kids?’

‘All grown up and gone.’

‘María José?’

‘Married a lad in Alfacár, and two babies already.’

‘Marcos?’

‘Gone to Barcelona. Hardly see the little bugger these days. And Nacho’s got a flat in Granada – wants to be a chef.’


‘So it’s all change?’

‘You’ve been away a long time.’

‘Sí. But I’m here to stay now. Angelita’s grandmother wants me to sell. She came round to the prison twice to get me to sign a bit of paper. But I won’t sell.’


‘You should think about it. We’re selling up and moving into town ourselves. We’re too old to manage all this land ourselves.’


‘Ay! You’ve been a good neighbour, Conchi. I’ll be really sorry to see you go.’


‘Gracias, Paco. You’ve helped us as well. Don’t worry. We’ll still be around.’


‘That’s good. So how’s my Angelita?’

‘I heard she’s fine. But we’re not speaking to the grandmother these days, so I don’t really know. Hombre, just don’t expect miracles. Take it real slow with Angelita. She’s been taught to hate you.’


Paco bit his lip, and then wiped his eye with a worn cuff.

‘And be careful. The uncles won’t be pleased when they find you’re out. As far as they’re concerned, hanging’s too good for you.’


‘Gregorio and Mauricio. Those bastards. I’ll watch my back.’


‘My, here am I talking, letting you starve. Come on through to the kitchen – it’s easier to eat there.’


Paco followed her into the kitchen. The food did smell good, and he had forgotten how hungry he was …


‘Is that a bus stop I saw at the end of the road?’ he asked, wiping his mouth with a paper serviette.


‘Sí, sí. That’s new. The only problem is you have to phone if you want the bus to come out beyond the Abadía.’


‘It won’t do me much good then. I don’t have a phone.’ Paco pushed his chair back. ‘Ay. Gracias for the meal, Conchi. I haven’t eaten so well for years.’


‘Come back when Manuel is here. He’d like to hear your stories. We’re away for a few days. Off to see my sister in Jaén.’


‘I’ll be round.’

Paco looked at Negrito, and fondled his ears. ‘You coming with me, boy?’


Negrito thumped his tail on the floor.

Conchi got up, and fetched a broom, a mop and bucket. ‘Your place’ll be full of dust and cobwebs. Let me give you a hand.’


‘I can manage!’

‘Paquito, don’t be so proud. You need a hand. I’ll get your document box. You’d better take your deeds back with you.’


She fetched an old wooden box, and dusted it thoroughly. They set off together, Negrito excitedly running ahead, then darting back and jumping on Paco. They walked along the dusty track, between olives and the hills covered with prickly pear cactus, and then turned up a steep rutted path to Paco’s home, an old cave house hacked out of the side of the hill. Paco rubbed his hand across his mouth then gazed back down the bare hillside to his old plot. Neat rows of beans and young potatoes stretched all the way down to the river on the other side of the track.


‘Manuel’s looked after my land really well.’

‘Oh, he enjoys it. And you’ve got a well, so water wasn’t a problem.’


‘The thought of my land kept me going all those years inside, you know.’


‘Sí, good flat land with water is worth its weight in gold. The radio said that there was only five months’ water left in the reservoir, and the council needs to sink more boreholes. And my Manuel says those fools in the council are still handing out permits for new buildings all over the place, and golf courses too, when there isn’t enough water for us anyway. Someone’s making big money somewhere. But it’s not the likes of us.’


‘That’s life for you.’

They turned the final corner. The first thing Paco saw was ‘Asesino’ – smeared in red across the outside wall of his home. Murderer.


‘The bastards. That’s the last thing I need. If I get my hands on –’


‘Ay, Dios mío. I’m sorry, Paco. It wasn’t there last week. It’ll be those devils Gregorio and Mauricio.’ Conchi put her arm round his shoulders. ‘Don’t let it get to you, hombre. You’re worth a thousand times more than they are.’


Paco released the padlock on the cave door, and then flung the single window wide to let in air and light. His few sticks of furniture were still there, and the picture of the Virgin of Sacromonte hadn’t been touched, except by spiders.


‘Nothing missing, I hope, Paco.’

‘There’s not much to go missing.’

Paco went to his chest of drawers, and put the wooden box in the second drawer.


Conchi looked around, sizing up the work that needed to be done. ‘Ay, Paco. This is no place to live on your own. You should find a wife and move into town.’


‘I’ll think about it,’ he said. But he knew he wouldn’t move. Not unless Angelita asked him to, and wanted to live with him.


‘Come on, let’s get this place sorted,’ said Conchi. ‘Have you got any cal? We’d better get rid of that scrawl right now.’


‘I’ll check my cupboard. Yes. There’s a dry packet here.’

Conchi set to work straight away, while Paco mixed up the whitewash. She swept the floor, washed the single window, shook the sheets and blankets vigorously then laid them out in the sun. Paco plastered whitewash over the scrawled ‘Asesino’. Negrito ran around, barking furiously, rolling in the dust, and sticking his nose into the cobwebs.


‘There’s still gas in the bottle. Can I make you a coffee?’

‘Thanks, but I must go now, Paco. I need to collect Manuel downtown, and then we’re off to Ana’s.’


‘Thanks for all your help. I don’t know what I would have done without you.’


‘What are neighbours for? Just take it easy. We’ll see you when we get back.’


She looked at the freshly whitewashed wall. ‘You can still make it out. If I were you, I’d give it at least one more coat.’


‘I’ll do that later. See you when you get back. Hasta la vista. Ciao.’


Now, he was alone at last in his own house. He could relax. He was home. Angelita’s mother, Lucía, would never stay here. But for Paco it had always been a bit of Paradise. And here, with just the sound of the doves in the rock face, sometimes his demons would leave him.


Dusk was falling. He took a chair outside, fetched his guitar, and started to sing quietly. His own song. The one that had won the prize in prison. For the first time in years he felt at ease. Now there was something to hope for. Something to do, something to work towards.


From his chair he could see the track which led towards Granada. He heard the sound of a car in the distance. The engine noise grew louder, and then stopped. Paco carefully placed his guitar against the chair, stood up, and walked to the edge of the dirt track. Two men were walking up the steep slope. His first instinct was to go inside for a knife. But no. It was a knife that caused the trouble last time. He stood still, silently waiting. The men approached slowly.





Sub-Inspector Max Romero of the Policía Nacional de Granada opened the shutters to let in the morning sun, walked out on to his terrace and gazed over the old clay-tiled roofs of the Albayzín, across to the Nazrid Palaces of the Alhambra. Behind the palaces, only a little snow lingered on the Sierra Nevada, and the lower hills were already parched. He breathed in deeply, inhaling the sweet smell of jasmine. In the evening, the neighbourhood would throb with the rhythms of flamenco, but the only sounds now were the birds, and the guitar student next door anxiously practising for her next assessment.


Max went to the end of his terrace, and looked down the narrow street. The post lady was pulling her trolley of mail up the cobbled street as usual. She stopped at the door of his block of flats and pushed a bundle through the letterbox. Max walked down the three flights of stairs, and eagerly glanced through the mail. There was a letter for him, a thick envelope, with a printed address.


He returned to his flat with the letter. ‘We hereby notify you that you have three months in which to vacate the premises at Calle María de la Miel N° 27, 3B, Albayzín, Granada …’


No new lease. Mierda! Max looked around his small flat. It had its problems, but the view of the Alhambra was wonderful. He really didn’t want to leave it.


As he was filling his water bottle from the cold tap, the doorbell rang. It was his new neighbour, Belinda.


‘It’s a good day for a walk, Max.’

‘It is. Looks like we’re going to be lucky with the weather.’

‘Thanks so much for inviting me. I’ve hardly been out of the city since I arrived.’


‘A pleasure, Belinda. You’ll like the gang, and they’ll all want to practise their English on you.’


‘Max, you’re looking a bit down. Anything wrong?’

‘Bloody landlord’s given me notice He’s kicking me out in three months.’


‘Oh dear. Your little flat’s so nice. Can’t you do anything about it?’


‘No. It’s standard stuff. I bet the old bastard wants to do the block up as tourist flats.’


As they walked down the little cobbled road of Calle María de la Miel, Max pointed to the decaying building. ‘See that house? It’s fifteenth-century, Moorish. And it’s falling down because the council won’t force the owner to repair it.’


‘But the Albayzín’s a World Heritage Site, isn’t it?’

‘It doesn’t seem to make much difference. The landlord’s waiting for the house to get so bad that he can legally throw the tenants out, knock it down and build flats on the site.’


‘Is anyone doing anything about it?’

‘Our Neighbourhood Association is doing its best, but it’s an uphill struggle.’


‘I’d like to join the Association.’

‘Good idea. They’d be pleased to see you.’

Max and Belinda walked down Cuesta de San Gregorio and into the square by the church of San Gregorio Bético. A hippy baker was sitting on the broad steps, above the old washing-trough, selling her organic bread from a large esparto basket. They turned sharply left down the hill towards Plaza Nueva. On the wall beside the old town hall, someone had painted in huge letters: ‘Semana Santa + Alcalde = Robo’.


Holy Week plus the Mayor means Theft.

Underneath was a row of posters: ‘Stop the Concrete. International Meeting. Old Trades Union Centre. Thursday.’


‘You’ll really like Carlos. He’s an architect. Spends most of his free time campaigning to save the Albayzín.’


The walking group were waiting by the large fountain. A tall good-looking guy with cropped grey hair smiled at them.


‘Hi, Max. And you must be Belinda.’

His English was very good indeed. He kissed Belinda on both cheeks. ‘Max tells me you’re writing a novel.’


‘Trying to. I never realized how much work it was going to be.’


‘Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help. Max says I’m a mine of useless information about Granada.’


Max grinned. Belinda gave Carlos her best and sunniest smile. ‘I’ll take you up on that.’


‘Okay, Belinda. Meet the gang. Giovanna and Maite are language teachers, and Miguel’s doing postgrad work in Geography.’


Together they walked to the end of Paseo de los Tristes, crossed the old bridge over the tiny river Darro, and began to walk up Cuesta de los Chinos, the old route from the Albayzín to the Moorish fortress of the Alhambra. The stream flowing down from the Alhambra to the Darro had carved a deep valley, still cool and shady. The trees were in early leaf, and wild hyacinths were just emerging where a spring created a patch of damper ground. The group paused at the waterfall, where water gushed out of the ancient acequia from the Alhambra wall to join the stream, and then stopped at the plaque with a poem by Federico García Lorca.


With a bit of help from Maite, Belinda read the poem aloud. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it? The idea of water as a magical mirror which allows you to gaze into history.’


‘Yes. Just imagine what Lorca might have written if he hadn’t been shot.’


‘That was in 1936, just at the start of the Civil War, wasn’t it, Maite?’


‘Yes. I’ve got a few books in English on the Spanish Civil War you can borrow if you like.’


‘Thanks, I will.’

The group continued upwards, then passed under a double arch into the lush woodland which surrounded the old fortress. They walked past the Alhambra ticket offices and car park, then picked their way through a grove of mulberry and orange trees and emerged on to a minor road, which climbed upwards to the country park. They paused at the ruin of a Moorish palace, Dar-al-Arusa, the Palace of the Bride, and shimmied through a hole in the security fence, scrambled to the top, and looked out at the panorama of Granada ringed by mountains. They were already high above the Albayzín. Directly in front of them, piercing the city walls, was the church of San Miguel Alto. And to the right of the church, a network of old paths ran through the hills to Sacromonte and its abbey, la Abadía de Sacromonte.


The route now went upwards through a pine forest. As a jay flashed blue and chestnut, the path curved to their right. Suddenly, they could see the highest peaks of the Sierra Nevada, sprinkled with snow. And before them stretched rows and rows of olive trees, shining silver and gold in the sunshine.


‘And here,’ said Carlos, playing tourist guide for Belinda, ‘we have a monument. “To the greater glory of God, Francisco Franco Bahamonde.”’


‘Amazing. After thirty years of democracy, there are still monuments commemorating that evil dictator.’


‘Yes. There are probably more left in Granada than anywhere else in Spain.’


For the next hour, they walked through pinewoods, along the lip of the ridge which ran parallel to the Sacromonte valley. Way below them, a man was exercising a horse in a field, and a tiny black dog barked excitedly. Their path finally met a rutted farm track, and they turned left through a broken gate.


Carlos, who was enjoying showing Belinda the sights, pointed to a ruin in the valley. ‘That’s the old Jesuit monastery of Jesús del Valle.’


‘This countryside is amazing, isn’t it? And it’s so close to Granada.’


‘That’s the problem. The only thing saving this valley from turning into a concrete jungle is the lack of good road access to Granada. When I was a kid, the Vega, that’s the plain on the other side of Granada, was full of orchards and market gardens, and now it’s shopping centres, houses and industrial estates.’


The track coiled downwards, carving itself into the stony clay of the hills, where wild lavender, thyme and rockroses flourished. On the valley floor they walked through olive groves, crossed a stream by a small bridge, and halted where two huge plane trees guarded the entrance to the monastery. Carlos checked his watch.


‘Okay, gente. It’s one o’ clock. Lunch is booked for 3 p.m. I think we’ve time for a little look round.’


They squeezed past a broken barrier blocking the entrance to the monastery. A young man was already in the courtyard with his back towards them, poking at a pile of smashed marble and plaster. He turned round.


‘Francisco!’ exclaimed Carlos. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘I’ve been hearing stuff. Right now, I’m coming here every week to check up on things. Look at that. Some bugger’s stripped all the marble from the chapel. It’ll be the new owner, and he’ll pretend it was vandals.’


‘Any idea who’s bough. . .