A Dead Man in Barcelona
A Dead Man in Barcelona
Also by Michael Pearce
A Dead Man in Trieste
A Dead Man in Istanbul
A Dead Man in Athens
A Dead Man in Tangier
A DEAD MAN IN
BARCELONA
Michael Pearce
Constable & Robinson Ltd
3 The Lanchesters
162 Fulham Palace Road
London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the UK by Constable,
an imprint of Constable & Robinson, 2008
First US edition published by SohoConstable,
an imprint of Soho Press, 2008
Soho Press, Inc.
853 Broadway
New York, NY 10003
www.sohopress.com
Copyright © Michael Pearce, 2008
The right of Michael Pearce to be identified as the
author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance
with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold,
hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover
other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition
including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication
Data is available from the British Library
UK ISBN: 978-1-84529••••
US ISBN: 978-1-56947••••
US Library of Congress number: 20080•••••
Printed and bound in the EU
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Contents
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 One
‘The coffins came out of the church . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘And the men put them down on the ground . . .’
‘Yes?’
‘And then – then the lids opened and the bodies got out.’
There was a short silence.
‘Got out?’
‘That’s right.’
‘The bodies?’
‘Yes. There were three of them. Look, I know it’s hard to believe –’
‘It certainly is,’ said the Deputy Commissioner.
‘It gave me a shock, I can tell you.’
‘Well, it would. I can see that.’
‘You obviously don’t believe me,’ said Hattersley.
‘No, no, of course I believe you,’ said the Deputy Commissioner heartily, looking at the clock.
‘One of them was a young woman.’
Yes, thought Seymour, sex probably went with it, poor chap.
The Deputy Commissioner looked at him sharply and frowned. Surely he had not said that out loud?
‘Three of them, did you say?’ he said hastily, hoping to cover up.
‘Yes. Of course, they weren’t really dead.’
‘No, no. Of course. No, they wouldn’t be.’
‘I spoke to one of them. The young woman. And she said it was to remember those fallen in Semana Tragica.’
‘Semana Tragica?’ said Seymour, waking up. ‘Tragic Week?’
‘Yes. That’s why I thought . . .’ Hattersley looked at the man from the Foreign Office who had brought him but, receiving no encouragement, his voice tailed away.
Then he continued determinedly however.
‘And then she said, “You’re English, aren’t you?” “From Gibraltar,” I said. “Ah, then you’ll have known Sam Lockhart?” “I know Sam Lockhart, yes.” “And do you know how he died?” she said. “Yes. No, that is, at least, not exactly.”
‘“Well, you ought to find out,” she said. “Tell your English friends that. Tell the English people.” And then she went back into the church.’
Hattersley looked round the table.
‘Well, that’s it,’ he said. ‘That’s all. But I thought –’
‘You did quite right to tell us,’ said the man from the Foreign Office. ‘Thank you, Mr Hattersley.’
‘A nut,’ said the Deputy Commissioner.
‘Yes. Quite possibly,’ said the man from the Foreign Office. ‘But –’
‘You are surely not expecting us to take an interest?’ said the Deputy Commissioner.
‘Well –’
‘Someone ought to,’ said a man who had not yet spoken. Seymour had somehow formed the impression that he was an Admiral.
‘But not, I think, us,’ said the Deputy Commissioner. ‘The Foreign Office, perhaps?’
‘Of course we have taken an interest. From the first. Naturally, since he was an Englishman.’
‘What’s all this about Gibraltar?’
‘He came from Gibraltar.’
‘In that case, I think it’s all the more a question for the Foreign Office. I mean, he’s hardly even English!’
‘Hold on, hold on!’ said the man from the Foreign Office hastily. ‘That is, actually, one of the points in dispute. We say he is, the Spanish say he’s not.’
‘Surely that can easily be established?’
‘Easily be established?’ said the man from the Foreign Office, reeling back. ‘We have been arguing about it with Spain for over two hundred years!’
‘Hmm, yes, I see,’ said the Deputy Commissioner. ‘Nevertheless, I still feel it is something for you to address rather than for Scotland Yard.’
‘Of course, we have been addressing it.’
‘For two years,’ snorted the man whom Seymour took to be an Admiral.
‘Well, it takes time,’ protested the man from the Foreign Office. ‘One has to go through the right channels and they are not always responsive.’
‘They wouldn’t be, would they?’ said the man whom Seymour took to be an Admiral. ‘Since he was in their hands when he died.’
‘In their –?’
‘He was in prison when he died,’ said the man from the Foreign Office.
‘In prison?’ said the Deputy Commissioner incredulously. ‘You mean . . . No, really, this doesn’t sound at all like the thing for us. A foreign national? Or the next best thing to a foreign national. In a foreign country.’
‘Just a minute!’ said the Admiral.
‘And now you tell me he was actually in prison when he died? No, really,’ the Deputy Commissioner said, shaking his head, ‘this really is not the thing for us.’
‘The Prime Minister doesn’t think so,’ murmured the man from the Foreign Office.
‘Prime Minister?’ said the Deputy Commissioner, taken aback. ‘What the hell does he know about it?’
‘Nothing,’ said the Admiral. ‘But he knows about us.’
‘Us?’
‘The Navy.’
‘Well, I’m sure. But –’
‘Gibraltar,’ said the Admiral, as to an idiot. ‘Ships. Docks.’
‘Oh, yes, I see. And the Navy is taking an interest –’
‘It certainly is.’
‘Well, of course, that puts a different complexion on it.’
‘I should hope so.’
‘But,’ said the Deputy Commissioner, ‘I’m afraid I still don’t see why Scotland Yard –’
‘We feel,’ said t
he man from the Foreign Office, ‘that the thing calls for professional investigation.’
‘We certainly do,’ said the Admiral.
‘So naturally we turn to –’
‘Yes,’ said the Deputy Commissioner glumly. ‘Yes. But –’ ‘And so does the Prime Minister.’
‘And the Navy,’ said the Admiral.
‘Yes, well –’ said the Deputy Commissioner, depressed.
‘Of course,’ said the man from the Foreign Office cunningly, ‘Scotland Yard need not be formally involved.’
‘Needn’t it?’ said the Deputy Commissioner, brightening.
‘In fact, it might be best if it’s not.’
‘Well, there is that,’ said the Deputy Commissioner, brightening still further.
‘All that’s needed is a man. And he could be seconded.’
‘To the Foreign Office?’ said the Deputy Commissioner hopefully.
‘Oh, no. No, I don’t think so. That would not be appropriate. To the Navy.’
‘What?’ said the Admiral.
‘You’re always having stores pinched, aren’t you?’
‘Well, I wouldn’t quite say –’
‘We could put it out that you’ve asked for a man from Scotland Yard to be assigned to help you with the inquiries you are no doubt making.’
There was a pause.
And then, unexpectedly, the Admiral gave a great laugh.
‘That’ll put the fear of God into a few people!’ he said.
‘Well, then! And I think we’ve got just the right man, haven’t we? Mr Seymour has worked with us before and we have every confidence in his ability to handle things discreetly. And he speaks Spanish.’
‘And he knows about docks,’ said the Deputy Commissioner.
‘Do you?’ said the Admiral eagerly, turning to Seymour.
‘English ones,’ said Seymour hastily. ‘And dockland rather than docks. I normally work in the East End.’
‘At least you’ve bloody heard of them,’ said the Admiral.
‘What the hell is Tragic Week?’ said the Deputy Commissioner, as they walked down the stairs.
‘It happened two years ago,’ said Seymour. ‘The Spanish Government called up reserves to fight in Spanish Morocco. The reserves were conscripts, mostly from Catalonia, the bit of Spain that Barcelona is in. When they were ordered on to the ships, they refused to go, and most of Catalonia supported them. There were riots in the streets and the Army was called in to put them down. Which it did. Bloodily.’
‘And this man Lockhart was mixed up in it?’
‘Apparently.’
‘It sounds even less our kind of thing,’ said the Deputy Commissioner. ‘In fact, it doesn’t sound our kind of thing at all.’
That was Seymour’s private opinion, too. When the Deputy Commissioner had called him in, however, he had jumped at the chance. This was because he had his own reason for going to Spain: and her name was Chantale.
Chantale did not come from Spain, actually, but from Morocco, and French Morocco, not Spanish, at that. But the two were next door to each other and both were just across the Straits and it would surely be possible for him to slip across at some point in the assignment?
And he needed to slip across, for there were things to be resolved. Chantale was half Arab, half French. This had been awkward for her in Morocco because she had been neither fish nor fowl. The French had eyed her askance, conscious all the time of what some of them referred to as the touch of the tar-brush. The Arabs had mistrusted her because they had never known to which side she would fall when the chips were down. Chantale herself had not been sure, either; which was why she had been tempted by Seymour’s argument, at the end of a previous mission in Tangier, that the thing to do was put both sides behind her and become something else: British, for instance. With him.
Tempted, but there had been other things to consider. Her mother, for instance; definitely Arab and definitely Moroccan. Could she be abandoned? Her mother, strong-willed, had said yes. Chantale was not so sure. And then, what about all that emotional investment she had made in the Nationalist hopes she had had for a new, young country independent of foreign domination? Or was that all a waste of time, anyway, now that the French had taken over and should she make the safer investment with the people currently on top, the French occupying power? All this had been precipitated a year ago when Seymour had been sent to Morocco on an assignment; and she was still dangling.
Seymour was dangling, too. He wanted, more than anything in the world, he told himself, to be with her. But with her in London’s grimy East End? Where the sun she was used to never penetrated through the pea-soup fog? Where you never quite shook off the chill of the docks? Was it fair to ask her?
Never mind the fairness, he had come to the conclusion; just ask her. But, in a way, he had not been sorry at her uncertainty. It reflected his own.
So they had both jumped at the chance when he had been given the assignment in Spain. It was neutral ground and maybe that would help them to sort things out. For Seymour, who always thought the glass was half full, it was well on the way to England. For Chantale, in whose experience the glass was nearly always half empty, it was a tentative step from which she could easily retreat.
The looseness of the assignment favoured them. It would give Seymour a chance to compose his own programme; and surely that programme could be tweaked to enable him to slip across the Straits to see her?
At the last moment, though, it had been Chantale who had decided to slip; and she would be arriving the day after Seymour.
And what he was thinking now, as he waited at the bottom end, the docks end, of Las Ramblas, Barcelona’s great, humming, tree-lined boulevard, was that Chantale would feel at home here. This part of Barcelona, the part nearest the docks, was like an Arab town. There were Arabs in long galabeahs lounging at street corners, women in dark veils and burkas keeping to the walls as they walked down the street with their baskets. In the open doorways of the houses men were sitting smoking bubble pipes, the bowls bubbling on the ground beside them. Further along the street was a little market and at the stalls, loaded with giant tomatoes, bursting peppers and bulging aubergines, he could hear people speaking, and what they were speaking was not Spanish but Arabic.
In front of him was a small church, the church Hattersley had spoken about. It had white walls, dazzlingly white in the bright sunshine, but blackened doors. He went across it and looked in.
And reeled back. The porch was full of arms and legs!
Arms and legs? He looked again and saw now that they were plaster, like the two statues standing beside the door. And there were also plaster casts, used surgical ones, neatly cut off and obviously taken from people’s limbs when they had served their purpose. Some had come from children and had little pictures drawn on them.
He realized now what they were. They were votive offerings, thanksgivings for injuries received and now cured. He had seen some once in a Catholic church in the East End. They had seemed to him at first grotesque but then rather moving.
In among the casts were stained bandages. Bloodstained bandages. He was looking at them when a voice beside him said:
‘Semana Tragica. The Tragic Week.’
It was an elderly man.
‘Tragic Week?’ said Seymour. ‘But that was – well, two years ago.’
‘The memories are still here,’ the man said. ‘Although sometimes not the people.’
‘Not the people, no.’
‘You are, perhaps, remembering someone?’
‘No. At least – well, yes, I suppose. There was an Englishman. His name was Lockhart.’
The elderly man looked at him sharply.
‘I knew Lockhart,’ he said. ‘But he didn’t die here.’
‘No. He died in prison.’
‘You know this, then?’
‘Yes. But not much more. I would like to know more.’
The man was silent. He seemed to be thinking. Then he made up his mind.
‘A coffee, perhaps!’
There was a café nearby and they went in. The man ordered two coffees but then didn’t seem in any hurry to begin. He looked at Seymour once or twice as if considering.
‘You speak Spanish well,’ he said, ‘but you are not Spanish.’
‘I’m British.’
‘Ah, British. Like Lockhart.’
‘Ah, British. Like ‘That’s right.’
The man nodded, as if satisfied.
‘It is as well to establish these things,’ he said, ‘before you talk. They are always sending round informers.’
He looked round the café.
‘We shall be all right here, he said. ‘This is a Catalan café.’
And now Seymour understood. He had been listening with half an ear to the conversation in the café and had been puzzled. More than puzzled: disconcerted. He had thought he understood Spanish pretty well, but he had found it oddly difficult to follow the conversation in the café. It seemed Spanish and it was easy to make out the sense of it. But it was not Spanish. There were different words and different inflexions.
‘Ah!’ he said. ‘I’ve got it. Catalan is new to me. But I can see now –’
The man put his hand on Seymour’s arm.
‘One moment, Señor. I will let them know you’re English.’
He went over to the counter and said something to the man at the till.
Then he came back.
‘It’s all right now,’ he said. ‘They can relax.’
He sipped his coffee and put the cup down.
‘You speak Spanish very well,’ he said, ‘but Spanish is not the thing to speak here.’
Seymour nodded.
‘Thank you for telling them,’ he said. ‘And for telling me.’
He sipped his coffee.
‘There are people here who knew Lockhart.’