The Marks of Cain Read online

  The woman glanced warily his way, like she suspected him of some imminent street crime; then she shook her head, rose to her feet, and walked off – scattering pigeons as she departed. David watched her shadow disappear around a corner.

  For the rest of the afternoon he tried his best: he asked more strangers on the streets and stepped inside two supermercados, but he got the same blank or even hostile reactions. No one knew José Garovillo, or no one, at least, wanted to talk about him. In frustration David retreated to his car, hauled out some clothes and a toothbrush, and booked into a little hotel at the end of the main road: the Hotel Eguzki.

  The allegedly double room had a design of shepherds’ crooks on the wall, and bathtaps which coughed rusty water. David spent the evening eating supermarket chorizo, watching Spanish TV quiz shows, or gazing at the indecipherable writing on the map. He could feel the loneliness like a song in the air. A wistful old folk song.

  The morning found him more determined. His first visit was to the church, a decayed and musty building with a fragrance of mildewed leather hassocks. A stricken wooden Christ gazed longingly at the vacant pews. There were two fonts. The smaller of these was carved with a strange symbol, like an arrow, incised brutally into the old grey stone.

  He touched the stone, which had been polished to smoothness by the centuries, by a million peasant hands, reaching in for the magic water, daubing it on grubby foreheads.

  In nomine patris, et filii, et spiritus sancti…

  Enough. This was useless. David hoisted his bag and exited the church, stepping with relief into the grass-scented daylight. Where would people congregate? Where would he find life and chatter and answers?

  A bar.

  He made for the busiest street, lined with shops and cafes; then he selected the Bar Bilbo. There was music jangling inside, and through the thick windows he could see people drinking.

  A few faces turned as he entered. The dark and dingy bar was crowded. A group of teens were chattering in a corner, talking the most guttural Spanish David had ever heard. Sitting at the opposite table was a young woman, an attractive blonde girl. She glanced his way, then turned back to her cellphone. The rest of the bar was dominated by swarthy, black-haired men, downing glasses of cloudy cider and laughing along to the music.

  It was then that David recalled – the music. It was the same kind of music that had been playing at Granddad’s funeral. Wasn’t it? A vigorous, slightly discordant guitar song. What did this mean? Was there some direct link to the Basques? Was his grandfather actually…Basque?

  David had never heard his granddad speak anything but Spanish – and English. And their family name was authentically Hispanic. Martinez. Yet the stocky men actually looked like Granddad. And David’s father, for that matter.

  Another mystery. The mysteries were breeding.

  Leaning on the bartop, he ordered some cerveza in his conspicuously pathetic Spanish. Then David sat down at a nearby table and drank the beer. Again he felt paralyzed: idiotic. But he also remembered his grandfather’s words: go to Lesaka, find José Garovillo, and ask about the map. So he should do it. Just do it.

  He stood up, and tapped the shoulder of the largest guy at the bar.

  ‘¿Ola?’

  The man ignored him.

  ‘Er…Buenos días.’

  Several other customers, with wide brooding faces, were contemplating David’s failed attempt at conversation. Faces impassive. Yet somehow surly.

  He tapped the man’s burly shoulder once more.

  ‘¿Buenos días, señor?’

  Again, the man ignored him.

  Two of the other drinkers were now glaring at David and asking him sharp questions in their glottal accents. He didn’t understand what they were saying. So David pointed at the map, and reverted to English.

  ‘Look, I’m sorry to interrupt…but. Really sorry. But this map…I was just kinda given this by my grandfather…and told to come here and look…at these places – see, Ariz…kun, Elizonda? Also I need to find a guy called José Garovillo. Do you know where I could find him?’

  Now the biggest man turned, and he said something very terse.

  David was lost.

  ‘Er…I’m sorry…But…my Spanish is pretty poor?’

  The men scowled, with real fury; David realized he must have made some major error. He’d gone too far. He had no idea why or how, but he’d done something stupid. The atmosphere had most definitely intensified. The music had been switched off.

  One of the cider drinkers was yelling abusively at David. Across the room the barman was jerking a thumb at the door. David knew he should take the hint. He raised both hands – and made for the exit.

  But the drinkers moved first, three of them were up and blocking the way: obstructing his escape route. The big guy had been joined by a man with a denim shirt and muddy boots, and another guy with a Led Zeppelin singlet and tatts on his shoulders.

  Jesus. What now?

  His best choice was to just barge his way through, hope to reach the door and the light and freedom. But he made one more attempt at talking his way out.

  ‘Look – guys – sorry – por favor –’ It was useless; he was stammering. One of the cider drinkers was actually rolling up his sleeves.

  ‘Stop!’

  David swivelled, and saw the blonde girl. She was physically interposing herself between David and his assailants – and she was talking very quickly to the men. Her smart and staccato Spanish was accented, and the words came too fast for David to understand.

  Yet her intervention was…working. Whatever she was saying – it was succeeding. The anger in the men perceptibly dwindled; scowls became sullen glares, the cold angry faces sank back into the shadows. She was rescuing him from a nasty beating.

  He looked at the girl, she looked at him, and then she looked right past him.

  Now David realized – maybe there was another reason the guys had fallen back. Right behind him, a figure was walking across the room. If the drinkers had been calmed by the girl, they were positively cowed by this new figure emerging from the shadows. Where had he come from?

  The man was tall and dark. His face was stern, half shaven, and mournfully aggressive. He was maybe thirty-five years old. Maybe an athletic forty. Who was this? Why had he silenced everyone?

  ‘Miguel…?’

  It was the barman – gabbling nervously.

  ‘Er…Miguel…Eh…Dos equis?’

  Miguel ignored the offer. He was gazing with his dark, deepset eyes directly at the blonde girl and David. He was standing close. His breath was tinged with some alcohol, strong wine or brandy. But he didn’t seem drunk. Miguel turned, and looked at the girl. His voice was deep and smooth.

  ‘Amy?’

  Her answer was defiant. ‘Adiós, Miguel.’

  She took David’s hand, and started pulling him towards the door. Quickly and firmly. But Miguel stopped her. He reached out – and simply grabbed Amy’s throat. Her fingers loosened from David’s grasp.

  And then Miguel hit her. Hard. A shocking and brutal blow across the face. The girl fell to the floorboards, sprawling in the cigarette butts and screwed tapas napkins.

  David gaped. This sudden violence, against a much smaller young woman, was so shocking, so utterly and casually outrageous, David was stunned. Immobile. What should he do? He gazed around. No one else was going to intervene. Some of the drinkers were actually turning away, giving each other weak and cowardly grins.

  David leapt on Miguel. The Basque man may have been bigger and taller than David – and David wasn’t short – but David didn’t care. He remembered being beaten as a teenager. The angry orphan. People picking on the weak or vulnerable. Fuck that.

  He had Miguel round the neck, he was trying to get room for a punch.

  He failed. Grabbing this man was like riding a surging bull: the taller man stiffened, swivelled, and threw him contemptuously onto the floor. David grabbed at a bar stool, pulling himself to his feet. But then he fe
lt another, quite absolute pain: he was being struck by something metal.

  As the blackness descended, he realized he was being pistol-whipped.

  4

  Simon Quinn paid the cabbie, quit the taxi, and shot a glance along the stucco Georgian terrace. His laptop bag felt heavy on his shoulder.

  The murder house was painfully obvious: two police vans were parked outside, with forensic officers in white paper suits offloading steel-grey Scene of Crime suitcases. Festoons of blue and yellow police tape roped off the frontage of the tall, elegant London terrace.

  He felt a sudden twinge of apprehension. DCI Sanderson had described the murder as a…knotting. What the hell did that mean?

  The nerves were palpable, indeed visible: a faint tremble in his hand. He’d attended a lot of murder scenes in his job – crime and punishment were his journalistic meat and drink – but that word…knotting. It was odd. Disquieting.

  Ducking under the police tape he was met at the threshold by the bright young face of DS Tomasky. Sanderson’s new junior officer, a cheerful Londoner of Polish descent. Simon had met him once before.

  ‘Mister Quinn…’ Tomasky smiled. ‘Fraid you missed the corpse. We just moved her.’

  ‘I’m here because the DCI called me…’

  ‘Wants his name in the tabs again?’ Tomasky laughed in the pleasant autumnal sunshine. Then he stopped laughing. ‘I think he’s got some photos to show you.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Yeah. Pretty gruesome. Be warned.’

  Tomasky leaned an arm across the doorway, physically barring the journalist from entering the house. Beyond Tomasky’s arm, he could see two more forensic officers stepping in and out of a room, with their blue paper facemasks hanging loose.

  ‘How old is the victim?’

  The policeman didn’t move his arm.

  ‘Old. From southern France. Very old.’

  Looking up at the stucco frontage of the house, Simon glanced left and right.

  ‘Nice place for an old lady.’

  ‘Tak. Must have been wealthy.’

  ‘Andrew, can I go in now?’

  DS Tomasky half-smiled.

  ‘OK. The DC is in the room on the left. I was just trying to…prepare you.’

  The detective sergeant gestured Simon through the door. The journalist walked down the hallway, which smelled of beeswax and old flowers – and the gases and gels of forensic investigation.

  A voice halted him.

  ‘Name of Françoise Gahets. Never married.’

  It was Sanderson. His lined and lively face was peering around the door of the room at the end of the hallway.

  ‘DCI! Hello.’

  ‘Got your notebook?’

  ‘Yes.’ Simon fished the pad from his pocket.

  ‘Like I said, name of Françoise Gahets. She never married. She was rich, lived alone…We know she’s been in Britain sixty years, no close relatives. And that’s all we’ve got so far. You wanna see the SOC?’

  ‘Unless you want to get, ah, pizza.’

  Sanderson managed a very faint smile.

  They crossed the doorway. As they did Sanderson continued:

  ‘Body was found by the cleaner yesterday. Estonian girl called Lara. She’s still downing the vodkas.’

  They stepped to the end of the sitting room. A white-overalled, white-masked forensic officer swerved out of the way, so the two men could see.

  ‘This is where we found her. Right here. The body was moved this morning. She was…sitting right there. You ready to see the photos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Sanderson reached to a sidetable. He picked up a folder, opened it, and revealed a sheaf of photographs.

  The first photo showed the murdered old woman, fully clothed, kneeling on the floor with her back to them. She was wearing gloves, oddly enough. Simon checked the photo against the reality in front of him.

  Then he looked back at the photo. From this angle the victim looked alive, as if she was kneeling down to search for something under the TV or the sofa. At least she looked alive – if you regarded her up to the neck only.

  It was the head that made Simon flinch: what the murderer, or murderers, had done to the head.

  ‘What the…’

  Sanderson offered another photograph:

  ‘We got a close-up. Look.’

  The second photo was taken from a few inches away: it showed that the entire top of the victim’s scalp had been wrenched away, exposing the white and bloody bone of her skull.

  ‘And check this one.’

  Sanderson was proffering a third image.

  This photo showed the detached scalp itself, a bloody clogged mess of wrinkled skin and long grey hair, lying in the carpet; rammed through the hair was a thick stick – some kind of broom handle maybe. The grey hair was tightly wound around this stick, many many times, all twisted and broken. Knotted.

  Simon exhaled, very slowly.

  ‘Thanks. I think.’

  He gazed around the room: the bloodstains on the carpet were still very visible. It was fairly obvious how the killing must have been done: bizarre – but obvious. Someone had made the old woman kneel down, by the TV, then they had forced the stick through her long grey hair, then they had turned the stick around and around, winding the hair ever tighter on the stick, chewing all her hair into one great painful knot of blood and pain, tearing at the roots of the hair on her scalp, until the pulling pressure must have snapped, tearing off the entire scalp.

  He picked out one of the last photos. It was taken from the front, showing the woman’s expression. His next words were instant – and reflexive.

  ‘Oh my God.’

  The old woman’s mouth was torqued into a loud yet silent scream, the last frozen expression of her suffering, as the top of her head was twisted off, and popped away.

  It was too much. Simon stiffened, and dropped the folder of photos on the sidetable; he turned and walked to the marble fireplace. It was empty and cold, with dried grasses in a vase, and a photo of some old people. A kitsch plaster statue of the Blessed Virgin Mary smiled from the centre of the mantelpiece, next to a small ceramic donkey. The yawning image of his brother, his hands coated in blood, came unbidden to his mind.

  He purged it, and turned.

  ‘So…Detective…judging by that broom handle…it looks like…They twisted and twisted the hair, until it ripped off the top of…of her head?’

  Sanderson nodded.

  ‘Yep. And it’s called knotting.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘It’s a form of torture. Used through the centuries, apparently.’ He glanced at the door. ‘Tomasky did his research, like a good lad. He says knotting was used on gypsies. And in the Russian Revolution.’

  ‘So…’ Simon shuddered at the thought of the woman’s pain. ‘So…she died of shock?’

  ‘Nope. She was garrotted. Look.’

  Another photo. Sanderson’s pen was pointing to the woman’s neck; now the journalist leaned close, he could see faint red weals.

  It was puzzling, and deeply grotesque. He frowned his distaste, and said:

  ‘But that’s…rather confusing. Whoever did this, tormented the old woman first. And then killed her…expertly…Why the hell would you do all that?’

  ‘Who the fuck knows?’ Sanderson replied. ‘Bit of a weird one, right? And here’s another thing. They didn’t steal a thing.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘There’s jewellery upstairs. Totally untouched.’

  They walked to the door; Simon felt a strong urge to get out of the room. Sanderson chatted as they exited.

  ‘So…Quinn. You’re a good journalist. Britain’s seventh best crime reporter!’ His smile faded. ‘I’m not kidding, mate. That’s why I asked you here – you like a bloody mystery story. If you work out the mystery, do let us know.’

  5

  When he came to, groggy and numb, they were both outside, by the door to the bar. In the mountain sun. The girl
was bleeding from her forehead, but not much. She was shaking him awake.

  A shadow loomed. It was the barman. He was standing, nervously shifting from foot to foot, wearing an expression of compassionate fear.

  He said in English, ‘Amy. Miguel – I keep him inside but but but you go, you must go – go now –’

  She nodded.

  ‘I know.’

  Once more the blonde girl grabbed David’s hand. She was pulling him upright. As David stood, he felt the muscles and bones in his face – he was hurting. But he wasn’t busted. There was dried blood on his fingers, from where he must have tried to protect himself – and protect the girl.

  ‘Crazy.’ She was shaking her head. ‘I mean. Thank you for doing that. But crazy.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ David was wholly disorientated. She was British. ‘You saved me first anyway. But…I don’t…don’t understand. What just happened in that bar?’

  ‘Miguel. It was Miguel.’

  That much he knew already. Now she was tugging him down the silent Basque street, past little restaurants advertising raciones and gorrin. Past silent stone houses with towers.

  David regarded his rescuer. She was maybe twenty-seven, or twenty-eight, with a determined but pretty face, despite the bruise and the blooding. And she was insistent.

  ‘C’mon. Quick. Where’s your car? I came by bus. We need to get out of here before he gets really angry. That’s why I tried to pull you away.’

  ‘That wasn’t…really angry?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘That was nothing.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘You’ve never heard of Miguel? Otsoko?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Otsoko is Basque for wolf. That’s his codename. His ETA codename.’

  He didn’t wait for any further explanation; they ran to his car and jumped in.

  David stared at her across the car. ‘Where should we go? Where?’

  ‘Any village that’s not Lesaka. Head that way…Elizondo. My place.’

  David gunned the engine and they raced out of town. Amy added:

  ‘It’s safe there.’ She looked his way. ‘And we can clean you up, you’re still a bit of a mess.’