Michael Pearce
A dead man of Barcelona
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 the 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?