Hand in Glove (50 page)

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“What wind’s blown you here, Frank?” he asked. “And who are these good people?”

“Friends of mine, Lew.”

“Friends? Well, things must be looking up for you, then.”

“Not necessarily. Look, I can’t stay long.”

Lew chuckled. “No more than you ever could.”

“I wanted to ask you about Sylvester Kilmainham.”

“Kilmainham? I thought you’d sworn to have nothing to do with him.”

“I’ve changed my mind.”

“You’ve never changed your mind in all the years I’ve known you.

And that must be sixty or more. So, what’s it all about?”

“I can’t explain. But I need to contact him. Will you help me?”

“He’ll want to ask lots of questions. He’ll want to rake over ground you told me you’d turned your back on for ever.”

“I know. Even so . . .” They exchanged a long and eloquent stare.

“Please yourself. You always did.” He looked across at Derek. “See that pot on the bureau, young fellow my lad? Take a look through it.

You should find Kilmainham’s visiting card somewhere among the betting slips.”

Derek crossed to the bureau, removed the lid from a fat earthenware pot and lifted out the contents one by one. There was the predicted surplus of betting slips, along with several doctor’s appointment cards, sundry bills and receipts, some unidentified tablets running loose . . . and the smartly printed visiting card of Sylvester C. Kilmainham, Esq., complete with address and telephone number. “Here we are,” Derek announced, holding it up.

Frank walked over and plucked the card from his hand. “Good,”

he said, casting his eye across the inscription. “He lives in London. We can be there this afternoon. Is there a telephone downstairs I can use, Lew?”

“Impatient after playing hard to get all these years, aren’t we?”

Lew grinned. “Yes, there’s a phone you can use. Ask the redoubtable matron.”

“Who is Mr Kilmainham?” put in Charlotte.

“Don’t you know?” asked Lew. “Hasn’t my old comrade told you?”

“No,” said Frank. “He hasn’t. Why don’t you save me the trou -

ble, Lew?”

“If you like. Sylvester Kilmainham is an avid researcher of the 356

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Spanish Civil War. I’ve had him here picking my brains more than once. He’s compiling his
magnum opus,
you see. Has been for years. A biographical dictionary of the entire conflict. Everybody who fought in Spain, however ingloriously, on whichever side. He claims to have the most comprehensive collection of biographical information in existence, though, being a perfectionist, he can’t regard it as complete until every last foot-soldier and camp-follower has been included.

Even now, some—like Frank—continue to elude him. It’s been as much as I can do on several occasions not to take pity on him and give him Frank’s address, but—”

“His collection covers the Spaniards involved?” Charlotte interrupted.

“A good many, certainly.”

“What about officers in the Nationalist army?” asked Derek.

“Colonels, for instance?”

“Bound to be there. Every last one, I should think.”

“That’s what I’m hoping,” said Frank. “Every last one.”

C

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ELEVEN

Charlotte did not know whether to feel glad or sorry that Sylvester Kilmainham had been at home when Frank telephoned him from Owlscroft House. If he had chanced to be out, she could justifiably have gone to the police with what she knew, arguing any further delay would be dangerous. As it was, having come so far with Frank, she had no choice but to go one step further.

Their appointment with Kilmainham was at four o’clock. Afterwards, she promised herself, she would follow the course Derek had been urging upon her. Whatever they learned, she would hesitate no longer.

Kilmainham occupied a basement flat in a quiet street somewhere on the indeterminate boundary between Hampstead and Cricklewood. He was a large not to say corpulent man in his mid-forties with a mop of curly hair the colour and texture of wire-wool

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and a squint which may or may not have been an illusion produced by his thick-lensed glasses. He was wearing a huge loosely knit sweater long and baggy enough to count as a smock, down which something—food or paint—had recently been spilt. The glee with which he greeted Frank was that of a train-spotter catching his first sight of a long sought-after locomotive. It eclipsed Charlotte and Derek completely and left them merely to spectate at the encounter.

“Mr Griffith! What a rare and unexpected pleasure. I’d quite given up hoping to meet you.”

“Lew Wilkins said you were anxious to speak to me.”

“An understatement. You are one of the few British members of the International Brigades to have slipped through my net. As such, you are more welcome than I can say. Come in, come in.”

Charlotte and Derek were spared no more than a nod as he ushered them into a large and ill-aired front room. Floor space was at a premium, thanks to ceiling-high shelving on every wall, a phalanx of whale-grey filing cabinets and a substantial table overflowing with shoe-boxes. Each was crammed with dog-eared index cards, many of which had flimsy notes attached, all set a-quiver by the draught of their entrance. The sides of the boxes sported titles scrawled in the bluntest of felt-tipped pens. They left Charlotte in no doubt that this was their host’s legendary Spanish Civil War archive. REPUBLICANS

E—G, RUSSIANS M—R, JOURNALISTS D—F, MISCELLANEOUS A—D. And, pulled forward in readiness, BRITONS F—H.

“I’m thinking of computerizing the whole thing,” Kilmainham announced. “But I started before such technology was available and now . . . Well, I’ll have to get around to it sometime before 2011, won’t I?” He grinned.

“Why 2011?” asked Charlotte.

“The seventy-fifth anniversary of the outbreak. That’s when I hope to publish. I’d aimed originally for the fiftieth, but it proved . . .

over-optimistic. Would you care for some tea?”

“I’d like to settle our business first,” said Frank.

“An admirable attitude, my dear sir. Your card’s waiting for you.”

Kilmainham seized one standing proud of the rest in the BRITONS F—

H box, sat down at the table on a stool and brandished a pen. “Shall we check the little I already have first? Born Swansea, 1912. Is that correct?”

“Not so fast. I want some information from
you
before I donate any.”

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Kilmainham frowned. “Well . . . This is somewhat unusual. I—”

“Everything you have on a couple of Spaniards in exchange for everything you want from me.”

“I see.” The frown transmuted itself into a smile of resignation.

“Well . . . Why not? Who are they?”

“A Republican civil servant called Cardozo and a Nationalist colonel called Delgado.”

“Cardozo and Delgado? They ring no bells, but . . .” He gestured at the shoe-boxes. “That scarcely signifies. Let’s see what we have.” He tapped his teeth with the pen for a moment, then pulled one of the boxes towards him and fingered through the cards, muttering under his breath as he did so. “Cab . . . Cal . . . Can . . . Cap . . . Car . . . Cardozo.

Ah!” he exclaimed. “This must be him. Luis Antonio Cardozo, Junior Secretary at the Ministry of Finance, February to October 1936. Not much known about him, I fear.”

“What
is
known?” asked Frank.

“Well . . .” Kilmainham sucked at his teeth. “Born Madrid, 1910.

Son of a civil servant—bureaucracy in the blood, apparently. Educated at the Augustinian College at El Escorial. Took a law degree at the University of Salamanca. Entered the Civil Service, 1932. Then a series of appointments leading to the one you know about at the Ministry of Finance.” He paused, then added: “Not a happy ending, I fear.”

“What do you mean?”

“Disappeared in Cartagena, 27 October 1936, while assisting the Permanent Secretary, Mendez Aspe, during supervision of the shipment to Russia of the national gold reserve. Thought to have defected to the Nationalists: subsequently alleged to have been spying for them from the outbreak of the Civil War. If true, they didn’t show much gratitude, I’m afraid. He’s thought to have been one of six prisoners executed in Burgos, 7 November 1936, on the orders of Colonel M.A.

Delgado. Ah! Delgado. Well, there’s a coincidence.” He looked up at Frank. “Or perhaps not, judging by your expression.” Then he grinned. “The name’s asterisked, which means I have an entry on him. Shall I look it up?”

“If you would.”

Kilmainham pulled another box to the fore, riffled through the cards and picked one out. “Here we are. Marcelino Alfonso Delgado, colonel in the Nationalist Army. I’ve accumulated a fair amount on him.” He flicked at some sheets of paper clipped to the back of the card. “Do you want all of it?”

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“Yes please.”

“Very well.” He adjusted his glasses and cleared his throat. “Born Seville, 1899. Son of a dentist—but no vocation for tooth-pulling, it seems. Educated at Toledo Infantry Academy. Went straight into the army from there. Posted to Morocco, 1919. Gained steady promotion to the rank of captain. Wounded during the campaign against the Riffs, October 1925. Right hand amputated. Nasty, eh?” He broke off and looked round, as if expecting a reaction. When there was none, he shrugged his shoulders and resumed. “Returned to Spain and promoted to major. Posted to Corunna on the staff of the military governor of Galicia. A quiet berth, I suppose, in view of his disability. But it doesn’t seem to have hampered his romantic aspirations. Married a Galician heiress, Cristina Vasconcelez, 1927, thereby acquiring a substantial estate, Pazo de Lerezuela, near Santiago de Compostela. One son, Anselmo, born 1930. When the military rising began in July 1936, Delgado sided with the rebels against the governor, Caridad Pita. A wise choice, since the rebels took Galicia with some ease and Caridad Pita was subsequently executed. Delgado was promoted to colonel and appointed to the staff of the Nationalist
junta
in Burgos, where he established an intelligence-gathering outfit. Hence his link with Cardozo, presumably. Said not to have been well thought of by Franco, however.” He clicked his tongue. “That probably explains his transfer to a field command early in 1937 and lack of subsequent promotion. He didn’t make general until long after the Civil War was over and then only just before retirement. Saw action at Jarama, Guadalajara, Teruel and the Ebro. Acquitted himself well, with a reputation for brutality, both against his own men and the enemy. But the Generalissimo still didn’t take to him, so it was back to garrison duty in Galicia in 1939. End of story.”

“There’s nothing more?”

“Only some notes about his family. Nothing pertaining to the Civil War.”

“Is he still alive?”

“If he weren’t, I’d have heard about it. But I haven’t, so, yes, he’s still with us. Which is more than I can say for his offspring. The son, Anselmo, followed his father into the army and became a major. He was posted to the Basque Country, where he proved a thorn in the flesh of ETA, the Basque separatist group. They removed the thorn in their customary way—a car-bomb detonated while he was driving his wife and children to church one Sunday in November 1972. They 360

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were all killed, except his youngest daughter, Yolanda. Delgado’s wife died the following year, so I suppose the old man had to raise his granddaughter on his own. All sounds rather pitiful, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Charlotte, moved, though she knew she should not be, by the picture Kilmainham had painted. “It does.”

Frank glanced coldly at her, then said: “Still alive, after all that brutality. And still living on the estate he inherited from his wife?”

“Presumably,” Kilmainham replied.

“I’ll make a note of the address, if I may.”

“Allow me.” Kilmainham jotted the information on to an empty card and handed it to Frank. “Now, about your entry . . .”

“Could I ask you to look up one other person first?”

“Is that necessary?” interrupted Charlotte, suddenly guessing who the person was. “Surely we know enough already.” Derek frowned at her, but she ignored him. Frank’s intensity was beginning to worry her. The names and dates at Kilmainham’s disposal—the catalogued facts spilling from his index so freshly that the events they were based on seemed more real and recent than any number of memories—were feeding a long-starved desire. Not for justice, she greatly feared, but for revenge.

“I think it’s necessary,” said Frank.

“But—”

“And if our host doesn’t object, why should you?”

Kilmainham squinted at both of them in puzzlement. “I . . . er . . . I have . . . no objection.”

“Good,” said Frank. “What do you have on Vicente Ortiz, a Catalan anarchist?”

This time Kilmainham sorted through his shoe-boxes in silence, the pleasure he derived from displaying his wares crushed out of him.

Charlotte hoped he would draw a blank but the sheer quantity of accumulated paperwork suggested the opposite. And so it proved. He pulled the card out and read its contents in a sulky monotone.

“Vicente Timoteo Ortiz, Catalan anarchist. Born Barcelona, 1905.

Lorry driver and mechanic. Active member of CNT. Member of Durruti column, July 1936 to June 1937. Then transferred to the British Battalion, 15th International Brigade.” He glanced at Frank before continuing. “Captured during the retreat from Teruel, March 1938.

Reported to have died under interrogation at . . . at Montalban, on or about 16 March 1938.”

“Why did you hesitate?” asked Frank.

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“No . . . No reason.”

“Can I see the card?”

“Well . . . I hardly . . .” But it was snatched from his grasp before he could frame a protest.

“As I thought. ‘Reported to have died under interrogation at the field HQ of Colonel M.A. Delgado.’ ” Frank’s voice dropped to a murmur. “ ‘At Montalban, on or about . . . the sixteenth of March . . .’ ” His fingers released the card, which fluttered to rest on the table.

“ ‘1938.’ ” Charlotte saw his jaw muscles clench and his eyes narrow.

“End of story.”

“Frank—”

“I can’t talk to you now, Mr Kilmainham,” he blurted out. “I have to go.”

“But . . . You promised . . .”

“Sorry. I’ve made other promises which take precedence. I live at Hendre Gorfelen, near Llandovery, in Dyfed. Seek me out some time and I’ll tell you everything you want to know. If I’m still there to be sought.” He turned towards the door.

“This is outrageous,” cried Kilmainham, jumping up. “I’ve been misled. Come back this minute, Mr Griffith. I absolutely insist.” But it was too late. Frank was already hurrying out of the flat.

“Apologize to Mr Kilmainham for me, Derek,” said Charlotte. “I must go after him.” With that, she ran from the room, just in time to see the front door closing behind Frank. He was at the top of the basement steps and marching towards his Land Rover when she gained the open air. “Frank! Frank! For God’s sake, stop!”

He pulled up and rounded on her as she reached the pavement.

“What is it?”

“We have to talk. We have to decide what to do.”

“Isn’t it obvious? I’ve found out where Delgado is, as I said I would. Now we go after him.”

“We can’t. It’s too risky. It’s a job for the police.”

“I disagree.”

“Sam’s my niece, not yours. It’s for me to judge what’s in her best interests.”

“This isn’t about your niece any more.”

“No. It isn’t, is it? Not for you. For you it’s about vengeance. Which is exactly what Beatrix spent fifty years trying to save you from.”

The mention of Beatrix’s name seemed to penetrate his defences.

He hesitated for a moment. His expression wavered.

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