The Spanish Game: A Novel by Charles Cumming

Author:Charles Cumming [Cumming, Charles]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery, Thriller
ISBN: 0312366396
Amazon: B003P2VCG6
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2008-11-25T06:00:00+00:00

24

El Cochinillo

It was a honey trap. I allowed the simplicity of Rosalía’s deceit to obscure the truth about Arenaza’s disappearance. She posed as his lover, lured him to Madrid, and—most probably—Sellini did the rest. Walking in the Casa de Campo after Bonilla has paid the bill, taken my check, and left, I put the pieces together with ease. Mikel’s death was revenge for the stepfather’s murder, pure and simple. It’s time the police knew about that. It’s time to call Patxo Zulaika.

Back at the flat I find his phone number and dial it just after five o’clock in the afternoon. A full confession to Goena is not an option: instead, I will tell Zulaika that Mikel briefly mentioned he had a mistress called Natalia or Rosalía in Madrid who worked as a lawyer or industrial engineer. It was something he said over dinner that completely slipped my mind. A guy as professional as Patxo should be able to put the pieces together based on these simple clues. Unless Bonilla already knows the whole story. Unless he has already gone to the cops.

But Zulaika isn’t answering his phone. According to a message in crackled Basque and Spanish, he will be out of the office until Monday. He doesn’t leave a contact number but suggests calling one of his colleagues at Ahotsa “in the event of an emergency.”

Hello, Mr. Zulaika. This is Alec Milius. You may recall that we spoke about Mikel Arenaza’s disappearance when you were in Madrid a couple of weeks ago. It may not be important, but I’ve remembered something that could be interesting for you. Would you give me a call when you get this message? Gracias.

Sure enough, the Internet is choked with stories about the Chamartín bomb. Pasqual Vicente was a thirty-four-year-old Guardia Civil, respected and well liked by his colleagues, intelligent and ambitious and clearly going places with his career. He was called to the railway station on the morning of June 6, 1983, to investigate a petty theft. He arrived in a squad car with his partner, Pablo Aguirre, and spent about an hour interviewing a woman who claimed that her bag had been stolen from a café on the station concourse. It later transpired that the woman—who disappeared—had given a false name and that no such theft had occurred. Instead, the absence of the two police officers from their car gave three ETA operatives time to attach an explosive device to the chassis. When Vicente turned the key in the ignition, the entire vehicle was blown apart, killing both of them instantly and injuring a number of passers-by. Rosalía Dieste was eleven. Her brother was eight. Their mother, already widowed once, had to bury a second husband before she was forty years old.

The next day, to clear my thoughts, I take a drive out to Segovia and eat cochinillo for lunch at Mesón de Cándido, the city’s best-known restaurant, situated below the aqueduct at Plaza de Azoguejo. It’s about an hour’s drive northwest of

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