‘What’s that, Leda? Wait!’
There were ambulances and police cars parked at the main entrance to the football pitch, so he turned at the crossroads in A de Meus, took the left fork along the coast as far as the mirador in Corveiro.
From there he could see the pitch. What under his presidency had been renamed the stadium the day they inaugurated the covered stand with its directors’ box. From afar, it looked like a table-football table whose players had detached themselves from the metal bars and taken on a life of their own. In fact he didn’t want to see. He grabbed the binoculars not to get closer, but to have something between his eyes and the other.
Chelín was hanging from the crossbar.
42
THEY STOPPED TO have lunch at África’s place. A small bar and shop on the corner between the coastal road and the track leading to the refrigerated warehouse. As soon as they entered the bar, even before she served the coffee, África signalled to Brinco to approach the counter. ‘Some clients of yours arrived early. A jeep went up the track.’
‘The same two as always?’ asked Brinco ironically.
‘No. They weren’t guards, nor were they from around here.’
Brinco was grateful for the information. And knew how to pay for it. Inverno was driving the Land Rover and they were accompanied by Chumbo sitting in the back. When they reached the bend overlooking Cons, before they could see the warehouse built on reclaimed marshland, Brinco ordered Inverno to stop. Told Chumbo to get out.
‘Go and check out the scenery.’
Chumbo didn’t ask any questions. Just disappeared down a track between bushes, in the direction of the rocks.
When he was driving, Brinco liked to go slowly so he could enjoy the sight of the wall with the company’s name and emblem. A swordfish and narwhal. Underneath were the intertwined initials ‘B&L Frozen Foods’. This time Inverno also drove slowly, but Brinco’s attention was centred on the yard in front of the warehouse, which was devoid of vehicles. They must have left, he thought. The old woman can’t have realised they’ve gone back.
Víctor got out of the jeep and jangled the keys like a rattle. Suddenly he stopped playing around and stared at Inverno. ‘The dogs? Why aren’t the dogs barking?’
They left them loose inside the warehouse. They’d always bark excitedly and whine behind the doors. They recognised the sound of the Land Rover’s engine from afar.
He whistled. Called out to them: ‘Sil! Neil!’
This was the involuntary signal. The doors opened and out walked two stocky men holding cocked pistols equipped with silencers. Inverno had held back. As a precaution. He’d also grabbed hold of his weapon. But from the right of the warehouse, from behind a fuel tank, came another guy, aiming a sawn-off shotgun.
They were skilled and highly trained. An office job to get back the two-thirds that was owing.
Brinco had miscalculated the payment period. He’d thought he had more time. But just as he was sending a message, the office had taken the initiative.
They pushed them inside. The guy with the shotgun stayed downstairs in the warehouse, aiming at Inverno after tying him up. The two dogs, a German shepherd and a Dobermann, lay dead. Little blood for so much silence.
The other two went upstairs with Brinco, one behind and the other in front. He dialled the number he was told to.
‘Hello? Milton here.’
The person talking deliberately emphasised his name. He didn’t want the other man blurting out his real name. The one buzzing about inside Víctor Rumbo’s head.
‘Milton, this is no way to behave.’
One of his assailants, standing behind him, suddenly began to strangle him with a kind of thin wire. He felt the wire penetrating his skin. Making a furrow. Feeling the pain, he instinctively tried to resist. He banged with his elbows, gasping for breath, but the assailant opposite him stuck the barrel of his gun against Brinco’s forehead. The other loosened the wire. And the one with the gun told him to pick up the receiver again.
‘Ah, music, sweet music. Compliments of the house. The best material for tuning. They’re doing their job. They’re professionals. You’re a professional. That’s how it’s done.’
Brinco passed his free hand over his neck. The sensation that an invisible cord was still pressing into it. The digital stain of blood.
‘Listen, Milton. We had a problem with a partner. The guy who was supposed to make the payment was trustworthy. This has never happened before. He lost his head.’
‘Yes, yes, of course. That’s what they’ve been complaining about. They don’t want it happening again. We deal with serious people, not kids.’
‘He lost control of the situation. Hanged himself yesterday. You can check this out if you like.’
‘Don’t come to me with videos. It’s a very sad story. Don’t air it any more. Cover up the hole and leave it. You can do that now, can’t you?’
‘Yes, of course I can… He hanged himself, that’s all. I think it was my fault. I pushed him too far…’
‘The world is a valley of tears. Why walk about with a tombstone around your neck? I’m going to hang up. This is a public phone. Grow up a bit!’
Brinco glanced at the wall clock.
‘You’re right, Milton. There’s no point drowning in a cup of water. I’ll give these gentlemen the treatment they deserve.’
He hung up. Passed his hand over his neck again. Took a deep breath.
‘Good, let’s see to that debt, shall we, piano tuner? You killed the dogs now, didn’t you? Well, right underneath the doghouse is the bag with the money.’
They left the office. The warehouse was empty. The automatic shutters started to rise. Neither henchman had time to ask what was going on. Chumbo, Inverno and half a dozen armed men overpowered them.
‘Where’s the other guy?’ asked Brinco.
‘In the fridge, taking some fresh air,’ said Inverno, pointing to one of the cold storage rooms.
Brinco rummaged in his assailant’s pocket. Found what he was looking for. Tautened the piano string.
‘You know? I just felt a strange pleasure, something I’d never felt before.’
Milton decided to place the call reserved for extreme circumstances.
If happiness is to travel from cold to hot, he’d gone in the opposite direction. From a hot sweat, the atmosphere of a large hotel’s kitchen and the euphoria of someone who has the power of intimidation and uses it, to the cold sweat of someone whose internal affairs have been badly disturbed. As a boy he’d lived in Moravia, in a settlement raised on a mountain of rubbish. He’d grown on top of the discarded waste of Medellín’s rich quarters. There the floor of his home gave off a sticky smell through the cracks, the methane that emanates from decomposition. The senses learn. They reject the base smell in order to perceive the rest. But the day comes when the methane sweeps away all the laboriously constructed scents. And the settlement burns. Moravia burns.
Which is why he always took quick decisions, a ‘Do it!’ whenever he got a whiff of methane. As now. There was a telephone in the kitchen, which he’d been watching for hours. He decided to take every precaution. He removed his head chef’s uniform, put on a holster and jacket. Loaded the magazine in his automatic.
‘I’ll be back in a minute. Pay attention to the phone. Don’t go to sleep on me.’
He made the call from a public booth in a small square next to the Hotel Coruña Road. He had no idea who Palindrome was, but he knew it would work. Palindrome answered. Yes, sir. Milton here. From Madrid, that’s right. It was an emergency. He’d lost track of some men he’d sent to Galicia. They were his best archangels, though he didn’t say this. They’d gone to collect a debt. An office job. They were supposed to call. In a maximum of twelve hours. But he hadn’t heard from them for a day and a half. The debtor? Brinco’s group. In Noitía.