Free The Butcher Beyond by Sally Spencer Page B

López had spotted the glossy sheen of the corner of a photograph projecting from under a pile of reports. Making a mental note of exactly where he had first observed it, the Captain pulled the picture free and held it up to the light.
    It was a photograph he had seen before – the photograph which the official police photographer had taken of the dead Holloway.
    So not only did Durán know the circumstances of the man’s arrival in the town, but he had sent for his picture – and had done so in such a way as to make certain that the officer in charge of the case knew nothing about it.
    That was not good! Not good
at all
!
    López was on the point of returning the picture to the exact spot in which he had found it when he saw that lying beneath it were several other photographs. He strained his ears for the sound of approaching footsteps, then reached for his new discovery.
    He laid the photographs on the desk. They were much older – and much less expertly taken – than the picture of the murder victim. And they fell into two distinct groups.
    The first set contained shots of a group of men in an olive grove. They were wearing the baggy trousers and shapeless jackets of a much earlier era, and they were all carrying rifles. There was something about the composition of the pictures which suggested to López that the photographer had taken them hurriedly – and perhaps secretly.
    The second set was quite different. Each picture contained only one man, and it was plain from the expressions on their faces that they – like Holloway – were dead.
    López picked up one picture from each set, and began to compare them.
    Were the men in the first set the same men as appeared in the second? he wondered. And if there were, how much time had elapsed between the two sets?
    The faces, especially in the olive grove set, were fuzzy. What he needed was a magnifying glass. He wondered if the
Alcalde
kept one somewhere among the chaos of his desk.
    There was the sound a door being opened, then he heard heavy footsteps as Durán plodded down the corridor.
    López gathered up the photographs, replaced them where he had found them, and took two quick steps backward.
    The
Alcalde
returned to his study, breathing heavily from his exertion. ‘A false alarm,’ he gasped. ‘The bitch isn’t ready yet.’ He walked around his desk, and squeezed his huge frame back into his chair. ‘Where were we?’ he asked.
    â€˜I need more,’ López said.
    The
Alcalde
looked puzzled. ‘More of what?’
    â€˜I need to have things clearly spelled out for me.’
    â€˜What has brought about this sudden need of yours for me to be more explicit?’
    The photographs! López thought. The bloody photographs which suggest that this matter goes much deeper than you would have me believe!
    But aloud, all he said was, ‘When you ask a man to walk through a swamp, you should at least mark out his path clearly for him.’
    The
Alcalde
sighed heavily. ‘Very well,’ he agreed. ‘Perhaps this will be clear enough for you. I will not hold it against you, Captain López, if you fail to solve this murder.’
    â€˜Good.’
    â€˜More than that – I will understand that your failure to solve it was due to your sensitivity to the needs of this town. That will make you a hero in my eyes – and heroes should be rewarded. If, on the other hand, you do solve the murder – but disrupt the tourist trade – it will be a black mark against you. And the next time I talk to your Captain-General, I will have some very unpleasant things to say to him. Do we understand each other?’
    López nodded. ‘Oh yes, Your Excellency. I think we understand each other
very well
indeed.’
    Jessica Medwin had intended to shop with Miriam Thoroughgood that afternoon, but the other woman’s comments at lunch had left a bad taste in her mouth, and so she