Winter in Madrid by C. J. Sansom Page A

expenses checked.’ He paused. ‘By the way, make sure you keep a careful note of everything you spend. London’s red-hot on expenses.’ Tolhurst looked out of the window at the central courtyard where patched washing flapped on lines strung between the balconies, then turned back to Harry. ‘Tell me,’ he asked curiously, ‘does Madrid look much different to when you were here under the Republic?’
    ‘Yes. It was bad enough then but it looks worse now. Even poorer.’
    ‘Maybe things’ll get better. I suppose at least now there’s strong government.’
    ‘Maybe.’
    ‘Did you hear what Dalí said – Spain’s a nation of peasants who need a firm hand? Cuba was the same, they just can’t handle democracy. Everything goes to pot.’ Tolhurst shook his head, as though it was all beyond him. Harry felt a spurt of anger at his naiveté, then reflected that it was beyond him too, the tragedy that had happened here. Bernie was the one who had had all the answers but his side had lost and Bernie was dead.
    ‘Coffee?’ he asked Tolhurst. ‘If there is any.’
    ‘Oh yes, place is stocked. And there’s a phone, but be careful what you say, it’ll be tapped as you’re Dip Corps. Same with letters home, they’re censored. So take care if you’re writing to family, or a girlfriend. Got anyone back home?’ he added diffidently.
    Harry shook his head. ‘No. You?’
    ‘No. They don’t let me out of the embassy much.’ Tolhurst looked at him curiously. ‘What took you to Carabanchel, when you were here before?’
    ‘I came with Bernie Piper. My Communist schoolfriend.’ Harry smiled wryly. ‘I’m sure it’s in my file.’
    ‘Ah. Yes.’ Tolhurst reddened slightly.
    ‘He got friendly with a family down there. They were good people; Christ knows what’s happened to them now.’ He sighed. ‘I’ll get that coffee.’
    Tolhurst looked at his watch. ‘Actually, I’d better not. Got to check some damned expenses. Come to the embassy at nine tomorrow, we’ll show you the ropes for the translators.’
    ‘Will the other translators know I’m working for Hillgarth?’
    Tolhurst shook his head. ‘Lord, no. They’re all regular Dip Corps, just performers in Sam’s circus.’ He laughed and extended a damp hand to Harry. ‘It’s all right, we’ll run through it all tomorrow.’
    H ARRY TOOK OFF his collar and tie, feeling a welcome current of air playing on the damp ring around his neck. He sat in a leather armchair and looked through Forsyth’s file. There wasn’t much there: some more photographs, details of his work with Auxilio Social, his contacts in the Falange. Sandy was living in a big house, paying liberally for black market goods.
    Outside he heard a woman’s voice, harsh, calling her children in. He put down the file and walked over to the window, looking through the washing to the shadowy courtyard, where children were playing. He opened the windows, the old familiar smell of cooking mingled with rot striking his nostrils. He could see the woman leaning out, she was young and pretty but wore a widow’s black. She called her children again and they ran indoors.
    Harry turned back to the room. It was poorly lit and seemed full of gloomy corners, the places where pictures or posters had been removed standing out as ghostly squares. He wondered what had hung there. Pictures of Lenin and Stalin? There was something oppressive about the still, quiet atmosphere. The Communist would have been taken after Franco occupied Madrid, hauled away and shot in a cellar probably. Harry switched on the light but nothing happened. The light in the hall was the same; probably a power cut.
    He had been uneasy about spying on Sandy but now he felt a growing anger. Sandy was working with Falangists, people who wanted to make war against England. ‘Why, Sandy?’ he asked aloud. His voice in the silence startled him. He felt suddenly alone. He was in ahostile country, working for an embassy that seemed to be a