the car, León in the back seat, González’ face shiny with expectation. The road out of Diva wound its way up the mountain. They could soon see Capa, its white houses climbing on top of each other up the hillside.
‘So, León, what do you know about this centre then?’
‘It’s an old farm – used to be called Los Moros, but they’ve changed the name.’
They passed another dirt track turn-off, and then entered Pampa. Max knew there was a good mountaineering centre in the office of the Parque National de la Sierra Nevada, but González refused to stop to ask for directions. Next was Buba, busy with tourists, the local rugs outside the craft shops. Ten minutes later they entered Capa.
‘Best ask the route,’ said Max.
‘No. Just keep going. There can’t be many roads north of here,’ said González.
But ten minutes beyond Capa, there were no roads, just dirt tracks to farms. The Centre could be along any of them. Something had upset González’ stomach. A loud fart filled the car. Max and León hastily opened the windows. González pretended nothing had happened. He grumbled all the way back to Capa.
‘What fucking bastards would want to live in such a remote place. They must be up to no good.’
‘Adventure training centres usually are in remote places,’ Max reminded him.
‘Sure. But have you ever heard of a Muslim adventure centre?’
Max admitted he never had. They stopped at the Sierra Nevada bar. Max remembered a memorable tapa of aubergines in honey. He was with some girl at the time, but damned if he could remember who. The manager was helpful. Left, third left, and keep going. But which was third left? The track was bumpy, and tempers were beginning to fray.
Max noticed that León had picked up his trait of correcting González’ more absurd pronouncements, making Gonzo more and more angry. Although he had lived all his life surrounded by mountains, González did not like them. ‘Tracks all over the fucking place,’ he kept repeating. And then shouted, ‘Where the fuck is this bloody Centre?’
‘I think it was the other track we passed,’ said León.
González muttered all the way to the farmhouse. ‘Any fucker living out here must be pretty dodgy.’
It was a two-storey farmhouse with low wings on each side. New buildings completed the square, with a small domed building a little way off. González tooted his horn angrily. Nobody came out.
‘Let’s have a look around. If necessary, kick the doors in,’ said González.
‘We don’t have a warrant.’
‘Fuck that. This is a murder case. We can do what we like.’
They approached the farmhouse. A man appeared.
‘Bet they’ve hidden everything,’ muttered González.
The man, tall, athletic, silver grey hair, dressed in a crisp shirt and pressed chinos, walked up to them. He bowed formally and greeted them in Arabic. ‘Can I help you? This is the Ibn Rush’d Centre.’
‘You sure can,’ said González. He showed his identity card. ‘We’re police officers. We’re looking for a young man called Hassan Khan.’
‘Yes. He’s here.’
‘Good. We need to speak to him.’
‘Is this about Leila?’
‘Leila Mahfouz . . . yes.’
‘Okay. Hassan was just about to phone you. He was her friend.’
‘How did you know about the girl?’
‘We were invited to the funeral. But come in. Follow me. I’ll show you into the dining room, and then find Hassan.’
‘Your name, please.’
‘I am Dr Javeed Dharwish, Director of the centre.’
They entered a dining room, plain but comfortable with a long wooden table and ten wooden chairs, maps of Spain on the wall. There was a large kitchen, well equipped, off the dining room. Max noticed a mobile phone on the table: it had a booster antenna, which you had to buy in the States. Next to the phone was a small Moroccan dish filled with mints wrapped in silver paper. He also noticed a powerful radio. Come to think of it, the roof of the farmhouse had a large antenna on
‘So, León, what do you know about this centre then?’
‘It’s an old farm – used to be called Los Moros, but they’ve changed the name.’
They passed another dirt track turn-off, and then entered Pampa. Max knew there was a good mountaineering centre in the office of the Parque National de la Sierra Nevada, but González refused to stop to ask for directions. Next was Buba, busy with tourists, the local rugs outside the craft shops. Ten minutes later they entered Capa.
‘Best ask the route,’ said Max.
‘No. Just keep going. There can’t be many roads north of here,’ said González.
But ten minutes beyond Capa, there were no roads, just dirt tracks to farms. The Centre could be along any of them. Something had upset González’ stomach. A loud fart filled the car. Max and León hastily opened the windows. González pretended nothing had happened. He grumbled all the way back to Capa.
‘What fucking bastards would want to live in such a remote place. They must be up to no good.’
‘Adventure training centres usually are in remote places,’ Max reminded him.
‘Sure. But have you ever heard of a Muslim adventure centre?’
Max admitted he never had. They stopped at the Sierra Nevada bar. Max remembered a memorable tapa of aubergines in honey. He was with some girl at the time, but damned if he could remember who. The manager was helpful. Left, third left, and keep going. But which was third left? The track was bumpy, and tempers were beginning to fray.
Max noticed that León had picked up his trait of correcting González’ more absurd pronouncements, making Gonzo more and more angry. Although he had lived all his life surrounded by mountains, González did not like them. ‘Tracks all over the fucking place,’ he kept repeating. And then shouted, ‘Where the fuck is this bloody Centre?’
‘I think it was the other track we passed,’ said León.
González muttered all the way to the farmhouse. ‘Any fucker living out here must be pretty dodgy.’
It was a two-storey farmhouse with low wings on each side. New buildings completed the square, with a small domed building a little way off. González tooted his horn angrily. Nobody came out.
‘Let’s have a look around. If necessary, kick the doors in,’ said González.
‘We don’t have a warrant.’
‘Fuck that. This is a murder case. We can do what we like.’
They approached the farmhouse. A man appeared.
‘Bet they’ve hidden everything,’ muttered González.
The man, tall, athletic, silver grey hair, dressed in a crisp shirt and pressed chinos, walked up to them. He bowed formally and greeted them in Arabic. ‘Can I help you? This is the Ibn Rush’d Centre.’
‘You sure can,’ said González. He showed his identity card. ‘We’re police officers. We’re looking for a young man called Hassan Khan.’
‘Yes. He’s here.’
‘Good. We need to speak to him.’
‘Is this about Leila?’
‘Leila Mahfouz . . . yes.’
‘Okay. Hassan was just about to phone you. He was her friend.’
‘How did you know about the girl?’
‘We were invited to the funeral. But come in. Follow me. I’ll show you into the dining room, and then find Hassan.’
‘Your name, please.’
‘I am Dr Javeed Dharwish, Director of the centre.’
They entered a dining room, plain but comfortable with a long wooden table and ten wooden chairs, maps of Spain on the wall. There was a large kitchen, well equipped, off the dining room. Max noticed a mobile phone on the table: it had a booster antenna, which you had to buy in the States. Next to the phone was a small Moroccan dish filled with mints wrapped in silver paper. He also noticed a powerful radio. Come to think of it, the roof of the farmhouse had a large antenna on
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