Read Online The Exile by Mark Oldfield - Free Book Online Page A

anything without prior approval and you’ll go to jail.’
    Exasperated, he pushed her aside and went into the hall, hearing a stream of curses, though, since they were in French, they were wasted on him.
    Guzmán found his table and made himself comfortable. He saw the place setting next to him. Señorita Magdalena Torres . Some rotund harpy, he imagined, probably the elderly daughter of a long-deceased colonel. He took a look at the setting opposite and groaned. A bishop. That meant the conversation would be about money, football or women, possibly even God if the bishop wasn’t Spanish. His only hope was that the food would be good, though that would be scant consolation for tolerating such tedious company.
    A waiter went by and Guzmán deftly reached up to pluck a glass from the tray. He lit a cigarette and sat back, sipping the expensive champagne as the social élite of the town filed in, preening and self-important as they hurried to their places. He smiled at their disappointment as they found themselves seated at the back of the room, an indication of the contempt the general held for them.
    As he watched, a portly matron bustled into the crowded dining room. On her ample bosom he saw the yolk and arrows insignia of the Falange. Perhaps this was Señorita Torres. Then he breathed a sigh of relief as the woman joined several other ladies ensconced at a table near the general’s dais. Bottles of water only, he noted. It was an image of hell.
    A sudden movement at the door caught his eye as a late arrival hurried in. He took a long look and then, feeling the need for another drink, called the waiter, though he kept his eyes fixed on the blonde woman now standing in the doorway.
    As he watched, the woman pushed a stray lock of hair into place and then strolled into the banqueting hall as if she owned it. She wore an expensive powder-blue silk dress that accentuated her figure as she picked her way around the tables, examining the place settings. Casually, Guzmán tried to loosen the collar of his bow tie again.
    â€˜Ah, here I am.’ The woman smiled, seeing her name on the place card at Guzmán’s side. He leaped up to hold her chair and she slid into the seat with supple grace. She turned to thank him. Blue piercing eyes. Scarlet lips that matched her expensively manicured nails. She gave a vague wave and a waiter came scuttling over. Guzmán didn’t blame him.
    â€˜Brandy,’ she told the waiter. ‘A double.’
    â€˜Do you always drink brandy this early in the evening, señorita?’ Guzmán asked.
    â€˜I really don’t think you need worry about that, señor. I drink what I like, when I like.’ She called the waiter back. ‘The gentleman will have a brandy as well.’
    Guzmán offered his hand. ‘Leo Guzmán. You’re Señorita Torres, I believe?’
    â€˜Heavens, you must be a detective, Señor Guzmán.’ She offered him a cigarette from a monogrammed silver case. Blond tobacco, he noticed, probably American. He took the cigarette anyway, though he would find it weak and uninteresting. Unlike Señorita Torres.
    â€˜You’re right, I am a policeman,’ he said as he lit her cigarette. ‘I saw your name on the place setting and thought you’d probably be an old dear who knits socks for the party. I’m very glad you’re not.’
    Magdalena gave him a faint smile. ‘I find it quite a relief myself.’
    Distracted, he ran a finger inside his collar. ‘Do you think it’s warm in here?’
    â€˜Not really, I found the sea breeze a little cool if anything.’ She glanced round as the hall hummed with the noise of hundreds of conversations. ‘I often wonder what people at these functions find to talk about, don’t you?’
    â€˜They talk about themselves,’ Guzmán said, trying not to stare at her breasts.
    â€˜I expect you’re right.’ She