by David Hewson
‘I suppose that’s what I mean.’
Torrillo wondered whether he could trust the woman. Was this just some kind of plot from upstairs to come in and shackle them with more rules and regulations and paperwork? Trouble was, she just didn’t look like someone from upstairs.
‘There are handbooks for most things. But you can’t write a handbook for the kind of things we got on now.’
‘I appreciate that.’
‘And also you got the captain.’
She waited for him to say more.
‘The captain’s different. He’s got a feeling for cases, which means most times you don’t need a handbook. Sure, we cover the points, but it’s what you get out of the points that matters.’
He gulped down more coffee and she found herself wondering why he looked like this. Why the ponytail, why the canvas suit that would have looked more at home on the road manager of some rock band?
‘It’s a question of intuition, inspiration. Comes from up here’ – Torrillo tapped his head – ‘not some handbook. Let me tell you a story. When I was a kid I used to go up and stay with some relatives near Santiago. You know around there? It’s green. All the time. It just rains all the time and it makes everything green, not this burned-out kind of dry scrub we got here. I used to be into birds those days. Down here you see stuff like eagles, buzzards, hoopoes, the fancy stuff, and you take it for granted. Up there, they used to have these blackbirds everywhere and they fascinated me ’cos we just didn’t see that many and they’re clever birds. You can watch them, and think about them, and try to guess what they’re doing. I used to watch those blackbirds hopping over the grass, looking out for worms, and I could never work it out. They have their heads cocked a little to one side, those eyes going out from the side of their heads, and when they pounce, they pounce somewhere else. Somewhere you know they weren’t looking. I watched that for hours on end and never could figure it. Till one day it hit me and I realized how stupid I was. I kept expecting them to look for the worms. They weren’t. When they cock their heads, they’re listening for them. Listening for the rustle in the grass, whatever it is a blackbird can hear down there. The captain, he’s like that. You think he’s looking for something somewhere, but really he’s listening, listening really hard, someplace else altogether. So we go out there, we find the stuff for him, we come back and we wait. While he listens. Not the kind of stuff you get in a handbook.’
She drained her glass and looked at the cheap plastic watch on her wrist. ‘I think the point about handbooks is that they’re there to support the intuition. They’re there to give you something to work with when the inspiration is somehow missing. When you listen and hear nothing but the wind.’
‘Well, there you have me, Professor. See, I’ve worked with the captain a long time now. We all have. You know, for a lot of us he’s like some kind of a legend. The man who always got there if anyone could. In the end.’
‘In the end.’
She looked at him, curious. He was calculating the degree of trust between them.
‘He’s not a young man, Bear. He looks tired sometimes.’
He grinned. He didn’t mind. He half-expected it. ‘Yeah. You know, pardon me for saying, but at times you sound like that creep Menéndez. He’s after the captain’s job. I guess you worked that out already.’
‘He’s ambitious. What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that it’s not nice to show it so much. And you might at least wait for the guy to say he’s going to retire.’
‘Will you do me one favour?’
‘If I can.’
‘Please call me Maria. Ask the captain to call me Maria too. And Lieutenant Menéndez. If he can bring himself to.’
‘Thank you, Maria.’
‘De nada,’ she said and smiled. Twice in one day. That’s good going, thought Torrillo. Sometimes the ice queen melts a little.
Rodríguez was back behind the desk for the second meeting. The paper mountain appeared bigger, but the blackboard had been wiped clean. He waited for everyone to arrive, thanked Quemada and Velasco for extending their hours – ‘We get overtime for this, Captain?’ asked Velasco hopefully, then shut up when there was no reply – then stood up with the chalk in his hand. Menéndez crouched over a notebook, a ballpoint darting over the page.
‘I see three obvious routes of enquiry. Velasco, Quemada. You stick with the one you’ve already started.’
‘You mean, chasing the rent boys, squeezing what we can get out of them?’ Quemada asked.
‘Yes.’
‘Fine.’ Quemada yawned. ‘Just so’s I got it clear. It’s been a long night and I’d appreciate these things spelled out for my dim-witted brain.’
Even this little act of insubordination rankled for Torrillo, who glared at the little officer from across the room, watched him stare at his shoes, smart a little, then add, ‘The second line of enquiry is the guy in the red suit, right? Are there many of them about?’
‘Jesus,’ said Torrillo. ‘It’s Semana Santa. Got to be hundreds of them out there.’
‘Hundreds wearing penitents’ outfits,’ said Velasco. ‘Not all of them red. You got, maybe, sixty brotherhoods of penitents in all, and most of ’em wear white, a few black, a few purple. Not many red. Not that I can recall.’
Rodríguez picked up a sheet of paper from the desk. ‘Three. The Brotherhood of the True Cross, Proven.’
‘That’s not like the True Cross, Unproven, or the False Cross, or something else? These religious guys really kill me,’ said Quemada.
‘You’re plain ignorant,’ said Velasco. ‘I got relatives involved in all this stuff. It’s tradition.’
‘Burning people used to be tradition,’ Quemada said. ‘Wasn’t so long ago Franco used to have some poor bastards he didn’t like garrotted. He called that tradition too.’
‘Shut your mouth,’ Velasco snapped. ‘These people work all year round doing things you never heard of, raising money for charity, some of it police charities too. Don’t knock it.’
‘Yeah, well, one of them isn’t raising money for the cops, he’s raising work for us.’ Quemada was bent forward with his thumbs holding open his eyelids.
‘The Brotherhood of the True Cross, Proven,’ Rodríguez continued. ‘The Brotherhood of the Everlasting Flame.’
‘You can forget that one,’ said Velasco. ‘I had a cousin was big in that one. The costume’s red, sure, but more sort of orangey-red. No way someone is going to describe that one as scarlet. Besides, I don’t think there’s much life in it any more. My cousin packed it in years ago. He wears black now, don’t you know. And while I’m at it, you can forget the first one too. Probably. If my memory serves me right, they merged with the Everlasting Flame a couple of years back. Happens a lot these days. Religion isn’t what it was. Young kids prefer to ride motorbikes and score dope down the park, some of ’em anyway. May not be in the directory yet, but they’re the same. They wear the same dress.’
Rodríguez scribbled on the paper in front of him. ‘That leaves the Brotherhood of the Blood of Christ.’
Quemada’s eyes lit up. ‘Say, I heard of that one! I heard of that!’
Velasco gasped and rolled his eyes. ‘Christ, everybody’s heard of that one.’
‘I haven’t,’ said Maria.
‘You’re doing time and motion, lady, you’re not part of the investigation,’ Quemada said immediately.
Maria wondered why the words felt so hurtful. They were, in a sense, accurate. She looked across to the captain for some sign, some recognition of where she stood in the pecking order. He seemed oblivious to Quemada’s remark.
Rodríguez went on. ‘The Brotherhood of the Blood of Christ is relatively recent. It dates back to the Civil War. There are perhaps a few hundred members in the city. A small office, a secretary to the brotherhood. Menéndez will talk to him later.’
‘Say.’ Quemada sat upright. ‘I remember where I heard of that one. That’s the one the old
cops used to join, the ones who got the God-urge, right?’
‘Jesus Christ!’ Velasco moaned and put a hand to his head. ‘“The God-urge?” And they wonder why the world’s going down the tubes.’
‘None of the brotherhoods make the records public,’ said Rodríguez. ‘We could threaten court action if they turn difficult. But I think it’s true to say that membership of the brotherhood is fairly tightly controlled. Police. City officials. Politicians, some local, some national.’
‘What kind of politics?’ asked Maria. ‘A little to the right of Christian democracy?’
Rodríguez nodded. ‘I said it dated back to the Civil War. Maybe even directly to the Falange. It’s mellowed over the years, of course. It’s also shrunk a lot in size. No influence any more. Does you no good with a socialist administration.’
‘So you’re a member too, Velasco? You snorting incense in your spare time?’ Quemada looked at his partner with genuine bemusement.
‘No, I am not,’ the officer replied, vehemently. ‘And even if I was, that’s a hell of a thing to ask, even of your partner. Besides, there’s no saying we’re looking for someone there. We’re looking for some crazy who likes wearing the uniform, that’s all. For God’s sake, you can probably hire these things from some fancy-dress place, just like you can get witch costumes for your kids come Halloween. Maybe he borrowed it for the occasion. Anyone could put on an outfit like that.’
Menéndez looked up from the page and said, ‘Anyone could. But let’s assume some association. Direct, or indirect, through a relative or acquaintance, perhaps. Why else would he pick red? White would be more anonymous.’
‘Not much more,’ said Torrillo. ‘We still got a lot of faceless people walking around out there. We can’t stop every one, and even if we did, what would we ask them?’
‘Yeah,’ said Velasco, full of gloom. ‘Next year I’m going to take a holiday for Semana Santa. This could lose me my religion. And the third thing we’re supposed to know? These two maybe I could have worked out, but you lose me on the third.’
‘The darts.’ Rodríguez opened the drawer of his desk and took out an evidence bag. The sharp silver objects looked dull and harmless behind the semi-opaque plastic. He held it by the cream card tag tied around the top.
‘With the brothers, he threw the darts into their bodies before he killed them. We know that from the pattern of the bruising. They did not pierce the skin after death. With Famiani too – which we must assume was another murder attempt – he threw the darts before he tried to use some other kind of weapon.’
‘The brothers would have let this guy stick darts in them anyway, probably,’ said Quemada. ‘They took them in the arms and chest. There were marks on their backsides that looked as if they’d had them there too before. They’d have let him do that as some kind of weird turn-on. Seriously.’
‘And then he gave them dope that knocked them out,’ said Velasco.
His partner nodded. ‘Which he had to do because he couldn’t take them both on at the same time. Yeah. Makes sense. I can see it.’
Maria asked, ‘What would have happened to Famiani if he had stayed to fight? What do the brothers tell you about that?’
‘After they were hit with the darts, they were wounded, deep, in the shoulders and the side of the abdomen, using some sort of long, pointed instrument,’ said Rodríguez. ‘These weren’t fatal wounds. They were deliberate, planned. Not fatal. But they would have been painful, if the brothers were still conscious.’
‘It was like he was goading them?’ asked Torrillo, his face a picture of innocent bemusement.
‘Yes. And then . . .’
Maria smiled – three times in one day, Torrillo thought – then put her hand in the air, like a schoolgirl with an answer.
‘Professor?’
‘And then he killed them with a single thrust to the heart with a long blade?’
She could feel their eyes turn to examine her. A flash of momentary annoyance ran across Rodríguez’s face, then disappeared.
‘Correct. As I was about to say . . .’
‘And the ears,’ she said. ‘Quemada’s right. It’s not just some form of pointless mutilation.’
The cop stared mutely at her. Unimpressed.
‘The way he kills them is a simulation of the bullring,’ she said. ‘And almost accurate. The red of the costume represents the cape of the matador. The darts, with their ribbons, those of the banderilleros, to inflame and weaken the victim. Then he becomes a picador and uses some kind of lance to wound him more seriously. Finally he’s transformed into the matador. He finishes the fight, he makes the sacrifice, with a single thrust to the heart with the sword.’
‘As I was about to say,’ Rodríguez snapped.
Velasco looked puzzled. ‘I’ve met people who copied things before, and they always try to be precise. They’re a little manic. If he’s trying to copy real life, why doesn’t he do it exactly?’
She leapt in with the answer. ‘Because he’s practical. He’s not trying to imitate, he’s trying to adapt the form of a real-life ritual to a new situation, that of murdering a human being, who is not as stupid as a bull. The sight of the darts wouldn’t alert the brothers. They’d probably see it as part of the game. When the lance, or whatever weapon was used, appeared, the pain, the seriousness of the wounds, would betoken something else. Similarly, with Famiani, many men would have responded to having a dart thrown at them with violence and aggression.’
‘I’d have beaten the living daylights out of the bastard,’ said Quemada.
‘No, you wouldn’t. You’d have died. When you tried, you’d have met the lance. And when you were incapacitated by the lance, you’d have met the sword.’
‘So we’re looking for a sexual pervert who’s a member of the Brotherhood of the Blood of Christ and has something to do with bullfighting?’ asked Torrillo.
The captain was staring at her and she was unable to interpret the expression on his face.
‘I believe we should be looking for connections across these three areas,’ said Rodríguez.
‘I got a good bullfighting contact, from way back,’ Torrillo said to Menéndez. ‘We could speak to him after we talk to the brotherhood people.’
‘Good.’
‘And the other questions?’
The way they looked at her Maria began to feel she had intervened once too often. There was something unspoken in the room. Something that could not be said in front of her.
‘The motive?’ she said. ‘Cristina Lucena? The choice of the painting as some kind of motif for the killing? The randomness of this – Famiani surely was random, so how do you know the brothers weren’t also?’
‘Priorities, Professor. There’s no point chasing what we don’t know until we have run down what we do. The meeting is at an end.’
Velasco stumbled to his feet and groaned. ‘And I’m supposed to sleep after that?’
‘No problem,’ said Quemada. ‘Think of Jesus. That could send anybody to sleep. We’re on duty at six.’
They started to file slowly out of the room.
‘Professor?’
She halted at the door.
‘May I have a word in private?’
The rest of them exchanged glances, then left. She returned and sat in front of the chaotic, jumbled desk. Rodríguez rubbed his eyes.
‘Excuse me. I spent most of the night reading.’
She nodded. ‘You need to rest too, sometime.’
‘I will. Sometime. Do you mind my asking, is this useful for your report?’
‘Yes.’ She knew of no other answer to give.
‘It is not a conventional case. It tells you little of routine practice here.’
‘Do you have many conventional cases?’
‘Oh, yes. Most of our work can fit into a standard set of procedures. Even the murders. You might find it more instructive to postpone your attachment until this case is finished.’
‘Is that what you want? For
me to leave?’
‘I think you should consider the option. To come back when our workload might be more useful for your report.’
‘You didn’t answer my question.’
‘No. I didn’t. It should be your decision.’
‘If you feel I am hindering your investigation . . .’
He waved her into silence. ‘Not at all. Not at all. If I thought that, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. Look.’
He reached behind him and opened a file. It bore her name.
‘This is the confidentiality document you signed when you came here.’
Maria looked at the page, filled with jargon and caveats, and her signature at the bottom.
‘Yes.’
‘You did not read it, of course, I cannot understand how anyone could read this sort of language. Or what kind of person could write it. But you know what it means?’
‘I think so.’
‘It means that all the operational information you hear and see here – everything – is confidential. It must not be disclosed to any third party without the written permission of a senior administrative officer in the National Police.’
‘Yes. I’ve agreed to that.’
‘I understand that, but it is as well that you remember you have signed this.’
‘Will you answer my question?’
Rodríguez looked at her across the desk and, for a moment, she could see the hidden flash of intelligence, of ruthlessness, in his face, could imagine how they had come to hold him in such esteem. Then it disappeared behind a civil servant’s smile.
‘I hope you stay, for the duration of this case. This is not a normal investigation. There are aspects to it, perhaps sexual aspects, which may benefit from the opinion of an intelligent outside party. You’re a criminologist. I don’t pretend to understand what that really means. I suspect that you seek the same answers as we do, but through other avenues. Through intellect, perhaps, rather than the routine round of detection and legwork that we tend to feel is the best way to do the job.’
‘I’m not trying to get in your way.’
‘I appreciate that. I’m happy for you to continue here. Though I would be grateful in future if you would let me present my findings uninterrupted.’
