At the end of the week, just before catching the ferry back to Ibiza to fly home, she gave up smoking. Better for the baby, she said. And he’d crumpled his last packet and dumped it in the ashtray as well – they’d do it together.
And for a while, back in Valencia, the magic of the island had stayed with them. Sex every day for two or three weeks, perhaps more. They’d meet at lunchtime and catch a taxi to his flat, barely able to restrain themselves before opening his door and throwing themselves on to the sofa. And she came so strongly that she wept.
Weeks passed; lovemaking became less frequent as they both landed with a jolt in their respective lives, sucked into a whorl of long hours, paperwork and plastic grocery bags. Her periods continued with their clock-like consistency. Again he suggested moving in together: sex would be easier, more spontaneous. There’d be a greater chance of her getting pregnant. But again no. Things would stay as they were.
They’d only done it once over the past month. Was it his fault? Perhaps, he thought, if they could get away again, head back to Formentera, away from the suffocating blanket of their jobs and rediscover the passion that had vivified them back then.
Then Blanco’s body had been dumped in the middle of the bullring.
Infertility – just the thought of it weakened something in him. One of Hilario’s proverbs filtered through from some part of his mind: Quien al mear no hace espuma, no tiene fuerza en la pluma – He whose pee doesn’t foam has no lead in his pencil. In the past it had brought a smile to his face. Now it seemed to crush something in him. Did it apply to being infertile as well? He’d have to check next time.
He looked around: cars were streaming past along the road in front. Somehow he had come out of the labyrinth of the Carmen and arrived in the centre of the city again. His eyes widened as he looked up: he was in front of Almudena’s office, standing on the pavement opposite. A knot formed in his stomach as he wondered about crossing over and ringing the bell. With all her ideas about Fate and letting things happen of their own accord, she might appreciate his appearing like this, unexpectedly. Perhaps there was still time to fix things.
Waiting for a gap in the traffic, he looked up at the office window and caught sight of her face staring out. She hadn’t seen him, but was laughing. Breaking out into a spontaneous smile himself, he was about to put his hand up to wave at her when he realised she was talking to someone. A client? She might be in the middle of a meeting, explaining her ideas about the designs for that new restaurant.
The smile had already dropped from his mouth when he saw. With a last chuckle from her, a hand – a male hand – was placed around her waist from behind. She turned and took a step back inside the office.
There was a lull in the traffic. The way across the street was open to him. Cámara looked down at his feet, images flashing in his mind of running over, dashing up the stairs, crashing the door down and then causing intense physical damage to the other man. A storm raged within him, but he stayed where he was, slowly sinking into the concrete paving stones where he stood.
He took a deep breath, swallowed and looked up the street. His fingers dug into his pocket and he felt around for how much cash he had on him. The reason – the real reason – why he had walked out of the Jefatura had come to him. A little green light on the roof of a white car caught his eye and he stuck his arm out. If the taxi-driver hurried he could still just make it.
The city cemetery lay on the outskirts of the city. Cámara ordered the driver to swing over and drop him on the opposite side of the road from the main entrance, next to a line of small florist stalls.
He bought a bouquet of white lilies and looked over towards the red-brick gateway. To the right the Municipales were policing a large group of people held behind some hurriedly erected barriers. There were as many as five thousand people there, he guessed, lined up six or seven deep along the route leading back into the city, paying their respects to Blanco in what seemed like near silence. All the while cars and buses were bringing yet more, and the police were having to turn many away, letting the odd one through as it brought what he assumed to be members of Blanco’s family or his friends.
To the left of the entrance, a dozen TV vans were squeezed into a tight corner at the end of the boulevard, all aerials and cables and bright lights shining on microphone-wielding reporters performing to camera. Cámara wondered if any of them had managed to get into the funeral itself.
He crossed the road and moved towards the main gate. An elderly porter with three days’ stubble on his chin and a blue peaked cap was sweeping with a straw broom, dropping ash from his cigar on to the marble floor where he’d just cleaned up. Cámara identified himself and the man nodded him through.
A wide avenue led through the centre of the cemetery, with ostentatious graves and mini mausoleums on either side, stone angels with giant wings casting their eyes down on fading black-and-white photos of the deceased placed in small iron frames. The chapel was at the far end, and from the crowds of well-dressed people pouring out of its doors he guessed the mass had already finished. The clicking of several dozen paparazzi cameras sounded like the chatter of hungry sparrows at sunset.
A group of five Municipales stood to one side watching the crowd. One of them caught Cámara’s attention, a plastic brace around his neck, his pale brown sunglasses only partially disguising the swelling around his eyes. He seemed to sense Cámara’s presence, and for a second they looked straight at each other, before the crowd surged between them. Cámara felt a cold sweat breaking out as he dodged around the bobbing heads, trying to get another look, yet when a break in the throng came, the other Municipales were still there, but the man with the neck brace was nowhere to be seen. One or two of the others glanced in Cámara’s direction, then pretended they hadn’t seen him.
Cámara looked around for a moment, wondering whether he was imagining things, a heavy thudding in his brow. First Almudena, now this?
He decided to ignore it; it was time to go to work. He moved in towards the crowd, looking for faces he recognised. In the centre, surrounded by a small group of very tall, slim and well-dressed women – none of them in black – was Alejandro Cano, the bullfighter. He had appeared in the ring the day before with Blanco, the first of the three matadors to face a bull.
Cano looked small and slight in the middle of his harem, with his sideburns and his thick chestnut hair carefully swept back, just the hint of a quiff. The suit and black tie took something away from the man Cámara had last seen in the bullring, yet he was smiling and nodding at the other mourners, his face animated and cheerful: an incongruous beacon of light in a sombre sea.
Cámara passed around the edge of the mourners, watching as white handkerchiefs fluttered among the swell of black cloth. Shoulders were patted, hands shaken, cheeks kissed. A cloud seemed to hang over them, threatening to rain, yet never quite managing to, as it slowly evaporated in the sunshine.
He felt a tap on his arm and he spun round to look into a face he felt he already knew well. Short, highlighted hair, a slight gap between her front teeth. There was an expression of anguish in her eyes, yet also of strength. It reminded him of Aguado back at the Jefatura. Aguado – something inside him told him he should have been here instead of in the interrogation room. That is, if he’d have come at all.
‘Chief Inspector Cámara,’ the woman in front of him said. ‘I’m Alicia Beneyto.’
They shook hands, Alicia glancing approvingly at the lilies Cámara had bought. He waited for a second for the recoil the sight of his broken lip seemed to cause in people, but it never came.
‘I’m sorry we’re having to meet again in circumstances such as these,’ Cámara said, casting a glance at the crowd in front of them. None knew that he, too, was in his own private moment of mourning.
‘I understand you were quite close to Blanco,’ he said.
‘We had…We were close,’ she said. ‘He trusted me.’
‘With his secrets?’
There
was a pause.
‘Blanco almost never gave interviews,’ she said at length. ‘On the two occasions in his career when he did, it was with me.’
‘Why was that?’ Cámara asked. ‘Because you’re a woman?’
‘There aren’t many female bullfight journalists, you’re right. In fact, I’m the only one in this city. But I like to think it wasn’t only for that reason.’
She gave a heavy, chesty cough.
‘Two outsiders in a closed, traditional world,’ Cámara muttered to himself.
‘You saw the body,’ Alicia said. ‘Was it really as bad as…’ She stopped.
Cámara nodded.
‘They’ll be building a mausoleum of black marble over the grave once the burial is finished,’ Alicia said. ‘The Ramírez family have paid for it all.’
Applause broke out as the final group of mourners emerged from the chapel and the pall-bearers appeared with the coffin. Behind them, weeping and being led out into the sunshine, was Carmen Luna. Vast sunglasses shaded most of her face while a black veil cascaded from the top of her head. She wore a tight black miniskirt with a slit up the front, black stockings, black shiny leather heels, a black jacket with a single button, with only a black bra underneath, and heavy gold chains set against her deeply bronzed décolletage. The cameras clicked wildly as she vainly held up a pleading hand to be left alone in her grief.
‘Drawn like flies to shit,’ Alicia said under her breath.
‘Tell me,’ Cámara said. ‘Did Blanco ever wear any necklaces or anything?’
‘A silver bracelet,’ she said without looking up. ‘He’d take it off immediately before a fight, then put it back on again as soon as he’d finished. It was one of his funny little habits. Why?’
‘Nothing,’ Cámara said.
They set off behind the crowd of mourners away from the chapel to the grave site. Burial was rare in modern Spain, cremation being the norm, but Blanco was being treated like a hero of the nineteenth century.
Alicia pointed to a group at the front of the procession, and Cámara recognised the men he’d put down as bull breeders at the Bar Los Toros the evening before.
‘Francisco Ramírez and his eldest son Paco,’ Alicia explained. ‘Blanco was very close to them.’
Cámara got a better look at Paco. He was very similar to his father, but there was a greater physical strength there, he thought. Although it was hard to tell: the mourning Francisco bore only a superficial resemblance to the man he’d seen the night before.
‘That’s Roberto, the second son,’ Alicia said, pointing at a taller man with jet black hair walking beside them.
Cámara watched him for a moment: he looked both rougher-edged and more urbane than his father and elder brother; less country gentility, more city sophistication. While Francisco and Paco both wore brogues, Roberto sported black slip-ons with a golden buckle at the side.
‘Blanco was brought up on the Ramírez farm,’ Alicia said.
‘Tell me more,’ Cámara said, keeping his eyes on the Ramírez family group.
‘His father was an employee there,’ Alicia continued, ‘but died in an accident when his horse threw him before Blanco was born. Blanco’s mother still lives on the estate. Francisco Ramírez brought Blanco up almost as one of his own sons, and when he began to show promise as a torero, they paid for him to go to Mexico to train – underage bullfighting is allowed there. When he returned to Spain he fought as a novillero for about four years before taking his alternativa here in Valencia fighting Ramírez bulls. That’s when he became a fully fledged matador. It was the perfect combination: Ramírez’s bulls and now being championed by one of the best toreros to emerge for generations.’
‘What about Ramírez’s sons?’ Cámara asked.
‘Paco is the spitting image of his father, as you can see. He’ll take over once the old man dies. Roberto is different. Hates bullfighting. Broke away from the family years ago. He’s an investment banker.’
‘But he’s still come to the funeral.’
‘Blanco was like a member of the family, as I said.’
The crowd reached the graveside and formed a circle. Cypress trees shot like needles into the sky around them. The pall-bearers eased the coffin down. The priest said a few more words, shook some water on to the coffin lid, and then the box was finally lowered into the sharply cut pit. A wail came from some of the mourners: Cámara turned in time to see Carmen Luna drop the flowers she was holding in her hand and faint into the arms of a strategically placed assistant. The journalists moved in.
Alicia stayed at Cámara’s side.
‘You’re holding Aguado,’ she said.
‘What do you know about him?’ Cámara asked, turning to watch her expression.
She shook her head.
‘Why?’
‘The ritual nature of the killing – going to all those lengths with the banderillas and…’ She swallowed. ‘I think it’s too clinical; it might look like one but to my mind it doesn’t fit with a crime of passion.’
‘So they were lovers,’ Cámara said.
‘I didn’t say that,’ she corrected herself quickly.
‘Many people do.’
‘Has Antonio said as much?’
‘I’m not sure if he has to, now.’
She turned her gaze towards the other mourners.
‘Where’s Blanco’s manager?’ Cámara asked.
‘Juanma Ruiz Pastor? He’s here. I saw him speaking to Roberto earlier.’
‘Is it true?’
‘About Blanco and Ruiz?’
She seemed about to say something, then fell silent.
‘Had they fallen out?’ he asked more seriously.
‘You should ask Ruiz Pastor himself,’ she said.
They joined the line of people waiting to pass in front of the grave and throw their flowers on to the coffin. Cámara caught sight of Santiago Rodríguez, the bullfighting expert with the red-framed glasses who had appeared on the TV the night before. He was talking in low tones to what looked like a group of fellow aficionados.
‘Blanco always insisted he should be buried in Valencia,’ Alicia said absent-mindedly. ‘It was his favourite bullring.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘It was where he had his first great triumph as a matador,’ she said. ‘Also, the Fallas bullfights are the first big ones of the season to be held after the winter break. It’s a kind of showcase for the bullfighting to come over the rest of the spring and summer.’
‘Where was Blanco from originally?’ Cámara asked.
‘Albacete. Just like yourself, Chief Inspector.’
‘Albacete, caga y vete,’ Cámara quoted the joke about his ill-loved home town: Albacete, have a shit there and get out.
She giggled.
Ahead of them an elderly woman was being helped along by Roberto Ramírez. Frail and delicate, she struggled to move forwards as her walking stick caught in the stones underfoot. Roberto guided her along, placing his hand under her arm and helping to take some of her weight. The woman’s hands were trembling, her face pale and fraught, an expression of disbelief in her eyes.
‘Blanco’s mother,’ Alicia whispered.
Ramírez and Paco looked on as the woman threw flowers on to her son’s coffin. Then she turned and quietly shuffled away, her face buried in Roberto’s shoulder. On the other side of the Ramírez family group stood another woman, her back straight, dark blonde hair tied back in a bun on her head, her face set like granite. Cámara looked at Alicia.
‘Ramírez’s wife,’ she explained. ‘Aurora Palacios.’
The line moved forwards, until it was their turn to throw flowers into the grave. Cámara nodded his head in respect, then cast his lilies into the pile of other flowers. Behind him Alicia lingered a little.
Standing on his own, he looked around again for Juanma Ruiz Pastor. Perhaps he wasn’t wearing his trademark hat this afternoon, and Cámara simply hadn’t recognised him. He sensed a presence behind him and he
turned to see Francisco Ramírez staring him straight in the eye, beads of sweat forming in the thinning lines of his carefully combed near-white hair.
Cámara offered his condolences.
‘That boy was like a son to me,’ Ramírez said in a shaky voice. His eyes seemed to flare.
‘Get whoever it was who did this.’ He spat violently to the side. Next to him, Paco tried to usher his grieving father on.
‘Just get him!’ Ramírez repeated as they stepped away.
Paco nodded at Cámara as he passed. Behind him Roberto approached and held out his hand.
‘You have to understand, it’s a difficult time,’ he said. His voice was firm and confident.
‘To lose him in a bullfight – I think he could have coped with that. But not like this. Not this way.’
Cámara nodded in understanding and Roberto headed back to console Blanco’s mother, momentarily standing on her own.
As the mourners began to disperse, Cámara walked with them down the avenue to the main gate. Small groups had formed along the way as people said their goodbyes, hugging and kissing one another. Cámara pulled out his phone and called Torres.
‘Make a note,’ he said. ‘I want information on the following people by tomorrow.’ And he read out a list of names: ‘Francisco Ramírez father, Francisco Ramírez son – Paco, Roberto Ramírez, Aurora Palacios, Carmen Luna, Alejandro Cano, Juanma Ruiz Pastor, Marta Díaz, Angel Moreno…’ He paused.
Or the Bull Kills You Page 7
