‘That it?’ Torres asked on the other end of the line.
‘And Alicia Beneyto,’ Cámara said.
‘OK,’ Torres said. ‘Where do you want me to look? Webpol?’
‘Not just the police network,’ Cámara said. ‘Get on to the internet as well. I need an idea of who these people are, and anything interesting that catches your eye.’
‘OK,’ Torres said. ‘Aren’t you going to ask me how it’s going with Aguado?’
‘Is there anything to tell?’
‘Not really.’
‘Well no, then.’
Cámara flipped his phone shut. A group of TV journalists came running down behind him and pushed their way through, heaving their cameras out to the waiting vans. Cámara walked on in their wake. The porter was still there, watching the people passing through his little domain with a heavy frown. Cámara approached him.
‘Who let them in?’ he asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the journos.
‘I wouldn’t have it,’ the old man said. ‘But they insisted.’
‘Who?’
‘Big bloke.’ The porter pulled his arms out at his sides to denote bulkiness rather than height. ‘Wearing a hat. Said he was Blanco’s apoderado.’
‘When was he here?’
‘Earlier on, at the start.’
‘Have you seen him leave yet?’
The porter shrugged, the frown deepening on his face.
‘People have been flying in and out of here all afternoon. Can’t keep tabs on all of them, can I?’
Cámara thanked him and stepped out into the street. For a moment he wondered about heading back inside, having a last check to see if Ruiz Pastor was still with the rest of the mourners, but he knew it was pointless. The man had already gone.
He glanced around in the vague hope of finding a taxi. There was a rank just a bit further along, near the crowds still holding their own vigil, but it was empty. A car sounded its horn from the other side of the road. He looked up and saw a woman waving at him from a tiny Smart car.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Alicia Beneyto called over. ‘Do you need a lift?’
Six
Apoderados, comedians and bullfighters are the biggest liars
Traditional
Near the San Miguel market in the Carmen she parked on a piece of wasteland that was still to be barricaded off for Fallas. A table by the window was free inside the Cafetín bar. They sat down and a waiter took their order: gin and tonic for Alicia; a large beer for Cámara. Groups of foreign tourists already looking for somewhere to have dinner at this early hour strolled by in the street outside, smiling and laughing in amazement as clouds of smoke drifted along the cobblestones. Inside, they were partially sheltered from the incessant noise of the petardos, and could talk.
The waiter brought their drinks, along with a small metal dish of salted almonds. They both started speaking at once, then stopped.
‘You first,’ said Cámara.
‘I was wondering why were you president of the bullfight yesterday?’ Alicia said. ‘I was going to ask but then…’
‘The commissioner’s daughter was ill. It was an emergency. He asked me to stand in at the last minute.’
‘You mean Pardo?’ she asked.
He nodded.
‘Is she all right?’
‘Yes, but…This is off the record, all right?’
‘We’re just having an informal chat, Chief Inspector.’
‘From past experience with journalists I’d say there’s no such thing,’ he said.
‘From past experience with policemen I’d say the same,’ she countered.
Cámara laughed at his own pompousness. She gave him a generous grin.
‘So why did you stand in? Someone else could have done it. Someone less…’ She paused. ‘Anti-taurino.’
Cámara smiled. ‘Is it that obvious?’
‘It was obvious you don’t have a clue about bullfighting. And for someone to reach the age of – what? forty-two? forty-three? – in this country without knowing even the basics can really mean only one thing.’
‘There was no one else in the Jefatura at the time. I was the only officer available.’
As the words left his mouth he realised how strange they sounded. Had that really been the case? Surely Pardo could have found someone else at that moment if he’d tried. It was a big building. But in the rush and panic of his daughter’s suspected meningitis there’d been no time to think.
‘It was a last-minute thing,’ he tried to explain. ‘I…’
‘Didn’t have anything better to do?’ Alicia finished the sentence for him.
‘Something like that.’
‘I hope she’s forgiven you.’
‘Tell me more about the Ramírez family,’ Cámara said quickly.
‘The Ramírez farm is based in Albacete province.’ She looked him in the eye as though wondering if the information meant anything to him. ‘Top breeders,’ she went on. ‘No Ramírez bull has ever killed a torero. They’re very proud of that. They’re always bravo – strong and eager for a fight. It’s the manso ones, the less aggressive bulls, that are dangerous. Non-aficionados rarely understand that.’
‘Does it make much of a difference?’ Cámara said. ‘They all end up dead.’
‘The whole species of toros de lidia would be dead if it weren’t for bullfighting.’ Alicia put her glass down with a clunk on the table. ‘These animals aren’t good for anything else – certainly not for meat. They’d be extinct.’
‘Now you’re going to tell me they live like kings, have wonderful lives in the country with as many cows as they can manage, and then go out in a moment of glory at the end. And all the while we’re protecting an endangered species.’
Alicia took out a packet of Fortuna cigarettes and lit one. Cámara felt the surge of desire, but stopped short of asking her for one.
‘Chief Inspector,’ Alicia said. ‘You’re supposed to be investigating the murder of the greatest bullfighter who’s ever lived. Are you sure which side you’re on?’
‘There’s the thing,’ Cámara said. ‘You see, unlike the bull, I have a choice.’
‘Do you eat meat? I notice your shoes are made of leather.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Cámara said.
‘Have you been to an abattoir lately? I have,’ Alicia said, not waiting for an answer. ‘And I know how I’d prefer to die.’
‘Does that make it all right? Just because we set up factories to kill animals for us for meat, we can torture them to death in public?’
‘Only a vegetarian can criticise los toros without being a hypocrite,’ Alicia said. ‘And then only just.’
‘It sounds,’ Cámara said, finishing the last of his beer, ‘as though you’ve been rehearsing this for some time.’
‘I’m a bullfight journalist. It’s my job to defend one of this country’s great cultural institutions. Especially in these ridiculous times, with all this talk being politicamente correcto.’ She spat the words out.
Cámara called the barman over. Alicia asked for another gin; Cámara ordered a brandy. She pulled out her cigarettes again and offered him one. After the briefest of pauses, he accepted.
‘My second of the day,’ he said. ‘No, my third. I gave up a year ago.’
Alicia smiled. ‘I hope I’m not being a bad influence on you, Chief Inspector.’
‘Cut the Chief Inspector, will you? Max is fine.’
The barman brought their round. Alicia raised her glass.
‘How does Ruiz Pastor fit into Blanco’s relationship with the Ramírez family?’ Cámara asked.
‘A rift developed between Blanco and Ramírez once Ruiz Pastor appeared,’ she said. ‘Until then Francisco had done everything for him. But Ruiz came along and took over as Blanco’s apoderado. He’d been Cano’s manager until then – the matador who fought yesterday with Blanco,’ she explained. ‘He was at the funeral.’
‘I saw.’
‘It was a b
ig story at the time. Caused great frictions.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘About seven or eight years ago.’
‘So before Blanco’s temporary retirement?’
‘Yes, about a couple of years before. Ruiz Pastor was furious when Blanco said he was pulling out for good. Tried everything he could to get him back in the ring. But Blanco wouldn’t be pushed. He was badly gored in Seville. I think he lost the will to carry on.’
‘Tell me about him and Cano.’
‘More’s been made of it than is actually there, if you ask me,’ she said. ‘It made for good copy – a great rivalry between the two top bullfighters of the day. Cano has his band of followers, who don’t have any time for Blanco’s more traditional, classical style. Some of the newspapers took sides. But Blanco always told me he had nothing but respect for Cano. Even that was part of his old-fashioned approach: no one used to go in for the kind of back-stabbing you get nowadays.’
She paused for a moment as she realised what she had just said. Cámara signalled for her to go on.
‘There was always a code of honour among bullfighters,’ she said, breathing deeply. ‘Never criticise anyone who’s got the balls to go out there and stand in front of a bull. It’s being lost, though, and you get comments now from someone saying that so-and-so hasn’t got a clue what he’s doing, and that kind of thing. But Blanco was very strict about that. If ever he commented on another bullfighter – which was extremely rare – it was only ever to praise him.’
‘And Blanco’s relationship with Ruiz Pastor?’
‘I honestly don’t know how bad it was. Or even if it was bad at all. I think it was something to do with money. Blanco never told me, although I’ve wondered…’
‘What?’ asked Cámara.
‘I don’t know. Blanco called me the night before the fight. He said he wanted to talk to me about something. I wondered if it might have something to do with Ruiz Pastor. Thought maybe he was thinking of getting another apoderado.’
‘Did he say that?’
‘No. It was just a hunch.’
‘Did Blanco say anything else?’
She paused.
‘No. Sometimes he gave the impression that things weren’t quite right at the Ramírez farm. But he never said what, exactly.’
‘Did he often ring you up like this?’
‘Sometimes every day,’ she said. ‘Then weeks, months go by and nothing. It’s how he is.’ She checked herself. ‘Was, I should say.’
Cámara looked down, his eyes resting on the large, man’s watch on Alicia’s wrist. It was gone nine o’clock. His thoughts turned to dinner – and who to have it with. He frowned as Almudena’s face flashed momentarily in his mind. What about Alicia? A quick bite round the corner? He smiled to himself. Was he really thinking of having dinner with a bullfighting aficionado?
‘What was Blanco like?’ he asked suddenly.
‘The best,’ she said. ‘As I said—’
‘No,’ Cámara interrupted. ‘I mean as a person.’
‘He used to give money regularly to an orphan’s charity,’ she said. ‘Gave his entire bullfighting fee to them on one occasion.’
She hesitated, as though searching for the right words.
‘But?’ Cámara prompted her.
‘He could be an arrogant shit,’ she said with a deep sigh, her shoulders lowering as she spoke.
‘He’d often call me in the middle of the night. Any time. He didn’t care. He wanted to have a chat, so that was that.’
She drew hard on her cigarette.
‘I’d see him sometimes, if we were out together,’ she went on. ‘People – kids – would come up to him to ask for his autograph and he’d just push them away. He could be very sulky and moody, but he didn’t care what people thought about him – at least not outside the bullring.’
Cámara leaned in.
‘What about Antonio Aguado?’ he asked. ‘What about him and Blanco?’
He glanced to the side; something had caught his eye. A white taxi was slowly cruising past, emerging from the end of Calle Caballeros, braking to pass through the crowds of falleros gathered in the middle of the road. Cámara leaned in closer to get a better look. The back window of the taxi had been partially wound down and he saw a trail of thick smoke drifting out into the night air. The passenger had a short-cut grey beard and was smoking a large cigar, his head crowned with a dark trilby hat. Ruiz Pastor.
Cámara got up with a start and burst out into the street. The taxi had already pushed through into the Plaza del Tossal and was about to pick up speed as it headed down into Calle de Quart. Cámara made chase, but the car accelerated away, moving out of the crowds and into the street. Frustrated at having been momentarily held up by the fiesta, the taxi-driver sped off, Cámara sprinting after them as fast as he could.
He was strong, but had never been quick. Struggling to keep up, he ran down the centre of the road, deliberately avoiding the tiny pavements on either side of the ancient street. He had to talk to Ruiz Pastor.
A group of teenagers making their way to the bars of the Carmen for the night leered at him as he puffed past.
‘Go on, Grandpa! You can do it!’ And they laughed hysterically.
Cámara sped on. Grandpa?
The taxi was nearing the end of the street, and the tall dark bulk of the Torres de Quart that marked the edge of the old city. Soon the car would be out on to Guillén de Castro Avenue, and then away. Unless it got held up at the lights, in which case there was just a chance…
He sprinted along, his lungs straining. A honk came from behind. Cámara turned his head round and saw a red bus behind him, the driver annoyed that he was slowing them up. The Torres de Quart were closing in fast. Just a few more yards. He turned the corner to see the lights turning back to red. Jumping on to the pavement he emerged at the front of the old gate and quickly looked up and down Guillén de Castro. There were at least half a dozen taxis heading up towards the river, all too far off now to catch. Ruiz Pastor could be in any one of them. Panting heavily, Cámara glanced to his left: the street was empty save for double-parked cars and kids setting off yet more firecrackers.
He stood on the corner for a moment trying to catch his breath. A bead of sweat had formed at the back of his neck and was trickling down his back.
A couple of Municipales were standing on the other side of the road, supposedly guiding the traffic, but clearly marking time until they could clock off. Cámara glanced over at them, wondering for a second whether to ask if they’d seen the taxi, which way it had gone.
One of them turned round. Night had fallen at least a couple of hours before, yet he was wearing sunglasses. Around his neck, catching the light of the street lamps, was a plastic brace. Cámara dodged into the shadows of the Torres de Quart before they could see him, his breath suddenly quick and shallow. He closed his eyes in disbelief. The same one from the funeral? A heavy pulse thudded in his stomach as the bruise where the kick had landed seemed to come back to life, like a dog sensing the presence of its owner.
Cámara forced himself to think more clearly. There was no good reason why a Municipal should want to attack him in the middle of the night. It made no sense. Besides, there were a dozen other ways a man could hurt his neck. But the pain was insistent: he’d seen that face before, and it spoke to him of violence.
From behind the stone wall of the old city gate, he took another glance: the two policemen had their backs to him and were strolling away down Guillén de Castro. Outside a bar they stopped and slapped each other on the shoulder before shaking hands. One of them was going inside for a drink. The one with the brace shook his head, turning down the offer, and carried on, his right hand briefly stroking the handle of the gun hanging from his belt as he walked away.
Cámara slipped again into the shadows of the old city gate. Questioning Ruiz Pastor would have to wait: he’d pitch up sooner or later. Yet the image of the Municipal with the neck brace played on his
mind. If that had been the one who attacked him – and part of him was already convinced, despite his attempts to reason otherwise – then there could be only one person responsible. The only question was, why?
The table was empty when Cámara returned to the Cafetín. The barman told him the woman had paid and left after he’d run off. He thought for a second about giving her a call, before realising he didn’t have her number.
His route home took him past the market, back through the Plaza del Ayuntamiento, where the preparations for the next day’s mascletà were already underway. He checked his phone: there was a message from Torres: they were holding Aguado in the cells overnight. He was calling it a day and heading home, just on the off chance that his son remembered who he was.
Cámara crossed over to the Calle Ruzafa. An edition of one of the evening give-away newspapers was lying at the edge of the street, waiting for the road-sweeping machine to come along and gobble it up.
Emilia calls for swift conclusion to Blanco case, the headline read. ‘The world is watching.’
Arriving home, he threw his jacket over the sofa and went to put some music on. An Ojos de Brujo CD was already inside and he hit the play button, the edgy, jerky sound of Flamenco-Rap filling the flat as he scoured his collection of empty wine bottles looking to see if he had enough dregs to pour himself half a glass.
The phone rang. He lowered the volume and walked over and checked the number before answering, half-hoping, half-dreading that it might be Almudena.
‘Hello,’ he said, picking up the receiver.
‘It’s me,’ said a voice.
‘Yes, I know.’
‘How?’
‘Your number was on the little screen.’
‘Don’t do that to me: you give me the creeps.’
Cámara eased himself down into the sofa.
‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ Hilario said. ‘Saw you on the telly.’
Cámara sighed. ‘Blanco.’
‘Best bullfighter since Manolete.’
‘That’s what they tell me.’
‘When are you coming over? You’ve yet to pick up the last of the crop. New ones already beginning to shoot.’
Or the Bull Kills You Page 8
