Cámara put his fingertips together and thought for a moment.
‘What about his family?’ he said. ‘Do they know anything? Get in touch with his wife.’
‘Straight away, chief.’ Torres hesitated at the door.
‘What is it?’ Cámara asked.
‘I don’t know. This…this Carmen Luna woman,’ he said.
‘What about her?’
‘Well, isn’t it just a bit weird? These photos, I mean. Doesn’t it make you a bit suspicious? Getting them out so fast. It’s as if she already knew it was going to happen.’
‘She was at the Bar Los Toros with me, remember?’
‘Yeah, I know, but…perhaps she got someone to do it for her.’
‘Who? Aguado?’
‘Chief, I’m serious. Someone you say is the love of your life gets chopped up, and the next minute you’re flashing your tits to the camera claiming you’ll never get over his death. It’s a bit quick, right? How do you do that? How do you—?’
‘What is it that as soon as you think someone’s fucked someone, they’re immediately a suspect in their murder?’ Cámara said. ‘First Pardo with Aguado, now you with Carmen Luna.’
‘Chief,’ Torres said, giving him a look, ‘you know how it is. The odds are stacked that way. Sex and violence – they go hand in hand.’
The phone rang. Cámara made no move to pick it up, so Torres walked over and grabbed the receiver. Cámara rubbed his eyes for a second, his head spinning. Still blinding himself to the outside world, he breathed in and out slowly, trying to make his brain work more clearly than was its habit before lunchtime. He thought longingly about his hip flask: he could do with a quick shot right now.
He heard Torres put the phone down, then gave his eyes a final rub, opened them and tried to focus on Torres’s face. He looked paler than usual.
‘They’ve found Ruiz Pastor,’ Torres said. ‘He’s in the Albufera. Dead.’
Part Two
Tercio de Banderillas
Eight
A bull always goes for the lame man
Traditional
A Guardia Civil in dark green uniform with a Heckler & Koch G-36K assault rifle in his hands was standing by the side of the road and directed them off down a dirt track heading towards the banks of the Albufera lake. A large, shallow, sweet-water lagoon, the Albufera had been used for centuries to water the rice-paddies lining its banks, home to the traditional short-grain rice used for making paellas. Passing through a clump of pines and thick mastic bushes, they spied the peaked thatched roof of the barraca in the distance. Symbols of the area, these were traditional fishermen’s cottages, shaped like an upside-down letter V, with whitewashed walls and a little cross on top; there was only a handful of them left these days.
A second Guardia was standing near the entrance to the small garden that led up to the barraca, and he indicated a spot for them to park. They were just outside the boundaries of the city; this was the Guardia Civil’s patch, their crime scene, and if they allowed members of the Policía Nacional to come and visit, it was made clear that it was only as a courtesy.
The Guardia saluted as Cámara and Torres got out of the car. The black shiny leather tricornios they had traditionally worn on their heads were reserved for formal occasions now. But the corporal who escorted them up towards the barraca and his colleagues taking photographs and collecting video evidence, were no less military looking, with their green caps and golden insignias on their arms. It was a good job Huerta wasn’t there, Cámara thought: in general the Guardias’ Criminalistas had a better reputation than the Police’s Científicos: better equipment, better discipline.
In the distance Cámara could make out the wide expanse of the Albufera stretching away to the west. White egrets were flying low over the water as they sought shelter in the high reed beds. The far side of the lake was invisible that morning: heavy, humid air was blowing in from the sea just a few hundred yards behind them creating a pale, milky haze.
Cámara had been to the Albufera dozens of times – one of the few natural beauty spots near Valencia, lying to the south of the city. He and Almudena had come for Sunday outings, stopping off at the village of El Palmar just across the water to eat seafood and rice dishes laced with thick, garlicky allioli mayonnaise. But that day El Palmar, like the other villages on the fringes of the lake, was out of sight, smothered in the mist. The barraca felt isolated from the outside world, as though this patch of earth and water existed in a space of its own.
As they approached, a Guardia Civil officer stepped forward and saluted before holding out a hand, introducing himself as Teniente Castro.
‘Of course,’ he said, ‘given the connections with the Blanco case, I thought it best you came along.’
Cámara looked up and saw Quintero’s familiar figure in the shadows inside. He was pulling on his beard as he leaned forward, dictating his observations to Irene Ortiz, the secretaria judicial, as he had done in the bullring only a couple of days before. Whatever lay at his feet was out of view from here. The building itself had clearly long since been abandoned: the thatch was thin and patchy, the doors and windows had gone, the whitewash peeling from its walls.
‘The médico forense is deputising for the judge,’ Castro said.
‘Who found the body?’ Torres asked.
‘Corporal Pelayo,’ Castro said, pointing at the Guardia who had escorted them up from the car and who was now returning to his post.
‘There was a robbery reported early this morning – some German campers parked near the beach,’ he explained. ‘Personal effects. The local teenagers often come and use this barraca for all-night parties. Corporal Pelayo decided to pay a visit to see if he could find anything related to the robbery.’
‘He thought the kids might have done it,’ Torres said.
‘It was a possibility,’ Castro answered.
Cámara looked down at the ground leading up to the doorway: it was littered with cigarette butts and empty beer cans, with a few shards of glass glistening in the dirt.
‘But he didn’t find any kids, obviously,’ he said.
‘No,’ Castro said. ‘They weren’t here last night. We’ve checked.’
‘What time did your man arrive?’ Torres asked.
‘At 11.04 this morning.’
‘And that’s when he found the body.’
‘Correct.’
Cámara looked at the time on his phone: it was gone twelve thirty.
‘Would it be all right if we…?’ he asked, looking in the direction of the barraca.
‘This way,’ Castro said, and he indicated for them to follow him. A camera from one of his colleagues from the Unidad de Criminalistas was clicking feverishly around the entrance. They paused for a moment to allow the woman to finish, and then Castro nodded for them to enter.
‘I hope you have strong stomachs,’ he said as they passed through. Torres gave a dismissive snort.
The inside of the barraca smelt of blood and stale urine. Cámara’s eyes took a moment to adjust to the lack of light. In the gloom a figure approached him, a man pinching his nose.
‘Huerta!’ he said with surprise. ‘I didn’t…’
‘Why should you be the only Nacional they called?’ Huerta said. ‘Asked me to come in and observe as well. Bit like you, I suppose.’
He leaned in and spoke confidentially into Cámara’s ear.
‘I’ve come across this Teniente Castro fellow a couple of times before. He’s all right. A lot better than some of the others.’
‘I bet you’d like to get your hands on some of his kit,’ Cámara said.
‘You see that thing over there,’ Huerta said, rising to the bait. Cámara saw a kind of box with a lens supported on a stand. ‘You can make 3-D images out of the photos that thing takes. Reconstruct everything in virtual format back in the office: a perfect replica of the crime scene at the moment of discovery.’
‘Perhaps you could nick it while no one’s looking,’ Cámara s
aid.
‘It’s not just the equipment,’ Huerta said. ‘They’re just so much more disciplined. Comes from them being paramilitary, I suppose. Not a bunch of disobedient civilians like us. I wish I could give orders like this lot can.’
‘Have you seen the body?’ Cámara asked. He could see that it was on the floor not far from where he stood, but it was shielded by some of the other Guardias standing in the way.
‘It’s Blanco all over again,’ Huerta said. ‘Worse, even.’
Torres was already making his way out, having had a look. Cámara caught the look of horror in his eyes as he dashed to get some air. With a sense of dread he moved over and crouched down to see for himself.
Ruiz Pastor’s body was lying in the middle of the floor of the barraca, naked. A pair of banderillas lay scattered nearby, their points bloodied, while a matador’s sword had been pushed deep into his broad, hairy back. It appeared that the killer had tried to curl the body up into a foetal position, as with Blanco, but Ruiz Pastor was a bigger and much heavier man, and the corpse had slumped on to its side. As his eyes grew sharper in the half-light, Cámara saw how the top leg had fallen straight, exposing a bloody hole between the man’s thighs where his genitals should have been. A dozen flies were already buzzing around the wound.
He felt a hand on his arm: Quintero nodded to him to join him outside.
‘I won’t be needing much longer here,’ he said. As ever, the sight of violent death seemed to leave him unaffected, his voice calm, his manner as serene as it had been at the bullring.
‘Caballero’s tied up, and there wasn’t any point bringing the Juez de Guardia, so I’m standing in.’
Cámara nodded.
‘You’ll need to liaise with Teniente Castro, but Huerta will be able to fill you in on much of what’s gone on here.’
‘What’s your idea on time of death?’ Cámara asked, breathing deeply as he tried to steady himself.
‘We’re looking at somewhere between six and seven o’clock this morning,’ Quintero said. ‘The man’s been stripped naked, so body temperature is more complicated as a gauge. But the lividity is pointing to around five hours ago. Give or take.’
‘And we’re looking at the same M.O.’
‘The similarities are clear,’ Quintero said. ‘Stripped naked and mutilated with banderillas and a matador’s sword. This time he managed to take the genitals too, as I’m sure you noticed.’
‘Was he strangled?’ Cámara asked.
‘There was an attempt at strangulation,’ Quintero said. ‘But I’m inclined to think it wasn’t successful. There are marks around the neck, as with Blanco. But Ruiz Pastor was a big man, and from the cuts and damage on his hands and fingers I’d say he fought back. We’ll be analysing the material we found under his fingernails later. Also, there’s bleeding, so my conclusion at the moment is that mutilation was carried out before actual death.’
Cámara twitched.
‘The sword?’
‘That’s what probably killed him in the end,’ Quintero said. ‘Yes, I think so.’
‘And the genitals?’
‘From the lack of blood spattering I’d say they were severed after the heart had stopped pumping. But Huerta will also have an opinion on that.’
Huerta was stepping out of the barraca at that moment. Quintero explained the point.
‘From what I’ve seen that fits,’ he said. ‘Haven’t analysed it myself, obviously. Just here to observe. But that’s what the Guardias are saying, and I think they’re right.’
‘Any prints?’ Cámara asked.
‘This place has been used for kids’ parties,’ Huerta said.
‘Yes, Teniente Castro explained.’
‘There are prints all over the place. I doubt any will be any use, though.’
‘And no sign of the missing…?’
Huerta shook his head.
‘There is something, though,’ he said. ‘There’s a chance our man came and left by water.’
He pointed at the lake, just a few yards from where they stood.
‘There are impressions in the grass leading in and then out. Sadly, there’s nothing there to tell us about the kind of shoes he was wearing, but he’s almost certainly a size forty-three.’
Cámara turned and started walking up the grass verge that led away from the barraca along the edge of the garden towards the lake-side. Torres fell in behind him.
A pair of ducks heard their steps and started splashing forwards, paddling and pushing their way into flight until they too disappeared in the mist. Cámara leaned up against a willow tree and stared at the still waters as he reached out to grab the cigarette Torres was offering him.
‘Any other barracas round here?’ Cámara asked.
‘Not many,’ Torres said. ‘Most have been left to rot or been pulled down. One or two have been converted into restaurants.’
‘Does anyone live out here? Any fishermen?’
Torres shook his head. ‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Not any more. The nearest people these days are in El Perellonet, about a couple of miles away. But even then, at this time of year there’s hardly anyone about.’
‘And the kids who come here?’
‘Mostly from El Saler, according to the Guardia. Some from El Perelló.’
They both fell silent for a moment, gazing out at the lake. In the distance a mata, one of the reed islands, was just visible in the haze. The area was a labyrinth of channels and waterways: it would be easy to disappear in a boat out there early on a misty morning. Wherever the killer had gone, there were a hundred little inlets where he could have disembarked, dumped the boat and then reappeared on dry land as though nothing had happened.
Torres finished his cigarette and flicked it into the water below them.
‘You don’t think we’ve got a serial on our hands, do you?’ he said.
‘It’s too early,’ said Cámara.
‘I mean, just the same M.O. and all that.’
‘Perhaps he needed to shut Ruiz Pastor up,’ Cámara said. ‘Perhaps he knew something.’
‘So why do all that?’
Cámara inhaled deeply on his cigarette.
‘We still don’t know how he got here,’ Torres said. ‘Ruiz Pastor, I mean.’
‘Get Sánchez to talk to the taxi firms,’ Cámara said. ‘See if anyone was brought out here – or anywhere near here – some time early this morning. Any time between five and seven. And check if anyone called to be picked up here, too. You never know.’
Neither of them moved, heavy with the weight of what they had just seen. Out on the lake a fisherman’s boat was leaving a silk-like trail in its wake as he headed home.
‘The Guardias will take care of talking to him,’ Torres said, nodding towards the boat. ‘And any others who might have seen something. They’re a suspicious lot, though, Albufera people. Don’t like talking to the authorities, no matter what colour their uniform.’
‘Know the area, do you?’ Cámara asked.
‘My dad used to bring me here a lot when I was a kid,’ Torres said. ‘We used to have a flat in El Perelló during the summer. Used to go fishing with some of the local lads.’
‘Here?’ Cámara asked. ‘Not out at sea.’
The Mediterranean was less than a five-minute walk in the other direction.
‘Sometimes,’ Torres said. ‘But less often. People here live espaldas al mar, with their backs to the sea. It’s on their doorstep, but it’s almost as if it wasn’t there. The Albufera lake is their thing – shallower, less dangerous. Doesn’t claim so many lives.’
There was a pause. From the direction of the barraca behind them they could hear the sounds of men hauling away Ruiz Pastor’s body. Quintero must have given the order.
‘Don’t suppose there was much water round Albacete for you to go fishing as a lad, right?’ Torres said, attempting a smile. ‘Still, I bet your dad took you—’ He stopped, cutting himself short. ‘Sorry, chief,’ he mumbled. ‘I forgo
t.’
‘It’s all right,’ Cámara said.
‘I’ll get on to Sánchez,’ Torres said. And he edged away, pulling his mobile out to dial.
Cámara walked along the bank, looking down at the water. He’d come boating himself once or twice near here. Once with Almudena, another time some years before that, with a girl whose name he struggled even to remember now. Some of the fish had a strange habit of leaping out of the water and landing in the boat: you hardly had to put a line out for them at all.
A sharp movement at the edge of the water caught his attention. Something was bobbing about near the edge of a bunch of reeds. Turning to look he saw it again; it looked as though a fish of some sort was reaching up, trying to get at something, like an eel taking a bite out of some food. He walked over to get a closer look, stepping down the grassy verge of the bank as far as he could without slipping into the grey-brown water himself.
Even from this distance, however, he struggled to see what it was: a pale, shapeless object about the size of a fist was floating near the surface. There was something curious and foreign about it, something that told him it shouldn’t be there.
He held on to the grass near his feet, then grabbing a floating reed nearby he poked at the object. It was soft, like a piece of meat, bits around the edges already floating away where the eels had taken chunks out of it. Cámara stared more intently, moving his head to the side to avoid the reflections partially obscuring his view.
Then he saw clearly what it was. His eyes closed and he swallowed hard once, then again, strongly fighting the urge to throw up.
Below him the missing piece of Ruiz Pastor bobbed up and down under the ripples of the lake.
Nine
Just as a few passes with the muleta in a bullfight can make the whole afternoon worthwhile, so it is in life with certain achievements
Doménico Cieri Estrada
‘Two fiambres already, Cámara? It’s turning into quite a case.’
Or the Bull Kills You Page 10
