Or the Bull Kills You
Page 13
Perhaps deprived of the usual clientele over the past days, the barman could finally express his feelings and thoughts about the murder. For the time being, Cámara was happy to sit and listen.
‘What about all that stuff about him being gay?’ he asked simply.
‘Pah! What’s Carmen Luna, then? Does she look like a bloke to you? They were going to get married, have kids and stuff. It was all in the papers. Gay? Well, even if he was, so what? He was the best bullfighter there was, and that’s what counts. Reckon it was just people trying to talk him down saying he was a maricón and all that. They feared him, that’s what. They didn’t like it. Not the poncy politicians ’cause they’re trying to ban bullfighting. But not the grandees in bullfighting neither. Man like Blanco’s dangerous, see? Too popular. And he’s doing it the old-fashioned way, the real way. And there’s all these businessmen running bullfighting now. It’s all about money. They don’t want to see someone like Blanco coming along, ’cause then everyone’s expected to be like him. And you can’t fight a bull the way he did without talent. Raw talent, that’s what I’m telling you. Any other matador, one of the ordinary ones, tries to fight like Blanco and he’ll end up in A&E before you can blink. That Cano – fought the same day as Blanco. Great bullfighter, don’t get me wrong. But he couldn’t do what Blanco did. That’s probably why he hated him so much. ’Cause it wasn’t just fearlessness in Blanco, see? It was skill, talent. Yeah, he got gored, but that’s because he was so good. Anyone else does it like him and forget it. But Blanco was exceptional. And people loved him, and they flocked to see him. You couldn’t get tickets for love nor money round here. I know – did a nice little business in some of the spares I managed to get my hands on, know what I mean? But the businessmen running bullfighting these days, they’re not overly impressed with all this. I mean, of course they love the ticket sales and all that, and bullfighting’s back on the front pages, but they’ve got interests. And Blanco’s coming along and he’s upsetting the apple cart. Shaking everyone up. And they don’t like it. Had his enemies. Course, not that I’m suggesting any of them could have, well, you know, gone as far as that. Must have been some madman or something. What about them anti-taurinos? Suppose you checked them out.’
Cámara drank steadily through all of this, his glass emptying. Without batting an eyelid, the barman picked it up and refilled it, then placed it back on the bar in front of Cámara, reaching for a small tray from the other side, filling it with a handful of almonds and placing them next to him. A spare copy of El Diario was lying nearby; Cámara glanced over and caught the inflammatory headlines barking out their faux concern.
‘Don’t want to look at that,’ the barman said. ‘Don’t take any notice. Just trying to sell more copies.’
Cámara sniffed and took another gulp of beer. His cigarette had finished.
‘Have you got a tobacco machine in here?’ he asked.
‘Over there.’ The barman nodded at the opposite wall with his head. ‘I’ll unlock it for you. Got to keep these stupid remote controls now, to stop kids from buying fags. Machine doesn’t work unless I flick the switch. Stupid EU bloody rules. Started smoking when I was twelve, me, and it hasn’t done me any harm.’
Cámara fished for some change in his pocket, then walked over and bought himself a packet of Ducados.
‘Prefer black tobacco, I see,’ the barman said respectfully when he saw the blue-and-white packet in Cámara’s hand. ‘Stick to the blond stuff myself.’ He lit Cámara’s cigarette, then pulled out another for himself and fired it up, leaning in to continue their conversation as though they’d been friends since childhood.
‘You know what sticks in my mind from that night,’ the barman went on. ‘After you’d left, I mean, and we’d all found out about what had happened.’
‘When did you find out?’ Cámara butted in.
‘Must have been about fifteen minutes after you left,’ the barman said. ‘That journo woman, Alicia What’s-her-name, got a phone call.’
‘How did she react?’ Cámara lifted the delicious cigarette up to his mouth but kept his eyes on the barman.
‘Horrified. Like the rest of us. Looked like she was going to be sick, or something. Quickly told us what had happened then ran out the door.’
‘But you were saying,’ Cámara said. ‘What sticks in your mind from that night.’
‘Yeah, I mean, you know, the image that kind of stays in my mind, like what I see when I close my eyes and I’m trying to go to sleep, is the face of old Ramírez. When he heard what had happened.’
‘Go on,’ Cámara said.
‘Well,’ the barman frowned. ‘He just went all white, as though the blood had gone from him completely. I thought for a second he might be about to have a heart attack or something. That can happen, you know. A bit of a shock and the old heart just packs in. His face just went grey, as though he was already dead. Never seen anything like it. It chilled me right through. Everyone else was wailing and crying. Shed a few tears myself, I’m not ashamed to admit it. That Carmen Luna was a right mess – started throwing things around, screaming and tearing her hair out. But old Ramírez just sat there, not moving, his face like stone or something.’
‘How did his son react?’ Cámara asked.
‘Paco? Yeah, he was cut up as well. Not as bad as his father. He was there helping to sort out Carmen, I remember. Stopping her from trashing the place – made her sit down and shut up. Talked to her like a little girl, if you want my opinion. Don’t think the boss is going to chase her up for it. After all, it was her fiancé just got murdered. Still, she’s not short of a peseta or two.’
Cámara wondered for a moment if in the confusion of the traumatic evening the barman had confused Carmen Luna for Marta, the anti-taurino girl who had smashed a table clear in front of Cámara’s face. He wasn’t shy of elaborating a story, by the sounds of it. If he’d left coming round till the next day Cámara might have ended up hearing a slightly different, perhaps even more dramatic account of what happened.
‘How long was Ramírez like that?’ he asked. ‘In a state of shock, I mean.’
‘About ten minutes, I reckon.’
‘What happened then?’
‘Then he suddenly stood up, as though he’d come back from the dead, or something. Called Paco over and the two of them just left right through that door there. Never said a word. First to leave, probably. After yourself and the journo girl, Alicia.’
Cámara had a flash of her smiling at him at the second mention of her name. Had he dreamt about her last night? He couldn’t tell. But some image of her seemed to jump out at him from his subconscious.
‘Do you know where they went?’
The barman gave him a conspiratorial look, proudly aware for a moment that he might be doing his bit to help the police investigation.
‘Can’t say for certain,’ he said with a pronounced frown. ‘Didn’t say where they were going, see? But I reckon they went off to their house off Blasco Ibáñez Avenue. Always stay there during Fallas. It’s their official Valencia base. Just for when they’re down for the bullfights. Ramírez bulls traditionally start the feria off on the first day.’
‘The best bulls around, I hear,’ Cámara said.
‘Oh, yes.’ The barman closed his eyes, as though bringing to mind the image of a Ramírez bull. ‘In my opinion, at least. One of the longest established breeders. They produce strong, angry bulls. Always bravo, a Ramírez bull. Not to everyone’s taste. Some people don’t rate them. But you’ll never see a manso Ramírez bull. Or at least…’
The barman tailed off and looked down at the shiny bar top separating them. Cámara cleared his throat.
‘Well,’ the barman said, ‘a few people – I’m not saying I’m one of them – but a few people have been commenting recently that the Ramírez bulls might not be what they used to be. Not quite so strong, not quite so powerful.’
He stopped and glanced around the empty bar again before continuing.
Cámara picked up some of the almonds the barman had placed out for him and tossed them to the back of his mouth.
‘Look, I’m not saying anything, right?’ the barman went on. ‘To accuse someone of bad breeding practices is about the most serious thing you can do. But we all know it’s going on. ¡Por Dios! You don’t need to be an expert to see how the bulls’ horns have been shaved down. Just look at all the splinters around the tip. You can see that with the naked eye. Sometimes they get carried away and then the horn starts bleeding, ’cause that’s flesh inside there. It’s not just a hard bit on top of the bull’s head. It’s got blood and nerves and everything running up there.’
He jerked his thumb up at the bull’s head mounted on the wall behind him.
‘It’s bloody criminal. Everyone’s doing it. But that’s not all. They’re having to find ways round it, see, ’cause there’s checks and stuff, to see if the bull’s all right or been tampered with. The bullring employs a couple of vets – they get to check the bulls the day before the fight, and then again a couple of hours before going into the ring. But you can get round that easy. There are injections you give them just before – that way it doesn’t show. The first ones are a bit livelier, maybe, but by the time you get to the last one of the afternoon he can barely stand up from the dope, let alone run around the ring. There’s some new chemicals they’re coming up with all the time to get round the tests. But then best of all is these new trucks they’ve got where they keep the bulls on a slope, with all the weight on their back legs. That way when they come out into the ring there’s not so much strength there, see? ’Cause they’ve been standing at an angle, bearing all their own weight for an hour or two before the fight. And how are you going to detect that? Some people don’t even bother with the trucks and just park on a hill for a couple of hours before delivering the bulls. Does the same trick.’
It had gone ten o’clock when his mobile phone woke Cámara up. His head hurt from where it had been lying on the pile of interview notes on his desk, and a small puddle of saliva dribbling from his mouth had smudged some of the ink of the reports. He reached for the desk lamp and switched it on, trying to make sense of the muddled images of Almudena flashing across the back of his eyes. Still half-asleep, he couldn’t remember where he’d put the phone, and as he flailed around, trying to locate it by sound alone, he stood up sharply and banged his head on the corner of the metal shelf above his desk.
‘¡Joder!’
Collapsing to the floor, he let out a sharp, low grunt. Whoever was trying to reach him would have to wait.
The blow to his head seemed to clear something in his mind, however, banishing thoughts of Almudena to allow memories of where he was and what he had been doing that afternoon to filter back in: Torres’s reports on the interviews with the El Perelló fishermen; a possible identification of the boat the killer might have used. Cámara stumbled back to his feet and his eyes fell on the note he’d written to himself: ‘El Perellonet barraca – Old Pere’s place. Rope cut, boat found floating nearby.’
Old Pere, it seemed, hadn’t been too worried by it at first. The boat, after all, hadn’t disappeared completely or anything – he’d found it in the reeds just a few yards downstream. Though it was probably just someone messing about. It was only when he’d heard about the murder, and police being round, that he’d thought he might mention it to someone. The criminalistas from the Guardia Civil would be analysing it and would probably get word to them the next day. Although perhaps nothing would come of it. Torres hadn’t seemed that convinced.
He thought the voicemail would have kicked in by now, diverting the call, but his mobile still chirped away at him. Ducking his head so as not to repeat the same trick as before, he went round to the other side of the desk where his jacket had fallen to the floor from the back of a chair. Inside he searched for the vibrating plastic box and pulled it out, flicking it open without checking first to see who it was.
‘Cámara,’ he grunted into the end.
‘Max.’ It was a woman. Cámara didn’t respond. The fact that it wasn’t Almudena’s voice hit him like a physical force.
‘I can still call you Max, can I?’ came the voice again. ‘Or do you prefer Chief Inspector?’
Cámara cleared his throat.
‘Is this a bad time? Perhaps I should call back later.’
‘Alicia?’ Cámara grunted.
‘Ah!’ came the voice. ‘Thought I’d lost you there for a moment. Are you all right?’
‘I’m fine. Fine. Er, nice of you to call. How did you get my number?’
‘I know it’s late,’ she said. ‘It’s been a long day at this end as well. Just finished actually, and I was wondering if you fancied popping out for a drink. I’m round your way. Just in a little bar near the Torres de Serrano. Across the river from you.’
Cámara rubbed his hand through his hair, his mind still grey from sleep and the aching that had now replaced the sharp pain where he had hit his head.
‘Look, I…’
‘It’s all right if it’s not a good time. I understand.’
Another couple of reports on the desk caught his eye – a note from Sánchez about Ruiz Pastor’s body: Quintero had released it and it had been flown back to Madrid for burial. Then one from Vargas on Cano’s movements. According to his mozo de espadas – his right-hand man – he hadn’t left Valencia since the night of Blanco’s death. All his movements, however, were accounted for: parties, dinners, girls; it seemed the man almost never spent a moment alone.
‘I’d love to, really,’ he said. ‘It’s just…’
‘Fine. Don’t say any more. I take it you’re coming to the bullfight tomorrow. A commemorative corrida to honour Blanco’s memory.’
‘I, er…’ Still struggling to think straight, Cámara reached for a pen. ‘Will Cano be there? Fighting, I mean?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘I’ll be there. What time does it start?’
‘Six o’clock. Look for me at the entrance. We can watch it from the side of the ring. You get a better view, a better understanding there than from up in the president’s box.’
‘Quite.’
‘Then we’ll go out afterwards,’ she said. ‘I can accept a refusal now. But you can’t turn me down two nights in a row.’
Twelve
Yes, there is death in a bullfight, but as an ally, as an accomplice to life: death has a walk-on part so that life can be affirmed
Fernando Savater
Wednesday 15th March
The house stood back from the road, down a recently asphalted track lined with tall, mature cypress trees. Antique, cast-iron street lamps arched over the green-painted metal gates at the far end, while the drip irrigation system watering the crown daisies and blue lupins between the trees hissed as moisture leaked out into the fox-coloured soil underneath. Having parked his old Seat Ibiza around the corner, Cámara walked down the middle of the tunnel-like driveway wondering if anyone was at home.
He buzzed the intercom panel by the side of the gate and waited. There were no sounds from inside, but he had been informed that this was her habitual place of residence, and that there was no information of her being anywhere else at
the moment. At least not according to Webpol, the police intranet, or even to a probably more reliable source, the gossip magazines and their websites. Cámara had expected to find a group of paparazzi gathered here, waiting for more shots of Blanco’s would-be bride. But either they’d moved on to new prey, or else he’d caught them napping down at the nearest bar.
He cast an eye up at the cypress trees pointing like accusing fingers at the deep blue sky above. He didn’t know what he expected to see – some signal of mourning, perhaps? Some sign of the loss that had been suffered behind these gates. But there was nothing, no black ribbon tied around the railings, no message to the world. He remarked at the lack of birdsong. Although the splash of waves caressing the rocks not far below was just audible. He could smell the sea strongly from here: salty air and the promise of a seafood lunch. There was a new little place in the Carmen across from the Jefatura that he might try if he got time. One thing Valencians had got right was how to mix rice and fish. No one else in the world could beat them at that. Except, of course, for those funny Japanese guys who came over every year and won the International Paella Competition hands down. But they didn’t count.