Or the Bull Kills You

by Jason Webster

  ‘You all right there?’ the barman said to Cano.

  ‘Give me another glass of the sangría.’

  The barman reached for a jug and filled a wine glass with pink sweet liquid, fishing out a few pieces of fruit to float on top, then handed it to the bullfighter.

  ‘Thanks,’ Cano said. He raised his glass and turned to Cámara.

  ‘To the successful conclusion of your case,’ he said. After a pause, Cámara lifted his beer and made a half-hearted toasting gesture.

  ‘I’ve read the papers,’ Cano said. ‘There was no call for that article. Really.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Look.’ Cano reached out and placed his hand on Cámara’s shoulder. ‘It’s the last bullfight of the fiesta tomorrow. I’d like to invite you to come along.’

  Cámara’s face remained impassive.

  ‘As my guest,’ Cano said. ‘I’m not fighting tomorrow, but, well, I’m sure you can imagine, they give me good seats, that kind of thing.’

  Cámara took another gulp of beer, then pulled out his Ducados.

  ‘It would be an honour for me,’ Cano said. ‘I know a good man when I see one, Chief Inspector. And if there are any problems with this investigation at the moment, I know they are nothing to do with you, not your fault at all. It would be a gesture of solidarity. You’ll see: come with me to the bullfight, as my guest, and those journos will come round. Don’t underestimate the power of celebrity.’

  He held out his hand. Cámara lit his cigarette, put his lighter back in his pocket, and then reached out and shook it. Cano smiled.

  ‘You working today?’ he asked. Cámara nodded.

  ‘All the more reason to take tomorrow off, then. Or at least the afternoon.’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Cámara said.

  ‘You might not believe it, but we have our own problems, our own power battles and crises in the world of bullfighting as well.’

  Cano took a sip of his sangría, then pushed a hand through his hair. For the second time that day, Cámara reflected, it looked as though someone was about to open up to him.

  ‘Is that what happened between you and Ruiz Pastor in the end?’ Cámara asked.

  Cano sighed. ‘Poor old Juanma. He was all right. We had our problems, yes, it’s true, but, well, mustn’t speak ill of the dead.’

  Cámara waited.

  ‘I suppose you’ve looked into it?’ Cano said at last. ‘At the time everyone assumed it was because of Jorge, the new bullfighting star, and that Juanma dropped me to become his apoderado.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard,’ Cámara said.

  Cano reached over and picked up Cámara’s packet of Ducados. ‘May I?’

  Cámara held up his lighter and lit him one.

  ‘The truth is,’ Cano said, ‘that things were going badly before all that. Juanma was only ever interested in money, getting as much money as he could. Don’t get me wrong, I’m interested in making money as well. Or at least I was.’

  He stroked a finger down one of his sideburns.

  ‘You reach a point where that’s no longer the motivation. But for him it just never stopped; he needed more. Always more money.’

  ‘And that caused problems between you?’ Cámara said.

  ‘After a while.’ Cano pulled on his cigarette lovingly in the way of someone who doesn’t smoke regularly, savouring the taste of the tobacco. ‘He was angling for a bigger percentage. Said he was doing more than just the ordinary work of an apoderado for me.’ He smiled.

  ‘The scandals?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘A lot of it’s made up,’ Cano said. ‘But, yes, there have been a few occasions…Women you thought you could trust at the time but then decided to tell their story. The kind of thing that fills the gossip programmes. They need material of that sort to keep going; it’s an industry.’

  He waved a hand dismissively.

  ‘Anyway, Juanma ended up having to deal with a lot of this kind of thing, paying off girls to keep them quiet. Listen, it doesn’t matter if I tell you now; it was all years ago. And I never did anything wrong. But Juanma got it into his head that he was owed more money, a bigger cut. Said he was going to tell everything – and more – if I didn’t cough up.’

  ‘What did you do?’ Cámara said.

  ‘I gave him his money,’ Cano said. ‘And then waited. When Jorge showed up I could see Juanma wanted him. It was the money again. Thought he could make a fortune with the guy. So I just nudged him on his way. It was a relief, believe me, even if I was a bit worried for what Jorge was getting in for.’

  ‘You never said anything to him?’

  Cano shook his head. ‘We didn’t socialise. Rivals in the bullring? Yes, of course. Jorge had his style; I have mine. And then there were a few things said that probably shouldn’t have been. Got into the papers. But I only ever had the greatest respect for him.’

  He tossed the cigarette on to the floor and stubbed it out.

  ‘And I like to think he had the same for me.’

  He got up from his chair and downed the last of his sangría.

  ‘One thing,’ Cámara said. ‘The rumours I hear about malpractices among bull breeders, shaving their horns down, doping them, that kind of thing…Is that really going on?’

  Cano looked him straight in the eye, his face set, unmoving. Then finally he reached out and put his hand on Cámara’s shoulder.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon,’ he said.

  Cámara walked out into the sunshine. The outdoor disco opposite was in full swing, and a heavy bass from the enormous speakers was making the windows in the nearby blocks of flats vibrate in time to the beat. There had been no call from Torres yet, but it had given him more time to eat his paella slowly. You should never hurry a good rice dish.

  As he drew away from the fiesta down a side street in the direction of the Jefatura, the mobile in his hand buzzed once, then stopped. A text message. He lifted it up and shaded the screen with his hand from the sun to get a better look.

  Quiero verte, he read. I want to see you.

  He smiled: he hadn’t expected Alicia to be the type.

  Putting the phone back in his pocket, however, he sensed that something wasn’t right. He pulled out the phone again, and this time stepped into the shade of a doorway to get a proper look.

  The same words stared back at him from the green-blue screen. Hitting a button, he looked to see who it was from. He hadn’t memorised Alicia’s number yet, but he now saw that the message wasn’t from her.

  It was from Almudena.

  Twenty

  May God save me from a manso bull; from a bravo one I’ll save myself

  Traditional

  Flores’s dress sense hadn’t improved over the course of the election campaign. Cámara walked into the interrogation room to find his overweight body clad in a shiny dark blue suit, a lime green shirt and red-and-yellow vertically striped tie. Sitting in the chair on the opposite side of the stuffy little room, he leaned forwards, his elbows on the table, hands clasped in front of him, shoulders hunched, a confident smirk settling on his face.

  ‘Oh, we’re going to have so much fun with this,’ he said as Cámara sat down. Torres stayed on his feet, hovering near the door.

  ‘If you wondered if it was over for you before this, Cámara, then you are now doubly dead. Do you get that?’

  His forehead glistened under the strip light hanging a couple of feet above them. The acidic, putrid smell that had quickly established itself in these new police facilities – as though it had managed to transport itself over along with all the paperwork and office furniture – seemed to match the disturbing colour coordination of his attire.

  ‘Arresting a Town Hall official on the Day of Reflection. Do you know how many laws you’re breaking here? The Constitutional Tribunal in Madrid are going to be crawling up your fucking arse over this one. We’re not just talking about a slap on the wrist, or a demotion, for fuck’s sake. You’re probab
ly going to end up in the dock yourself. And I for one will be standing there cheering all the way. So let’s just stop playing at cops and robbers, shall we? The game’s over. I’m calling my lawyer now. And you are finished.’

  A swollen index finger was flicked out and pointed in Cámara’s direction.

  ‘You seem to be under some kind of misunderstanding,’ Cámara said after a pause. ‘You must forgive Inspector Torres here. He might have got a bit carried away. It is Fallas after all. Did you say you were arresting Señor Flores, Torres?’ He turned to look behind him. Torres shook his head.

  ‘There, you see,’ Cámara said. ‘No one’s talking about arresting anyone. No, Señor Flores, you’re here to – what’s the phrase they use on those English cop shows on TV? Helping police with their inquiries, yes, that’s it.’

  ‘I never did think much of the English sense of humour,’ Flores said.

  ‘No, I don’t imagine you did.’

  ‘Well, if there’s no fucking arrest then,’ he said getting out of his chair, ‘I’ve got an election campaign to run. Oh, and your career to destroy.’

  ‘Of course you can leave if you wish,’ Cámara said. ‘But there’s the rest of the day to go before the polls open. Your campaign could still be lost. Especially if some of the stuff that we’ve discovered gets out.’

  ‘There’s no campaigning now, Cámara. Day of Reflection. No one’s allowed to even fucking talk about the election. So whatever it is, it’s too late for you.’

  He stepped away from the table and made a move towards the door. Torres stood still, barring his way.

  ‘This isn’t campaign material,’ Cámara said. ‘It’s a perfectly legitimate news story. But I wonder how it will affect voters to discover that the Town Hall was directly linked with Carmen Luna’s suicide.’

  ‘What?’ Flores laughed.

  ‘It would be on the radio in a couple of hours. Be on the front pages of all the newspapers tomorrow morning. Just as people are going out to vote.’

  Flores was still standing, but had fallen silent.

  ‘We’ve got the records of who called Carmen just before she died,’ Cámara said. ‘We know it was you.’

  Flores’s eyes widened.

  ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he said at last.

  ‘You yourself were insisting that my career is over, Señor Flores. What have I got to lose? A few phone calls and the story’s out there. What’s to stop me? Once you’re doubly dead, as you say, it might as well be triply dead, or whatever.’

  Flores was breathing heavily, his puffy face flushing deep red around tight, white lips.

  ‘I’ll get you,’ he said under his breath. ‘I’m going to fucking get you so badly.’

  ‘Let’s leave that for later, shall we?’ Cámara said. ‘In the meantime I think you should sit down.’

  Slowly, sulkily, like a child, Flores returned to his seat.

  ‘I’ve got so much shit on you, Cámara,’ he said. ‘You think a little game like this is going to save you?’

  ‘I know about your arrangement with my colleague Maldonado,’ Cámara said. Flores gave a start.

  ‘Really, Señor Flores,’ he laughed. ‘I mean, come on. Did you think I was so stupid?’

  For the first time since they had been in the room together, Cámara felt the beginnings of a crack develop. It was rare for a middle-class, successful man like this to be on the other side of the table. On the whole, in Cámara’s experience, the more someone had – the more money, fortune, fame – the more they had to lose. And the easier it was to break them just by giving the slightest whisper of what you could do to them. Would Flores be like them? He was a politician, probably had a tougher skin than most.

  ‘What I’m really interested to know,’ Cámara said, ‘is why you called Carmen Luna that night. Knowing what I know, many would say there’s blood on your hands. Your call comes in – you’re the last person she spoke to on this earth, effectively. And then a couple of hours later she’s tying weights to her wrist and throwing herself in the pool.’

  ‘I hope you don’t have that effect on all the women you speak to,’ Torres said from his post at the door.

  ‘What is this?’ Flores said. ‘A comedy double act?’

  ‘It doesn’t look good,’ Cámara said. ‘You’ve got a very big question to answer.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘What did you tell Carmen that made her take her own life?’

  ‘You can’t make me responsible.’ Flores tilted his head to one side, the smirk reappearing.

  ‘What do you reckon people are going to think if they find out?’ Cámara said. ‘We’re not talking about a court of law, Señor Flores. We’re talking about voters. Carmen Luna had a lot of fans. You might almost say she was a bit of a national icon. Even if it can’t be proved, no one’s going to take too kindly to the person who pushed her to suicide.’

  ‘What the fuck,’ Flores said under his breath. ‘She’s dead.’

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Cámara smashed his hand down on the table.

  ‘Don’t you think she deserved to know the truth?’ Flores said with a trembling laugh. ‘Everyone else knew.’

  His eyes had taken on a more desperate shine. The crack was beginning to widen.

  ‘Her bullfighting boyfriend was a fucking bender. A screaming maricón.’

  ‘You rang her up just to tell her that?’

  ‘He was using her,’ Flores said. His breath was getting shorter. ‘She was just a cover for him.’

  ‘So, what? You were doing her a favour by letting her know?’ Torres barked. ‘Doing your public duty?’

  ‘She didn’t know. The guy had a fucking boyfriend in the background – and God knows what else – and he was using her, talking about getting married and all that shit.’

  ‘And she believed it,’ Cámara said.

  ‘That’s it,’ Flores said. ‘She didn’t have a clue. Didn’t know she was being used by that son of a bitch. She thought they were going to have kids together and all that. Fairy-tale stuff.’

  ‘So you call her up and tell her,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Tell her that her whole life, the relationship she’s in, the future she’s planning, that it’s all a lie.’

  Flores shrugged. ‘Yeah, I told you.’

  ‘Why should she believe you?’ Torres asked.

  Flores’s eyes darted back and forth between Cámara and Torres, but he remained silent.

  Torres leaned in over him.

  ‘What did you tell her?’ Torres went on. ‘She wouldn’t just believe you because she trusted you. You had something, didn’t you? Some kind of proof.’

  Flores shrugged.

  ‘Perhaps Señor Flores had some pretty pictures to show her,’ Cámara said. Flores looked him in the eye. ‘People can be quite indiscreet. All he had to do was send the photos to her in a phone message. Easier than the old way, when you had to go to the trouble of smashing someone’s car window and leaving the prints on the dashboard.’

  Flores didn’t flinch, but Torres gave Cámara a puzzled look.

  ‘I’ll get Huerta to check Carmen’s phone,’ he said.

  ‘That can wait,’ Cámara said. ‘What I want to know,’ he added more slowly and staring at Flores, ‘was what was in it for you?’

  Flores coughed. ‘What?’

  ‘What were you thinking?’ Cámara said. ‘Get Carmen Luna out supporting Mayoress Delgado?’

  ‘Not much use to you now she’s dead, is she?’ Torres said.

  ‘Does he have to be here?’ Flores said, pointing at Torres.

  ‘I’m here for your sake more than his,’ Torres said. ‘Chief Inspector Cámara has a reputation for being, ah, very rigorous in some of his interviews.’

  ‘I’m sure that was in Maldonado’s notes,’ Cámara said. ‘But what you’re not telling me is why you made that call to Carmen in the first place.’

  Flores spread his hands on the table.

 
‘This hasn’t been the easiest campaign,’ he said with a sigh. ‘Blanco’s demise made sure of that.’

  ‘Should have made things easier, shouldn’t it?’ Cámara said. ‘Running on an anti-bullfighting ticket?’

  ‘The polls show there’s been a rebound,’ Flores said. ‘Bullfighting is suddenly more popular again. It’s the sympathy, I suppose.’

  ‘You mean more than when Blanco was around.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Flores said. ‘This comeback of his made an impact, it’s true. But you should have seen the figures in the days after he was murdered. Went through the roof. There’s nothing people like more than a martyr figure.’

  ‘None of which can have done your campaign much good,’ Torres said.

  ‘They’ve got the media pretty much on their side,’ Cámara said. ‘Isn’t that right?’ He turned to Flores. ‘Putting your own people in charge of local TV – even though it is paid for by public money. Then there’s the radio. And you seem to have El Diario’s full backing. You and Gallego are quite close, I hear.’

  ‘Likes to pass on information every now and again, does he?’ Torres said.

  ‘You’re a bit naive to be a policeman, aren’t you?’ Flores said to Torres. ‘Of course we do each other favours. It’s how the fucking world works.’

  ‘Ever say anything about Blanco?’

  Flores grinned.

  ‘We found out that Blanco was going to tell some big story. Before he got it in the neck. Probably the first to know.’

  ‘Who did you tell?’ Cámara said.

  ‘Usual lot – the mayoress, election managers, our financiers.’

  ‘What the fuck did you care about Blanco talking to the press?’ Torres asked.

  ‘It’s about media management,’ Flores said, rolling his eyes. ‘We have to know what’s going to be said before it’s said – anything that might have a bearing on the campaign.’

  ‘So what was Blanco going to talk about that was so important?’ Torres said.

  There was a silence as Cámara’s eyes met with Flores’s. Neither man spoke for a moment.

  ‘No one knows,’ Cámara said eventually. ‘At least not for sure.’