Or the Bull Kills You

by Jason Webster

  He heaved his way through the archway in pursuit and out behind the Santa Catalina church. Reaching a crossroads he glanced right, then left, just in time to see his prey vanish behind a corner.

  A group of seven-year-olds in fallero costumes was tripping up the alleyway towards him, throwing the last of their firecrackers to the ground, their crashing sound splitting the air and amplifying as it bounced off the buildings on either side of the narrow space. Cámara did his best to run through and round them, but he mistimed his step and fell over as he pulled himself away to avoid crashing into a little girl.

  The others giggled as he picked himself up, but the little girl looked frightened.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Cámara asked. She stared at him with open eyes, not responding for a moment, before finally nodding.

  He surged forwards, heart beating faster now, cold adrenalin speeding through his veins. Ahead, the Plaza Collado was the sight of another falla statue and the crowd was pouring in from all the alleyways and streets that fed into it to watch the ceremony for setting it alight. Just a few minutes to go. The press of people was getting tighter and tighter and there was hardly anywhere to move. He had to find a gap somewhere, a place to catch sight of his prey once again, otherwise he would get trapped.

  There was a small newspaper kiosk to one side of the square. Hooking a toe on to a narrow ledge, he hauled himself up, out of the crowd, to get a better view. The kids he had crashed into in the alleyway moments before saw what he was doing and decided to copy him, clambering up with him, and over him, before eventually settling on the roof. If any more came up, Cámara thought, the cheap metal structure might collapse.

  He waved his badge at them; they crowded round to hear him.

  ‘I’m looking for a man in his early twenties,’ he said. And he gave them a description of Moreno.

  The boys on the roof looked down at him and frowned.

  ‘Dunno,’ said one.

  ‘Haven’t seen him,’ said another.

  ‘Just look around, will you,’ Cámara said. ‘See if you can see him from where you are up there.’

  A young voice chirped up from the other side – the girl he had almost knocked over.

  ‘There’s a bloke over there trying to get out of the square,’ she said.

  ‘What’s that?’ said Cámara.

  ‘Is it blond hair, you said?’ one of the other boys asked, looking down at Cámara.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Short?’

  ‘Yes, yes.’

  ‘Well, there’s someone like that just left. Pushing past everyone to get out of the square.’

  ‘Where?’

  Cámara jumped down from the ledge and back on the ground. The boy pointed over his back.

  ‘Just charged up towards Caballeros,’ he said.

  Again the crowds in his way, once again having to push and force his way past. It was getting worse now, thicker, denser, tighter.

  ‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Police!’

  The crowds just seemed to move in closer.

  Fighting his way through to the edge of the square he looked up the alleyway where the kids said they had seen Moreno leaving, and saw a tide of bodies moving against him. He’ll be slowed up as well, he thought to himself. He’ll be being held back as well.

  Then he saw: Moreno’s head, clearly and deliberately turning to look for him as he broke away from the mass of people and paused, before darting to the left down a side street. He’d seen him, seen that he was still being chased, and he was drawing his pursuer on and on.

  Cámara waded forwards, his head spinning now from having to jump from side to side as he sought the gaps in the crowd and edged his way closer. If he could just get to the alleyway there might be an opening there, a chance. He reached into the back of his trousers and pulled out the Municipal’s revolver, quickly checking it was loaded.

  He broke through. But no sign of Moreno. It was calmer here, fewer people, but there was no end of side streets and other alleyways where Moreno could have disappeared. He looked up: some of these buildings had been abandoned. It wouldn’t take much for someone like Moreno to reach up and climb into them through the first-floor balconies.

  He stopped: there was an infinity of possibilities. Should he turn right? Left? Or just clamber into one of these old buildings himself and have a look around? Ahead of him the way was clear.

  He sprinted forwards, appearing in a small pasageway in time to hear footsteps breaking out at the far end: the sound of someone running away. He was closing in.

  The passageway brought him to the edge of the larger Plaza del Tossal, where a crowd was waiting for the burning of the falla statue. A couple near the edge were breaking away, the man with his arm over the girl’s shoulder, looking down at her with concern. The girl was holding her foot as she hopped, before leaning against the wall of a nearby building.

  ‘Hijo de puta,’ she swore. ‘Bastard’s probably broken my toe.’

  The man glanced up in anger, as though looking for someone.

  Cámara took a step forwards and identified himself.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘Some prick just pushed right through to get in,’ the man said. ‘Fucking lunatic, pushing people away. Trod on my girlfriend’s foot.’

  ‘Stamped on it, more like,’ the girl said, looking up at them.

  ‘Young guy? Short blond hair?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘Think so,’ the man said.

  ‘Which way did he go?’

  ‘Just pushed straight through. Here, are you going to arrest him?’

  Cámara was already breaking through the crowd.

  Policía, Policía.

  This time people seemed to know instinctively what he was about, and edged out of his way as best they could. He was there to get the arsehole who had just pushed past them all so aggressively. At last, a policeman doing his job.

  He didn’t see her, but one of the pair of eyes now resting on him from a few feet away belonged to Almudena. She pursed her lips as she recognised him, hesitated, and then pushed forwards to try and converge with him as he made his way through the throng. There were still some things that needed to be said.

  A splitting, cracking sound roared out as the first fireworks for the falla were let off: a handful of colourful explosions in the air above them at the start of an elaborate chain of firecrackers and more fireworks which in a few seconds would culminate in the falla statue itself being set alight. As the bright lights lit up the faces staring up, Cámara caught sight of one head bobbing up and down ahead of him, not bothering to watch the spectacle.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted. ‘Stop!’

  But his words were lost in the barrage of noise from the aerial blasts above. The petardos had started now and were spitting and flaring along a string before they gave an enormous, deep-sounding boom at the foot of the falla statue and the first flames began to lick the sides of the brightly painted wood-and-foam structure.

  There was a scream. Moreno was almost in reach, pushing towards the front of the crowd at the foot of the falla statue.

  ‘Out of my way!’

  The crowd melted before him. Ahead, just a few yards from him, Moreno had stopped and turned to face him through the growing gap in the throng. But he wasn’t alone. Pressed against him, immobilised by a tight headlock, and with Moreno’s gun pushed against her temple, was Almudena.

  Cámara stopped in his tracks, unable to move. Moreno was grinning at him, his eyes flashing with a manic stare, his lips trembling. Beside him, Almudena was ashen faced, too frightened to make a sound, struggling to keep herself upright as Moreno pulled her from one side to the next.

  The revolver was still in Cámara’s hand but it was too late to raise it. Moreno spotted it and pressed his own pistol harder against Almudena’s head.

  ‘Drop it!’ he screamed. ‘Drop it or she’s dead!’

  Cámara raised his other hand slowly, as though to show he’d understood, and then starte
d to bend at the knee in order to place the revolver on the ground.

  ‘Hurry up!’ Moreno barked.

  Cámara knew that without a gun there was no way he could confront Moreno, no way he could resolve this. Yet even with one in his hand there was little he could do: a clean head shot was almost impossible with a weapon like that, but even if he was lucky with his aim the bullet would cause Moreno’s body to spasm, making his hand squeeze and so pulling the trigger. There was only one place he could be hit: straight between the eyes. That way he would fall down dead instantly, with no spasm, no pulling the trigger. But only a top marksman could even attempt such a shot.

  He knelt down further, keeping his eyes on Moreno as his hand reached the ground and he unwrapped his fingers from the revolver. Almudena stared at him with incredulity. Was he going to abandon her now like this?

  And then it happened – so suddenly that it left him breathless. A splash of red and Moreno slumped to the floor, a dead weight. His lifeless arms were still hooked around Almudena, and she was dragged down with him.

  There was a scream. In an instant Cámara was lurching forwards, his arms reaching for Almudena, to raise her up from Moreno. He turned her over; her face was bloodied from the mess ebbing from the hole in the centre of Moreno’s forehead. Her body felt limp in his arms. He checked; she was unharmed.

  As the flames of the falla statue intensified, the crowd moved in around them, the moment of immediate danger apparently gone. He looked up, then back at Almudena; her eyes were resting on his, unblinking. Her mouth opened; she seemed about to speak to him.

  ‘Almudena!’

  A man’s voice was heard shouting in panic close by.

  ‘Almudena!’

  She moved. Feeling appeared to be returning to her. Yet still she kept her gaze on Cámara.

  Someone pushed through from behind them. A pair of arms thrust through and suddenly she was hauled away. Cámara let her go without any resistance. From the corner of his eye he could see her resting her head on the other man’s chest, her body shaking as the fright and shock took hold.

  A hand was placed on his shoulder as he crouched by the wreckage of Moreno’s body. Cámara turned to look: it was Beltrán, with a Sako sniper rifle hanging from a strap over his arm.

  ‘Good job you ducked like that,’ Beltrán grinned.

  ‘Thank God it was you,’ Cámara said.

  Twenty-Four

  The bull that horned me sent me to a better place

  Traditional

  Monday 20th March

  His feet felt swollen, beating the polished red marble pavement with a heavy clomp as he took each step. He had to be careful not to slip – the surface had only just been washed clean and he felt his toes curling instinctively as he tried to keep his balance. Around the corner he could hear the sound of high-powered water hoses being used to wash away the fiesta. The first light of dawn was beginning to break out towards the sea, but already it was as if Fallas had never taken place. As was the case every year, after the final bonfire had burnt to the ground, and long before the falleros had stumbled home for the last time, a cleaning operation had got underway, transforming the city, under the guise of darkness, from the party capital of Spain into just another Mediterranean port town.

  An army of sweepers and rubbish collectors worked like bees in a seemingly chaotic fashion, but always managing – miraculously, it seemed – to get the job done by the next morning, so that after more than a week of paralysis Valencia once again became the nervy, semi-functioning city it usually was. All that remained from the fiesta were a few metal barriers stacked away to one side awaiting removal, or the marks on the tarmac where the fallas had burnt to the ground. A few nearby buildings might bear their own personal souvenirs – cracked windows and scorched facades from their proximity to the flames: scars that had to be healed and repaired.

  Cámara circled around the Plaza del Ayuntamiento and then headed down towards the baroque, brightly painted building of the Banco de Valencia. The first of the street lamps were beginning to dim as the daylight increased. Across the road a group of tourists – they looked German – was standing outside the front door of a hotel next to their luggage, with every air of waiting for a taxi or bus to take them to the airport. They’d come and witnessed Fallas, probably drunk vast quantities of Agua de Valencia cocktails and were now heading home. Probably still half-pissed by the looks of them.

  A voice inside wondered why he didn’t go home himself. Perhaps if he tried now he might be able to get some rest. But he dismissed the idea. As soon as his eyes closed all he could see was Moreno’s face glaring at him, the hole in the centre of his face, and Almudena’s ashen features. There would be no rest. Not tonight, perhaps not for a while.

  He walked on, as he had done all night, heading down past the old university building towards the Parterre. A group of young people, still clinging on to the party spirit, screeched past him in an open-top sports car, metallic disco music blaring at full volume, a blonde girl in the back seat waving at him drunkenly as they went past. They’d have enough cocaine on them to keep going for another couple of hours, then a quick shower, another line and back into work, fresher than the rest of them in most cases.

  He dropped his head and carried on walking. Under a gigantic rubber tree a truck was pulling up to hitch a shuttered buñuelos stall on to the back and wheel it away. Even the smell of frying sweet batter – second only to gunpowder in the air during Fallas – was being cleansed from the city.

  There was a beep: still sitting in his pocket, the sergeant’s phone was trying to tell him something. A text message, probably. At this time? He put his hand down, felt for the phone and pulled it out, flipping it open with his thumb.

  The text was from Torres: Roberto is in the Nou d’Octubre hospital. Medics have given leave for questioning.

  Cámara closed it shut and put it back in his pocket.

  There was a park nearby and he found himself wandering towards it. A handful of bright yellow freesias shone up, catching the first rays of light as the sun started to rise above the rooftops. Cámara had always liked these flowers. He had bought bunches of them for Almudena on occasion, surprising her at the office with them as he passed through the centre.

  As he stood in front of them, staring down at their light, happy faces, he heard a sound. After a brief splutter a sprinkler system coughed into life, casting an arc of droplets into the air, rainbows bursting above his head as they glinted in the sun. He took a deep breath and let the water wash over him, first moving across him one way then another as the machine swept in a semicircle over its patch of garden. In a few moments the droplets had formed streams of water on his scalp, cascading down his neck and soaking into his shirt. Water. Water to wash away the fire, the dirt. Everything.

  He listened, straining to hear. And for the briefest of moments the city was silent.

  ‘Maldonado’s seriously pissed off. He had a bet running that the Blanco case would still be unresolved by the end of today. He’s going to lose a lot of money.’

  Torres met him round the back door.

  ‘It’s a weird one, this. Yesterday we spent most of the time trying to get Paco to confess. Today we’re questioning little brother Roberto instead.’

  Cámara was reluctant to show his face, and strolling in through the main entrance would have broadcast his presence in the loudest of terms. He was suspended, pending transfer to another section. His career in Homicidios was over. But still he found himself back at the Jefatura.

  Torres pressed on the metal bar of the emergency exit to let Cámara in. He held a cigarette out to him and lit it as Cámara put it in his mouth, his body craving the extra nicotine of Torres’s Habanos that morning.

  ‘Have you spoken to him yet?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘No.’ Torres lit his own cigarette and inhaled deeply. ‘We’re going down to the hospital in a minute.’

  He looked Cámara in the eye.

  ‘Thought I might try
and persuade you to come along.’

  Cámara shook his head, rubbing a hand over his unshaved chin as though trying to bring feeling back to his numbed self.

  ‘Besides, we do something irregular like that and the courts will be all over it,’ he said. ‘The guy would die a natural death before anyone got round to banging him up.’

  Torres nodded. For some reason the technological revolution had bypassed the Spanish judicial system, and cases were still dealt with on bits of paper. Some could take anything up to ten years to be resolved, and it wasn’t unheard of for documents to go ‘missing’. Television news cameramen often lingered over the piles of folders and box files that littered the offices of every lawyer, prosecutor and magistrate in the land – a nineteenth-century anomaly in a supposedly hi-tech age.

  Torres filled him in on the morning’s work: a team was looking into the paperwork linking Roberto’s German drug company with the Ramírez bull farm. By the looks of it they hadn’t been overly careful to hide anything: sales, if they could call it that, had been carried out through a third party based in Rome. What was difficult to prove was that any money had actually changed hands for the drugs. They could trace them reaching Spain and then the farm, but there was nothing to show any payment for them.

  ‘Perhaps there was no money in it,’ Cámara said. ‘Family thing. Roberto kept things quiet at the drug company and they were simply handed over as a gift. In the end it was in his interests to keep the family business going as well, despite all that talk of being anti-toro.’

  There were other links to Roberto. Huerta had analysed Moreno’s phone, which they’d picked up along with several other items from the corpse. Moreno had erased the memory, but his phone company had already given them a detailed breakdown of all calls made and received by the number over the previous two weeks. A New York number had rung the night before Blanco was killed. It was almost certainly from a public phone, but it tied in exactly with Roberto’s business trip to the city.