Or the Bull Kills You

by Jason Webster

  ‘The green light,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Probably.’

  ‘Roberto heard it from Flores, who’d got it from the editor of El Diario,’ he said. ‘Blanco’s got a big story to tell. That’s when he knew.’

  ‘And triggered Moreno to act,’ Torres said.

  Cámara flicked his cigarette out on to the waste ground. At least they could smoke in relative peace now – no kids hurling firecrackers about the place. He almost missed them.

  Torres took a final drag and they turned to head inside.

  ‘Any sign of Roberto’s phone?’ Cámara asked as they walked down the steps to the basement.

  ‘Claims not to have one,’ Torres said.

  ‘You might want to look into it anyway,’ Cámara said. ‘Check the phone companies. You need something to link Roberto to Ruiz Pastor’s murder.’

  ‘Oh, I think we might be all right on that score,’ Torres said. ‘Caballero gave the go-ahead for a DNA sample. Quintero is checking it out right now. If it comes back the same as the stuff he scraped from under Ruiz Pastor’s nails…’

  ‘The scratches on Roberto’s face,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Ruiz Pastor was a big man. We know he put up a fight.’

  ‘I just hope to God…’

  They reached the bottom of the stairs and started walking down the corridor.

  ‘Another thing,’ he said. ‘I had a quick look at Roberto’s bank accounts. Well, his Spanish ones at least – looks like the guy’s got money all over the world. Anyway, the day after Blanco was killed, the day he flew back for the funeral and all that, he took a large amount out in cash.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘Ten thousand euros.’

  Cámara pursed his lips.

  ‘Says it was to buy his mother a present. Being away and all that.’

  Cámara gave him a look.

  ‘Yeah. Didn’t exactly ring true for me, either.’

  ‘Money for Moreno,’ Cámara said. ‘Payment for his hired assassin.’

  ‘But how are we going to prove that?’

  Cámara remembered the new leaflets at the Anti-Taurino League’s stall.

  ‘No sign of Marta Díaz?’ he asked.

  ‘We’ve got everyone looking for her,’ Torres said. ‘And by everyone I mean a couple of squad cars for now.’

  ‘Right,’ Cámara said. ‘Bloody Fallas.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Torres said. ‘You better get going, before someone finds you’re in the building.’

  Footsteps came from the other end of the corridor. Torres looked at Cámara. There was still time to disappear if he hurried. Cámara reached out and put a hand on his chest. There was no point. He was finished here. How much worse could they make it for him?

  The footsteps grew louder until finally a face appeared under the strip lights.

  It was Pardo.

  ‘You,’ he said to Cámara. ‘Come with me.’

  ‘Torres has nothing—’ Cámara tried to say, but Pardo butted in.

  ‘And shut up!’

  Pardo stood and looked out at the city through the smoked glass of his window. It was a clear sunny day outside, and the first sounds of a city slowly waking up after the fiesta came drifting up from the streets below.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Cámara.’

  Cámara shuffled in his seat and closed his eyes for a moment, trying to appear composed.

  ‘Sir?’

  Pardo spun on his heels and bashed into the side of the desk. Cámara opened his eyes with a start and saw Pardo glaring at him.

  ‘Don’t try it on,’ he bellowed. He checked himself, as though conscious that he was in danger of losing control, and moved to sit down on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Do you have any idea,’ he said, tapping the tips of his fingers against each other, ‘how many people want to see you disappeared? I mean, not just transferred out of Homicidios, but really just out of the fucking police force altogether. Booted out, sent away for good. Never to come back.’

  Cámara gave a shrug.

  ‘The Town Hall wants you out because you’ve been harassing their staff. I take it you heard, did you? Emilia got back in. Only just, mind.’

  ‘Did you expect a different result?’

  ‘It doesn’t make things any easier for you. Meanwhile, the Ministry in Madrid is calling up wanting your head for interfering in constitutional affairs, asking what this guy’s doing arresting politicians on the Day of Reflection.’

  Pardo had started counting all of Cámara’s enemies on the fingers of one hand.

  ‘My boss wants you gone because he reckons you’re the most incompetent chief inspector on his staff, who can’t even obey a direct order. Even the head of personnel wants you out because you caused an evacuation of the entire building by lighting a fucking cigarette right under the fucking smoke alarm.’

  Cámara sniffed. It’s coming now, he thought.

  Pardo leaned forwards, placing his palms together over the desk.

  ‘You haven’t slept for days, have you?’ he said with a change in tone.

  Cámara frowned.

  ‘Moreno, eh?’ Pardo said. ‘That must have been tough.’

  Cámara fought back the images of the impact of the bullet, the blood spatters on Almudena’s face.

  ‘The DNA test?’ he said.

  ‘On Roberto? Still waiting to come through. Everyone’s pulling out the stops for this one. Full backup.’

  ‘About time,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Look, this hasn’t been our finest moment, I admit that.’

  Here it comes, Cámara thought: the moment of self-flagellation. But the shit only ever flies in one direction.

  ‘We all fucked up a bit here,’ Pardo said. ‘We’ve just got to live with that.’

  He sat down in his chair and swivelled it from side to side for a moment.

  ‘How did you know it was Moreno?’ he asked at last.

  Cámara looked up with a raised eyebrow.

  ‘The rally,’ he said. ‘The night Blanco was killed. They came round to the Bar Los Toros. Once they’d left I later found out they’d packed in for the day there and then rather than carrying on. Said it was out of respect for Blanco.’

  ‘So?’ Pardo said.

  ‘No one knew then that Blanco was dead. Only the Municipal who came to fetch me, and I was with him the whole time.’

  Cámara placed his hands on his thighs.

  ‘And Moreno?’ Pardo asked.

  ‘It would have been easy enough for him to break away from the rest of the demonstrators for a while,’ Cámara said. ‘No one would have noticed. Hid himself in the chapel, strangled Blanco, carried his body out to the middle of the ring, mutilated it, then escaped out down the drainpipe of the Enfermería and slipped back into the crowd, joining the others just as they passed that way heading down to the Bar Los Toros.’

  ‘So Marta Díaz was in on it as well.’

  ‘It would have helped for her to manoeuvre the demonstration round to where Moreno needed it just at the right time, but it might be hard to prove unless you’ve got material evidence against her.’

  ‘Or a confession,’ Pardo said.

  ‘Someone’s got to find her first.’

  Pardo waved a hand.

  ‘Just a matter of time,’ he said. ‘She can’t hide for too long.’

  He paused.

  ‘The mutilation, though. What…?’

  ‘Moreno trained as a bullfighter when he was a kid,’ Cámara said. ‘Never made it, though. They threw him out of bullfighting school.’

  ‘So he knew all about it, about making it look authentic,’ Pardo said. ‘Revenge as well of some sort, perhaps. But why try to murder Roberto? Weren’t they working together?’

  Cámara carried on with his explanation. Perhaps if he told Pardo all this now he’d save himself the bother of having to write it all down in a minuta. Or would that end up being his final act in Homicidios?

  ‘Roberto tried to make Ruiz Pastor’
s murder look like Blanco’s – as though it was the same person. But Moreno didn’t like that. Vanity, I reckon. He was a touchy sort, proud of his technique. He didn’t like someone else copying him. I doubt he liked the fact that Roberto knew he was Blanco’s murderer, either. He’d taken Roberto’s money, he’d got what he wanted. Perhaps he thought it would make things easier in the future to get rid of him now.’

  ‘The girlfriend can help confirm all this.’

  Cámara was silent.

  ‘You don’t think we’re going to catch her, do you?’ Pardo said.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Cámara. ‘There are plenty of groups abroad willing to help out a leader of the Spanish anti-bullfighting league. Push it too hard and before you know it we’ll have a diplomatic incident on our hands, the French or the Germans or whoever refusing to hand her over in the name of humanity.’

  Pardo looked at him.

  ‘You’ve changed your tune a bit. A week or so ago I’d have said you’d be the first helping her over the border. Don’t tell me you’ve become an aficionado overnight.’

  Cámara shrugged.

  ‘All right. None of my business,’ Pardo said. ‘Still, if you ever want tickets just give me a nod. Right?’

  Cámara was alarmed to see that the man was actually smiling at him. What was this? Some sweetener to soften the blow of demotion? Or of being fired completely? It wasn’t easy for them: he was a civil servant, after all, guaranteed a job for life. But he’d disobeyed a direct order. They could push it to that if they wanted. He wouldn’t get in their way.

  Pardo leaned in again, a look of seriousness on his face this time.

  ‘You’re not the brightest officer on my staff, Cámara,’ he said. ‘In fact, I’ve sometimes wondered if the top floor was fully furnished in your case.’

  Cámara kept a straight face.

  ‘But you’ve got a good instinct,’ Pardo continued.

  Here we go, Cámara thought to himself. A good instinct for which corner of the warehouse to store some stolen goods no one was ever going to reclaim. Bye bye Homicidios, hello Depósito.

  ‘You showed that over Roberto.’ He raised a hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’m confident we’ll nail him. Quintero’s coming back soon with the DNA test. And if that doesn’t get him, something else will. You’re right on this one. I know you are. His size forty-three shoes, the fact that his plane back to New York didn’t leave till the afternoon on the day Ruiz Pastor was killed. He had the time and motive to do it; there’s more than enough pointing at him to convince me, at least. What’s more, officially the Guardia Civil should have pulled him in – Ruiz Pastor’s murder was their case. Makes us look doubly good.’

  He turned in his chair and stared out the window again.

  ‘Of course, none of us should have been fooled by all that anti-toro stuff he’s been spouting over the years. What do they say about blood ties, families, that kind of thing?’

  ‘Nada mejor en la vida que una familia unida,’ said Cámara. There’s nothing better than a united family. Although this clearly didn’t always extend to half-siblings, he thought to himself.

  ‘Yes. Thought you’d know that one. Perhaps that’s what put you on to it in the first place. All that old wives’ stuff might not be such bollocks after all.’

  ‘They’re as traditional in this country as bullfighting,’ Cámara said. Pardo grinned.

  ‘Look, the point is I’m keeping you on,’ Pardo said. ‘You solved this case. That’s what counts. I don’t care who wants you gone. You’ve done good police work. Messy as fuck, and a huge amount of crap to clear up. But you got there.’

  ‘The transfer…’ Cámara started.

  ‘Bollocks to the transfer. You’re staying. And they’re going to have to get rid of me first if they want you out of here. Don’t worry, Cámara. Today you’re a hero. You got Blanco’s killers. All right, so one of them’s in the morgue. But we’ve got the other one, and he’s a big fish, a big player. Not the usual junkies and pimps we have to deal with most of the time. That counts, Cámara. Looks good. Looks like we’re not afraid to go after the criminals whoever they are. The public like that.’

  Cámara was silent, too stunned to say anything.

  ‘I’m not going to give you a fucking medal,’ Pardo said. ‘Go on, you can fuck off now.’

  He nodded at the door, and somehow Cámara found himself rising to his feet and making his way out.

  ‘One other thing,’ Pardo said as Cámara leaned out to reach the door handle. ‘All that Bautista business.’

  Cámara felt the hairs tingle on the back of his neck. Here it came, the final, subtle stabbing. Demotion to inspector? He turned round to face Pardo.

  ‘You can forget about it,’ Pardo said. ‘You’re clean.’

  Cámara blinked.

  ‘The report’s gone missing,’ Pardo said with half a smile. ‘Bit of a mystery, really.’

  Epilogue

  It was the first truly hot day of the year, and Cámara was glad he’d left his jacket at the office. His service weapon was back in a drawer in his desk. No need to bring it for this. Although what was it going to be, exactly? A social thing? Perhaps there was a work angle to it. She hadn’t said on the phone.

  Crossing the Plaza del Ayuntamiento, he rolled up his sleeves and felt the cooling air circulate around his wrists. No te quites el sayo hasta el cuarenta de mayo: Don’t take off your smock till the fortieth of May. They were still a few days short, but already spring felt it was giving way to summer. The nights were still cool, but soon he’d be having to sleep with all the windows open. It would be like that until almost the end of September.

  The square was back to normal, the madness of Fallas barely a memory from almost a couple of months back. The florists’ stalls were bright with richly coloured blooms, traffic flowed in its usual jerky and aggressive fashion. A bus was honking its horn at some motorcyclist for getting in its way, the sound like a thousand mules braying in unison. Someone had once told him that in parts of France – was it Montpellier? – the local buses were fitted with tinkling little bells instead of horns, giving off a gentle peal whenever they needed to make their presence felt. Not here, not in Valencia. That could never catch on.

  He thought about stopping for a quick beer at one of the touristy bars at the side of the square, quenching his thirst in the heat before his meeting, but the clock tower on the Town Hall told him he didn’t have time. If he went straight there he would only be a few minutes late. A couple of posters of Emilia’s grinning face stared back at him as he raced past. Not content with having won the election, the mayoress felt the need to remind her fellow Valencians of the fact weeks, even months after the event. What struck him most was that none of the images had been defaced. Only a few years back some politicised graffiti artist would have carefully doctored each one. But no one seemed to go in for that kind of thing these days; everyone was too busy worrying about their mortgage repayments, or finding a job.

  He crossed Xàtiva in front of the train station and worked his way past the bullring towards Calle Castellón, glancing up at the Enfermería and its rogue drainpipe. The same old useless spikes were there at the top, still failing to prevent anyone getting in and out. Perhaps in the nineteenth century, when they’d built the place, that had been enough to deter any would-be trespassers. But now? After all that had happened? In his mind he could hear the bullring officials justifying to themselves why there was no need to change anything, or make it more difficult to get in and out by that route. It was a one-off, a freak incident. There weren’t going to be any more attempts on bullfighters’ lives like there had been on Blanco. So just leave it as it is.

  They were probably right. If anything, Blanco’s death had taught the country to value its bullfighters even more. The wave of sympathy for los toros hadn’t been enough to dethrone Emilia, but there was no sign of the increased interest in bullfighting falling off. Not yet, at least. Perhaps next year would be different, but for now matado
rs were appearing in unexpected places, writing articles for leading newspapers, appearing in cultural programmes on television. According to rumour, a couple of bullfighters had parts in films that were about to go into production. Having seen its most precious son martyred, the country as a whole appeared to have fallen in love once again with its ‘national fiesta’.

  The Town Hall’s attempt to jump on an anti-toro bandwagon now seemed badly misjudged. The fact was, though, that as the Municipal had told Cámara, there was never any chance that the local city authorities could ban the event. Soon after the election results were announced, and the celebration parties had ended, a brief communiqué was made stating that while Emilia stood firm in her stance against bullfights, there was little she could do as her hands had been tied by the government in Madrid. It was bullshit, as everyone knew. But she’d won another four years; that was all that mattered. People gave their usual shrug on hearing the news and then got on with things. Politicians lied and got rich; it’s what they did. Wouldn’t everyone do the same in their position?

  The Bar Los Toros was empty. The TV was blaring from its usual corner while the cigarette machine flashed from the opposite wall. Cámara walked over, placed a few coins in the slot and hooked out a fresh packet of Ducados from the shelf at the bottom. Clearly the barman had found a way to override the lock designed to stop children from buying cigarettes. He heard a rattle of bottles as he lit a cigarette: the barman was out at the back clearing away crates of empties.

  ‘Hombre,’ he said when he caught sight of Cámara. ‘Didn’t hear you come in.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ Cámara said. He checked the time on his new mobile. ‘No one else turn up?’ he said. The barman raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘A woman?’ Cámara added.

  ‘Nah,’ the barman said. ‘Believe me, if a woman had come in I would definitely have noticed.’

  He wiped the bar in front of him and then reached for a glass.

  ‘You’ll be wanting one of these,’ he said, pouring Cámara a Mahou from the tap. ‘It’s getting hot.’