A Body in Barcelona: Max Cámara 5

by Jason Webster

  ‘What are we supposed to do? Shoot them down?’

  His in-box almost quaked with new messages to wade through, and he was about to dive in when the phone rang. Torres picked it up, listened and put the receiver back.

  ‘Pardo,’ he said. ‘Wants us in his office immediately.’

  ‘What’s it about?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘I don’t know. But Laura’s in there with him. And I don’t think she’s very happy.’

  EIGHT

  THEY CROSSED PATHS with Laura in the corridor, coming the other way as they approached Pardo’s office.

  ‘See you downstairs in a few moments,’ she said without looking at them.

  Torres opened the door and they stepped inside. Pardo had taken off his jacket and was rolling up his sleeves. His eyes and mouth looked small and tight; stress seemed to cling to him like glue.

  ‘Come in. Sit the fuck down,’ he said.

  Cámara took a seat. After a pause, confused by Cámara’s unhesitating compliance with an order, Torres did the same.

  Pardo lifted a folder from his desk and tossed it over on to Torres’s lap.

  ‘Time for the UCE to get cracking,’ Pardo said. ‘No more time-wasting, fiddling with your balls. This is the kind of thing I created your unit for in the first place.’

  Torres glanced down at the papers and gave a low whistle.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t surprise me. Heard about this one.’

  Cámara slung an arm over the back of his chair.

  ‘Is someone going to fill me in?’

  ‘Alfonso Segarra,’ Pardo said.

  Cámara did not react.

  ‘Do you know who that is?’

  ‘Head of the Horta group,’ Cámara answered. ‘Supermarket chain. I’m in them almost every day. Only business in the country that hasn’t been hit by the economic crisis, by the looks of it. Segarra must be a wealthy man.’

  ‘The fourth richest in Spain, actually,’ Torres said.

  ‘Right,’ said Pardo. ‘Billionaire, churchgoer, personal friend to half a dozen ministers, owner of a local football club. The success of the Horta chain is one of the few things keeping the economy afloat.’

  ‘So what’s happened to him?’ Cámara asked. ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘Not him,’ Pardo answered. ‘His son. Ten-year-old boy. His body was found two days ago in an abandoned orange grove just north of the city. His neck had been snapped.’

  Pardo’s breath was quick and shallow.

  ‘Laura’s lot were on it originally, of course.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But given the nature of what we’re dealing with – or what we might be dealing with, nothing’s clear yet – I want both of you on this case. It’s delicate, media-sensitive, and God alone knows where it’s going to take you. Personally I wouldn’t want to touch the fucking thing with a bargepole.’

  ‘So you’re giving it to us,’ Torres said flatly.

  ‘That’s right,’ Pardo replied without a flicker of sarcasm. ‘If ever there was a special crime, this is it. You’ve both got experience with high-profile cases, and I want the best on this. You’re going to have to tread carefully, as I’m sure I don’t have to tell you. And believe me, a lot of eyes are going to be watching this – here, and in Madrid.’

  Cámara shuffled in his seat.

  ‘Don’t rush it,’ Pardo continued. ‘Not too slow either. But it’s important we get everything right on this. Judge Andreu Peris is nominally in charge, but I’ve spoken to him and he’s happy to sit back for a while and let you get on with things before getting involved. We’re in luck. Don’t want one of those fucking crusader judges on this one, getting in the way all the time.’

  Torres passed the folder to Cámara. He glanced down, briefly catching sight of the blue-lipped corpse of the little boy where it had lain among the orange trees. He registered the name ‘Fermín’ before looking up again.

  ‘Laura’s got the details,’ Pardo said. ‘I’ve briefed her. She’ll cooperate.’

  Neither Cámara nor Torres moved.

  ‘Right,’ said Pardo. ‘Well get on with it, then.’

  Cámara stood up. Torres stayed in his seat.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘One thing,’ said Torres. ‘You said this kid is Segarra’s son.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Pardo.

  ‘But Segarra doesn’t have a son. He’s got three daughters. Everyone knows that.’

  Pardo wiped a hand across his forehead.

  ‘I thought I told you,’ he said. ‘Segarra has a mistress.’

  He stared at them as though they were a couple of idiots.

  ‘The kid’s illegitimate. Get it? Now come on. Get the fuck out.’

  Cámara turned the handle and let Torres out first.

  ‘Oh, Cámara,’ Pardo called out. ‘Good trip to Barcelona?’

  Cámara smiled.

  ‘Interesting,’ he said. ‘Very interesting.’

  ‘Good,’ said Pardo, looking down at some papers on his desk.

  ‘Close the door behind you.’

  They walked silently down the corridor towards the lift. Inside, once the doors had closed, Torres spoke.

  ‘Almost the same age as my own boy.’

  ‘How old is Iván now?’ Cámara asked. ‘Eight?’

  ‘Nine. It’s a good age. You can play with them, do fun stuff together. I can’t imagine …’

  The lift clunked down on to the ground floor, the doors opened and they stepped out.

  ‘No,’ Cámara said in a low voice. ‘Neither can I.’

  And within him something flickered, an emotion he had thought long laid to rest; and with it a momentary image of Alicia’s body, lying motionless, asleep in their bed, as he had left her earlier that morning. He tried to reach out to touch her, but his hand refused to move.

  ‘You all right?’ Torres asked as they arrived at the door of the murder squad.

  Cámara shook himself and nodded.

  ‘Yeah. Right,’ he said, clapping his hands together. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  Chief Inspector Laura Martín was leaning over the desk of Inspector Lozano. She quickly glanced up as Torres and Cámara walked in, then carried on talking to her subordinate. Torres stood waiting patiently for her to finish; Cámara sat down in a chair near the door and started chatting to Inspector Albelda, who was tapping out a report on his computer.

  ‘Enjoying things upstairs?’ Albelda grunted through his moustache.

  Cámara grinned. Albelda’s complexion was getting ruddier: he hated to think what state his liver was in.

  ‘Not too bad,’ he said. ‘But we miss you lot terribly. You should come up and visit some time.’

  Albelda kept his eyes fixed on the keyboard.

  ‘I might just do that,’ he said.

  Laura finished talking to Lozano and took a step closer. Cámara attempted to put on a compassionate face, but it was never easy, this. They had all had cases taken off them at one time or the other – it was like being dumped by a girlfriend, Torres had once remarked. And you tried to think how best to go about it, in case one day in the future it was your turn to wear the boot. But the truth was there was no good or right way of doing it.

  ‘Castro will show you everything,’ Laura said simply. And she turned on her heel to pass through to the adjoining office.

  ‘Laura,’ Cámara called out. She stopped and gave him a quizzical look. Cámara shrugged apologetically.

  ‘We were doing a fine job of it,’ Laura said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I’m a bloody good detective.’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘But apparently I lack a certain … what were the words Pardo used? “Intuitive brilliance”. That’s it.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Laura.’

  ‘Thoroughness isn’t everything, I’m told. Nor a hundred-per-cent clear-up record. But there you have it.’

  She walked into the other office and out of view.

>   ‘Send us a postcard when you’ve solved it,’ she said. Then slammed the door shut.

  Cámara got up from his chair and walked over to the desk of Inspector Castro. Wordlessly she picked up a heap of files from her desk and passed them to him.

  ‘It’s mostly on WebPol,’ she said. ‘But you’ll find it all here in case you want hard copies.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Cámara said.

  Torres stepped over and took them from him.

  ‘Here, I’ll take these,’ he said.

  ‘Anything you want to add while we’re here?’ Cámara asked.

  Castro shook her head. Cámara glanced around the room, but Lozano was staring at his computer screen, pretending they were not there. Albelda was older – he had seen it plenty of times before. But he kept his eyes fixed on the floor. This was about loyalty. Months before they had all been one – part of the same murder squad. Now they were split in two, and no matter how much time they had spent together in the past, that meant that Cámara and Torres were separate, different – outsiders. This was as far as the cooperation between their two units would go – the handing over of the files. There was nothing more to be said.

  Torres was already at the door, making his way out.

  ‘Tell Laura …’ Cámara hesitated. Castro, Lozano and Albelda all looked at him intently.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Cámara. And he left the room.

  They paced back down the corridor towards the lift.

  ‘Right,’ said Torres. ‘Let’s see what all this has got to tell us.’

  Cámara pulled out a packet of Ducados, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, and made for the front exit.

  ‘I need a smoke first,’ he said. ‘And a drink. Coming?’

  NINE

  THEY DID NOT believe in keeping secrets from him.

  Dídac’s mother had told him around the time he turned thirteen: she had wanted to abort when she found out that she was pregnant with him. But Daniel had refused, and so out of love for his father she had seen the pregnancy through. And it was the best decision she had ever made: she was the happiest mother in the world.

  At least that was what she had told him the last time she had been granted visiting hours. The rules had tightened up since a new justice minister had been appointed. Making life that bit harder for inmates appealed to hardliners. At the Picassent prison they followed the new directive to the letter and now Dídac could only see Isabel for an hour once a month. He would drive over on a borrowed scooter down the Pista de Silla motorway: it was a 50cc and he was meant to ride it on the back roads only, but a mechanic had removed the speed limiter and he could get over 100 kilometres per hour on it with a tailwind. He could get to the gates of the prison within half an hour if he pushed it hard.

  There was an antechamber at the side where they had to wait before being taken into the visiting area. It was windowless and bare. But as they were led out, he sometimes caught a quick glimpse of his mother through a small barred window, sitting at her table, waiting for him – a brief moment when he could see her but she could not see him: her hair long and lank, falling over her cheeks, her eyes hollow and dark. By the time he appeared through the main doorway her expression would change: a grin would spread across her face, her arms outstretched to embrace him, a look of insouciance there, as though the experience of incarceration had no effect on her spirit. But he knew better.

  And he would take whatever he could to give her. The guards were strict, but chocolates and other foods were allowed. She liked turrón, and he would lift two or three packets of the nougat out of his rucksack and hand them over, sliding them across the scratched surface of the table they were supposed to sit on either side of.

  She would talk, holding his hands. But mostly she wanted to hear about life outside – what he was doing, about the struggle, the food bank, the collective, their plans for the future. She had been in for five years already – most of the economic crisis had passed her by, and she hated missing the great opportunity that it afforded.

  ‘There’s so much I could do. But you’re doing a wonderful job, Dídac. I know you are.’

  Daniel had visited with him a couple of times at the beginning, but stopped after a while. Isabel never explained. And he never dared asked his father. He had not been aware of any other women, but it would not surprise him if Daniel had made arrangements. Or that his mother sanctioned them. No relationship should be possessive, she had always drilled into him – even from as young as six or seven, before he even knew what ‘relationship’ meant. Love can only flourish where it is free. Perhaps it hurt them both too much to be forcibly separated like this. Although he felt that secretly Isabel would love nothing more than to see Daniel again. He was a great man, she would tell him, a great anarchist. And although she could not be with him as she would like, he was in good hands. Besides, within just over a year she would probably be able to get out on early release. Then everything would be fine again.

  He was seventeen years old, but losing his mother like this aged only twelve had marked him. The arrest, the investigation, the quick harsh sentence (they never judged their own kind so swiftly: corruption cases against politicians or members of the royal family dragged on for years) had been a shock. But she had scared them – really scared them that the whole fragile system might come crashing down on their heads. So they had to act as they did, banging her up for ten years. And all for forging banknotes.

  They tried to claim it was an attempt to get rich quick, that Isabel was keeping the money for herself. When that argument fell through the prosecutors argued that it was meant to buy weapons and explosives, that it was part of a subversive plot. Which it was, but not in that way. Simply by flooding the country with huge amounts of perfectly made but fake fiftyand hundred-euro notes, the plan was to devalue the currency and pull the economy down. It was a big scheme: they had printing presses dotted around the country, each one poised to work flat out night and day, pumping out the forgeries. They had the right paper, the watermarks, the metal strip down the middle, the intricate design work down to a T. The whole thing had been masterminded by Isabel and they were ready to go. They reckoned it would take three months, perhaps four, before the effect started to kick in. But then, once it did, the whole paper castle would collapse in a matter of weeks, perhaps even days. And then the chance for real change, once the capitalist system had devoured itself in raging greed, would come and people would finally see that a libertarian future was the best way forward.

  Except that they had been betrayed. Someone had squealed. The finger was pointed at Virginia, one of the printers on the job, but she never confessed. Her lighter prison term said it all, however.

  Their crime was non-violent, and had never got off the ground once the police raids began. Isabel’s lawyer had expected a sentence of around five years. She’d be out in two if things went well. But papers were found that proved – the investigators said – that as well as forging money, the group was also planning to bomb the Holy Grail chapel in Valencia cathedral. The Church was a legitimate target in Isabel’s mind, it was true, as it was for most anarchists. The men who ran the Church had wedded themselves to authoritarian power for centuries and were as guilty of oppression as the State. But a bombing campaign had merely been one of many ideas discussed at one time before being ruled out as counterproductive. The prosecution, however, used it to paint his mother as a cruel and dangerous criminal genius. Hence the long sentence. He had never seen Daniel – usually so poised and in control – look so emotional. He shook so badly as the court case ended, shouting and foaming at the mouth, that the guards dragged him away. Isabel had no tissues to wipe away her tears and stared blankly at him through pouring eyes.

  It had been a week now since the last visit to Picassent prison. Another three to go before he could return. He thought of her every day, although it was true, perhaps less than before. Sometimes he even caught himself at the end of the day worrying that he had not thought of her, as though he had ignored h
er and she needed him to think of her just as she was thinking of him, locked away in her cell.

  Get a girlfriend, Daniel would say. He had had sex once – or at least he thought he had: the whole thing had been quick and unsatisfactory for both of them. Something had held him back ever since. Many girls – the ones he fancied – felt distant, unapproachable, and if ever one showed an interest in him, she was never right for him and he would turn away. He was weird, he knew. But one day it would sort itself out. He repeated it to himself every night as he lay in bed, like a mantra.

  That morning, over breakfast, Daniel had been silent – more so than usual. Until after he showered and dressed and told him they had somewhere to go, something different to do. They climbed into a four-wheel drive – a car Dídac had not seen before – and headed out of the city, up along the coast and then inland for almost an hour, high into the mountains, where the roads grew narrower and twistier, and the orange groves gave way first to terraced fields of carob trees and then to thick forests of pine.

  A tarmac road led them away from a small, quiet village, up a long valley, until it turned into a dirt track. They continued for another twenty minutes before arriving in a dusty field. Thick-barked holm-oak trees lined the edges, while a trickle of water from a nearby stream created a tranquil, calming mood.

  ‘This is it,’ Daniel said. ‘Get out.’

  Dídac did as he was told; his father might believe in libertarian freedom for society, but had always been strict with him at home. He was training him, he used to say if ever Dídac complained about the harsh punishments or for pushing him so much. Revolutions only come about through hard work. Once, perhaps twice, late at night he had heard him complain about the others; they were lazy, didn’t understand. This training was a secret – only for him.

  Dídac skipped out of the car and looked around at the beautiful spot they had come to. Apart from the burble of the stream, there was barely a sound – no birdsong, hardly any sign of animal life. Above, he could make out the peak of a nearby mountain, while two soaring shadows circled gently overhead before sailing on.