A Body in Barcelona: Max Cámara 5

by Jason Webster

  He took a deep breath and linked his fingers together, resting his hands on his lap like a wall.

  ‘My concern is that I am merely wasting your time. Nothing new has come to mind since I spoke to your colleague. Believe me, I would have been in touch if it had. And yet, despite my efforts, I repeat, there’s nothing. Nothing at all.’

  He unlinked his hands and spread them out, almost in apology, but with his palms upwards, as though indicating that they should stand up.

  ‘And now …’

  Torres took the cue and got to his feet, as did Cámara a second later.

  ‘Just for the record,’ Cámara said, ‘and I’m sure this was covered before, but things get mislaid or not recorded properly – where were you at the time?’

  ‘Here, in a meeting,’ said Segarra. ‘It overran for several hours, as meetings unfortunately often do.’

  It was time for them to leave. He shook their hands briefly and escorted them to the door, where the assistant in the blue suit was waiting for them.

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen. Mercedes will show you out.’

  And he closed the door.

  Torres waited until they were inside the car before speaking.

  ‘Who goes back to work so soon after the death of their ten-year-old son?’ he said. ‘I’ve never seen such a composed grieving parent.’

  He put the car in gear and they drove out of the Horta complex and back towards the city centre.

  ‘We’ve got to start digging around,’ said Cámara. ‘It’s going to be hard work. And I’ve got a feeling that whatever we’re looking for is going to be buried very deep.’

  He wound down the window, a sudden desire to clean himself with fresh air overcoming him.

  It had felt as though Segarra was interviewing them rather than the other way around.

  But for what?

  THIRTEEN

  ‘THE ORDERS ARE very specific and come from the highest level. Nothing – repeat, nothing – is to be put in motion at this time.’

  ‘Is that why you’re here? Came all this way?’

  ‘We need to know that we can rely on you, Colonel. The situation is extremely volatile, as you understand. The feeling is that things could easily escalate. There are very many factors that have to be balanced. Knowing that we can count on your network’s support at this time would be one less thing to worry about.’

  ‘Am I a source of worry to you now?’

  ‘That depends entirely on you.’

  ‘I have nothing but the interests of Spain at heart.’

  ‘We are all patriots, Colonel. That goes without saying. What is important right now, however, is that all the forces of order are coordinated. We can’t have anyone acting alone or, heaven forbid, improvising. Things could blow up in our faces.’

  ‘I understand how dangerous the situation is. Perfectly. Which is why I find your call for calm, for non-action at this time, curious. Now, more than ever, is the moment to strike. If we wait our enemies will only get stronger. Too much time has been allowed to pass already, they have got away with too much.’

  ‘Colonel—’

  ‘Don’t try to shut me up. I was fighting this battle long before you came along. It takes men of action, men with balls, to see the situation clearly. Not desk men from Madrid. You might think that we’re out on a limb here. But believe me, everything is much, much clearer from the edges than at the centre of the storm. You are blind to the threat. The proof is that you have allowed it to get so bad in the first place. You cannot reason with these people. They have one thing in mind and they are doing everything in their power to achieve it. And they are laughing at us as they do so. I don’t know which is worse.’

  ‘We could shut you down.’

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about, or what you’re dealing with.’

  ‘My orders were specific – to get assurances from you, or close the network.’

  ‘Shut me down? Is this supposed to get me on board? An empty threat like that? You wouldn’t even know where to begin.’

  ‘Juan Gordillo López in Burgos, Antonio Luis Camacho González in Seville, Sergio Toledo Ruiz in Murcia … Does this amuse you, Colonel?’

  ‘That’s it?’

  ‘All these men—’

  ‘All those men … I’ll give you this for free – all those men are out, no longer operative. Whatever information you have on us is out of date. So don’t come here trying to bully me. I’ve seen your type come and go many times before. And you’ll end up like the rest of them: burnt out, frustrated and dreaming of the days when you could still call yourself a man.’

  ‘What will it take’

  ‘What will it take?’

  ‘We both want the same thing.’

  ‘Do we? I’m beginning to doubt that.’

  ‘The future of Spain is in the balance.’

  ‘It’s what I’ve been saying for years.’

  ‘Colonel, please. By being disunited we are only giving our enemies an advantage. And besides, we know about the killing of the boy.’

  ‘That was never meant to happen. It was a mistake.’

  ‘So you say. But it’s set alarm bells ringing in Madrid. And is the real reason why I’m here.’

  ‘I’m listening.’

  ‘Things are in play right now that mean any action on our part might damage our chances of a successful outcome.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘You know I can’t—’

  ‘What things? You want my cooperation, you have to start talking.’

  ‘Our information is that something big is about to happen. We don’t know what. But a large stone is about to disturb the waters, and we need to see how the ripples spread out before deciding on the best course of action.’

  ‘Something big.’

  ‘I’ve said enough already.’

  ‘Bigger than what’s already happening?’

  ‘Colonel, I need an assurance. Your network cannot be operating independently right now. It may jeopardise everything.’

  ‘I don’t like it.’

  ‘Neither do I. But we cannot allow anarchy to rule. At least not on our side.’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I have your word?’

  ‘As a gentleman.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel.’

  ‘I’ll expect you to be addressing me by a different title next time.’

  ‘A promotion. Of course. I’ll see to it personally.’

  ‘You’d better. And now, if you’ll excuse me.’

  ‘One last thing, if you would allow me.’

  ‘Make it quick.’

  ‘The detective, the one we mentioned.’

  ‘In Valencia?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘He’s a useful fool.’

  ‘Thank you, Colonel.’

  ‘For now.’

  Colonel Terreros left the Madrid man to pick up the bar bill and headed out into the square before cutting into the side street and climbing the stairs to his office. After waiting for a few moments to make sure that he had not been followed, he closed the door behind him and sat down at his desk. Switching on his computer, he typed in the day’s passwords, ran a security check and opened up a Web browser. Within a few seconds he was looking at a page in English espousing the benefits of legalising drugs, complete with photos of drug-making equipment and recipes about how to make them. The texts had been up for several weeks by now and it would soon be time to change them. Thank God for the instant translation services on the Internet these days, otherwise he would be at a loss – he could barely understand the English himself and the language of Shakespeare was somewhat abused in the process, but it worked.

  Clicking on ‘Forums’, he passed through several pages within the site before finding the relevant link, buried in small letters at the bottom in a body of minuscule text. When the next page opened in a separate window, he saw with some relief that his agent was online at the agreed time.

  El Uno: What happene
d? Those were not the instructions.

  El Dos: The situation changed. I had to improvise.

  Uno: This complicates things. The intention was to kidnap, not to effect a termination. Repeat: WHAT HAPPENED?

  Dos: He struggled, was close to disrupting the whole operation. I had to act quickly.

  Uno: You let the situation get out of control. You yourself lost control.

  Dos: My apologies. No excuse.

  Uno: You are a soldier. You are expected to behave as one.

  Dos: Yes.

  Uno: We have talked about this before: you lack self-discipline. In other circumstances I might have to bring you in.

  Dos: It won’t happen again.

  Uno: You’re lucky. In the end the effect is the same. Your improvisation with the burial went some way to limiting the damage. The message was received. I expect communication within hours.

  Dos: What happens now?

  Uno: Things are developing fast. I need you to be prepared to move to the next stage at any moment.

  Dos: Red and blue?

  Uno: Correct.

  Dos: Expansion?

  Uno: Use your own judgement. You may find it easier to operate in a smaller unit. And you may have to improvise. I cannot guarantee this line of communication for much longer. But you will recognise the sign when it comes. That will be the moment to proceed to the final phase.

  Dos: Understood.

  Uno: The training has all been for this. Don’t mess it up.

  Dos: You can count on me.

  Uno: We may not get the chance to talk for some time. God be with you.

  Dos: And with you.

  Colonel Terreros closed the web page and went through the process of turning his computer off, making sure to pull the plug out of his router before he left the office.

  Outside, the sun was beginning to set, casting a soothing golden glow over Ceuta and the mountains behind it. The city felt calmer – the nervousness that had taken over in the wake of the deaths at the border had now eased and people were getting on with things in their usual way.

  But within himself, the colonel was troubled. The evenings were often the worst time of day, when the ache from the wound intensified. And deep down, somewhere in the remains of his damaged abdomen, circled the tiniest of doubts about what he was unleashing. The thrill of giving orders, of commanding his best man to proceed, filled him with a vibrant, intense energy and it felt, at one level, like the old days, when his manhood was intact and the rush of blood to his groin had given him power and life. But entirely destroyed by a bullet twenty years before, his organ was now only an excruciating memory, and the erotic thrill of the moment also awakened his sense of incompleteness.

  He would walk it off, visit the memorial to his dead brethren of the Legión on the Paseo de Colón before heading back to Paco’s for his first drink of the evening. Whisky helped with the pain, and dulled any desire attempting to flicker within him.

  And if that failed, he could visit Sandrita. Her rub-downs went some way to easing things. She was delicate with him: he might feel, at least, the body of a woman against his even if he could not satisfy her. Inevitably, towards the end, he would collapse in tears, but it was worth it for the release.

  Besides, it was a special occasion. And he might not get another opportunity for some while.

  FOURTEEN

  ‘I HEARD ABOUT some foreigners – set up something called the Extreme Paella Club.’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The idea is you go to the top of a mountain or some place where it’s difficult to make a paella … and then you make a paella.’

  Cámara rolled his eyes.

  ‘Don’t tell me, they’re Germans.’

  ‘English, actually. But they’re all guiris.’

  ‘There are certain things that I just can’t understand about foreigners. Or that they simply don’t get. As though making paella weren’t complicated enough as it is.’

  ‘The record holder is some guy who went into the heart of the Namibian desert and made one there.’

  The look of incredulity increased on Cámara’s face.

  ‘Even took some dried orange peel with him to light the fire with,’ Torres continued. ‘Nice touch, very authentic.’

  ‘And did he take Valencian water with him all that way as well? You know as well as I do that it doesn’t taste the same without it.’

  ‘I don’t think so. Dragging ten litres of our tap water all that way would be pretty extreme though.’

  ‘Namibian paella,’ Cámara chuckled to himself.

  ‘Probably used elephant meat.’

  ‘Wonder what it tastes like?’

  He stared out at the sea for a couple of moments, watching the sunlight caress the ripples on the surface. They had arrived late, and the restaurant was already emptying, which meant they could take a recently vacated table by the window.

  ‘I’m sure it’s a lot of fun,’ he said, ‘making paella in weird, difficult places, but it does rather miss the point.’

  Torres smiled.

  ‘You’re going to start lecturing me, a Valencian, about how to make paella?’ he said.

  ‘What I’ve noticed,’ Cámara continued, ignoring him, ‘is that the really good ones, the ones you remember, have an almost alchemical perfection to them. My grandfather was big on this. The ingredients are the same as ever, your timings are pretty much as they always are, and yet occasionally, for reasons that you can’t put your finger on, every now and again one comes out that is almost magical, as though it were greater than the sum of its parts, where everything is balanced.’

  ‘Harmonious,’ Torres said.

  ‘Yes, harmonious. I’ve only made two like that in my entire life, and I remember exactly who I was with each time, what we talked about, what the weather was like, all kinds of details about the event surrounding the paella itself, as though the event and the paella were one and the same thing.’

  He took a sip of wine. Torres waited.

  ‘It’s not easy to describe what I’m talking about, but I’m sure you’ve experienced it as well.’

  Torres nodded silently.

  ‘It’s as if …’ Cámara laughed. ‘It’s as if the gods have to be on your side for it to work, like a duende moment in a flamenco performance – all the ingredients are there, everything is in place, but whether or not the magic spark will be produced is out of your hands, as though other, invisible, factors were at play.’

  He glanced out of the window again.

  ‘Like currents under the sea that we can’t control, pulling and pushing us along in directions we do not understand.’

  Torres stared at him for a moment before speaking.

  ‘Not bad for a Manchego like yourself,’ he said. ‘I do believe, chief, that you’re going native.’

  ‘Become a Valencian?’ Cámara sniffed. ‘Never. They’d never let me join anyway.’

  It was too late for the kitchens to make a paella to order for them, so they took what was left from ones made earlier. The waiter came over with plates piled high with dark yellow rice and placed them on the table before them.

  Silently they began – neither had eaten anything since breakfast and they were starving.

  After a few mouthfuls they looked at each other and shrugged. It was food, and it was tasty, but it was not paella perfection.

  ‘The gods were not smiling on this kitchen today,’ said Torres.

  ‘It’s heated up from earlier. We can’t expect miracles.’

  Torres put his spoon down and finished the wine in his glass before reaching out for the bottle and pouring them both some more.

  ‘Are you talking paella now,’ he asked, ‘or about this case?’

  Cámara kept his head down and carried on eating. He was trying to think about Hilario. And Alicia.

  Over a week had passed since their interview with Segarra at the Horta headquarters. Neither of them had ever felt so frustrated with an investigation. Given to them second-hand b
y the murder squad, it felt like leftovers: they were going through the motions, but so far no luck had run their way.

  The latest disappointment had come that morning: having trawled through hundreds of child-abduction and murder cases around the country looking for similarities or patterns, they found only one which appeared to have any potential – the strangling of a twelve-year-old boy in Badajoz two months earlier. His body, like Fermín’s, had been dumped in a field, and the killer had not been caught. It was little to go on and they had been talking to the Badajoz murder squad directly, swapping information. But word had reached them that morning that the boy’s uncle – who had been one of the suspects – had finally confessed to the murder. And he had been nowhere near Valencia at the time of Fermín’s death.

  The link had been tenuous, but the fact that the news came as a blow showed how frustrated they were becoming. They had no more clues: Fermín’s mother, emotionally destroyed by the death of her son and staying with relatives outside the city, had confirmed – between the barbed, guilt-laden attacks on herself for allowing him to walk home alone – what they already knew. The murder squad themselves had overseen interviews with neighbours and people from the Sagrado Corazón school. So far, Fermín appeared to be a fairly typical ten-year-old who had been returning home from a football match in the old river bed. The last positive sighting had been in the Plaza de la Reina, behind the cathedral, when he branched off in the direction of the Plaza del Arzobispo. A group of boys from the same school, walking a few metres behind, said they thought Fermín had been busy with his phone and had barely looked where he was going. At the Plaza de la Reina they had kept going straight and had lost sight of him.

  The phone records were checked, and Fermín’s last texts to his friend Rafa was recovered. The references at the end to being followed appeared to confirm that he had been assaulted somewhere before reaching his home. They interviewed Rafa, but the boy was traumatised by what had happened, too frightened to return to school.

  ‘Did Fermín ever mention being followed by a man before?’

  ‘Did he always take the same route home?’