A Body in Barcelona: Max Cámara 5

by Jason Webster

‘Yeah. Brilliant.’

  ‘It’s not much. Don’t think there’s any bread left.’ She stood up and poked at the crust on a board that Dídac had noticed earlier. ‘Except this wholewheat crap that Ximo insists on buying.’

  Dídac swallowed.

  ‘Ximo,’ he said. ‘Is that …?’

  ‘Haven’t you met him?’ she asked. ‘I thought I heard him open the door to you guys.’

  ‘I don’t know. There was a man …’

  ‘Lots of black hair? Doesn’t bother much with formal-ities?’

  Dídac shrugged.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Sònia. ‘That’s him.’

  ‘And he’s, er …’

  ‘My dad,’ she said. ‘It’s all right. He won’t bite. I’ll look after you. This is my flat as much as his.’

  ‘What happened to his arm?’ asked Dídac.

  ‘He fell off his motorbike.’ She rolled her eyes. ‘Idiot.’

  The sink was already half-full with dirty plates, but Sònia placed the others on top, making a small tower of washing-up, but clearing just enough space for them to prepare the food. She gave Dídac a knife to cut the cheese up with while she tore lettuce leaves with her fingers and tossed them into a cracked porcelain bowl. From somewhere she managed to find a handful of tomatoes and she passed them to Dídac to chop while she fried the eggs.

  ‘There’s some olive oil there in the corner, next to the coffee jar and the salt,’ she said. ‘Just throw some on. I like soy sauce on salad as well, don’t you? So much more interesting than vinegar.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Dídac. ‘I mean, I’ve never tried it like that. But I suppose, yes, it must be more interesting.’

  She giggled at him.

  ‘It looks like we’ll have quite a few things to teach you here, Valencia Boy. Do you play music at all? They always say Valencians make the best musicians. All those street processions.’

  ‘Not really,’ Dídac said. ‘I did a bit of trumpet at school.’

  She stopped and turned from the hob to look at him. Lifting her hands, she brushed her fingertips over his lips.

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply, an enigmatic smile flashing in her eyes. Then turned her attention back to the eggs.

  ‘There’s knives and forks in the second drawer down,’ she said. ‘You might want to get them out and put them on the table. They’ll be finished soon, I reckon.’

  Dídac hesitated.

  ‘Bit further down the corridor,’ she explained without looking up. ‘There’s a table there and some chairs. That’s where you can eat.’

  Everything happened very smoothly, as though according to a set plan. Dídac found the table, laid out some places and by the time he returned the eggs were ready and being served. Simultaneously, the door at the end of the room opened and out stepped Ximo and Daniel, taking their places at the table while still talking, as though they had rehearsed this scene several times before.

  Dídac fetched the salad and cheese and a second later Sònia placed the eggs down in front of them, pulling out a half-full bottle of red wine from under her arm and pouring it into scratched glass tumblers.

  ‘We’ve already eaten,’ she explained to Daniel. ‘This is all for you.’

  She lifted her glass and clinked it against Dídac’s.

  ‘But we’ll share a glass of wine and watch while you eat.’

  After a few hungry moments, as Dídac gobbled the food, the conversation began once more. Daniel ate moderately, he noticed, taking his time to cut into the egg and mix lettuce leaves into the yoke with his fork before lifting them to his mouth. All the while, Ximo was talking. It was something political: Dídac barely had the energy to tune in. And he was more interested by Sònia and a kind of fluttering certainty flowing in his blood that he had never felt before. She was watching him as he ate, smiling.

  ‘Is it all right?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, wiping his mouth clean. ‘Delicious.’

  And she giggled again: she seemed to view him as something curious, a specimen from Valencia to be cared for and examined in detail.

  After the wine had finished, and the food was cleared away, Ximo pulled out a bottle of home-made absinthe. He poured a glass for Daniel and himself and placed the bottle on the table, at which point Sònia leaned forwards and poured some into another glass.

  ‘Here,’ she said. ‘Try some. And don’t mind the bits of herbs still floating in it. That’s the wormwood, what makes it so strong. You can just spit them out.’

  ‘I thought you were supposed to take it with sugar or something.’

  ‘That’s a gimmick. Commercial bollocks. If you make it right you can drink it neat, like this.’

  She lifted the glass to her lips and drank it down in one.

  ‘Agh!’ she said. ‘He makes it stronger every time. Come on, try it.’

  She filled the glass and handed it to Dídac. He looked at her, looked at the glass, and then threw it down his throat. It burnt like molten tar, a disgusting bitter taste stinging his tongue.

  ‘I thought you said—’ he coughed.

  ‘Good, isn’t it?’ said Sònia. ‘Here, have another one.’

  After the third he lost count: the fatigue, the hunger and the dehydration all concentrated the effect of the drink.

  All that remained fixed in his mind was the moment some time later when they got up to go to bed. Ximo showed them a messy living room where they could bed down, either on the floor or one of them on the short sofa – if they curled their legs up enough.

  With barely a word, Daniel stretched out on the middle of the floor, not even placing a cushion under his head. Ximo disappeared, leaving Dídac to sort out his sleeping arrangements for himself.

  And Sònia smiled at him from across the room.

  ‘Come on then, Valencia Boy,’ she said, holding out a hand. ‘You can come with me.’

  Dídac glanced down at the floor, and the figure of Daniel prostrate by his feet, his eyes closed. If his father had heard, he was pretending not to have noticed.

  Dídac stepped over him and followed through into Sònia’s bedroom.

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  THE ALQUERíA DEL Duc lay two kilometres to the north of the village of Carpesa. After a series of calls to the Horta group established that Segarra was not at work and not away on business, Cámara and Torres decided to go to the man’s home and try their luck there.

  The house was reached down a narrow, winding road through the orange groves. With their windows down, the two detectives could hear the tranquil sound of water trickling through the web of irrigation channels. A hoopoe sped out of the trees in front of them in a flash of orange, black and white.

  The road came to an end in front of a large, black, solid metal gate. At the side was an intercom system. Torres leaned out and pressed the button. After a few seconds a female voice answered.

  ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Police. From the Special Crimes Unit,’ said Torres. ‘We want to speak with Señor Segarra. Is he in?’

  There was a crackling pause.

  ‘Un momento,’ said the voice.

  They waited in the car. Five minutes went by. It was hot, and they both started to fidget. Torres had banned smoking in his car, despite being a smoker himself. Cámara was reaching for the door handle to get out and light up a Ducados when the gate buzzed loudly, as though a powerful electric current were passing through it, and started to open very slowly. Once they could get past, they drove through a shaded tunnel of mature pine trees. A few metres ahead, painted bright, clean white, was the alquería. Beyond it, on one side, lay an open field where two white horses stood motionless in the sunshine; on the other side well-groomed gardens curled around towards the back of the building.

  The car pulled up in front of large wooden double doors which shone in the light from the mirror-like varnish on the surface. No other vehicles were visible; presumably they were kept in the large garage a few metres further on.

  No one was there to greet them. Cámara and T
orres got out of the car and stepped up to the door. Cámara lifted the hand-of-Fatima knocker and rapped it down hard twice. A moment later a young woman in her twenties came and opened the door. She stared at them without saying a word.

  ‘Is Señor Segarra in?’ asked Cámara. ‘We’re on important police business and we want to talk to him.’

  ‘Police,’ she said flatly. ‘That probably explains it. Elisabeth – the maid. She’s under strict orders not to let strangers in. I suppose you’ve got some ID?’

  Cámara smiled at the tone of disdain. I may be young, it said, but I am worldly and wealthy and will not be pushed around. Curiously, experience had taught him that people like her were often the easiest to break.

  After seeing their cards, she took a step back and let them enter the artificial cool of the house.

  ‘I’m Julia Segarra,’ she said.

  They followed her through the large entrance hall towards the back of the house. The walls and floor were tiled with antique Valencian ceramic-work, in bright blue-and-yellow floral and geometric patterns. In one corner, over a metre tall, stood an old-fashioned water purifier, glazed in blue and white, with pastoral scenes painted at the base. The place felt like a museum of traditional life in the Valencia huerta.

  They walked through a large kitchen. It was modern and well equipped, but on one side the old inglenook fireplace had been kept, although it was no longer used for cooking. The double sink was carved out of a single block of white marble, complete with shiny brass taps.

  Passing out on to a covered patio, they walked down terracotta steps into the garden. A fountain played at the centre and in front of them were row after row of beautifully manicured orange trees.

  ‘You’ll find my father out there,’ said Julia. ‘It’s a hobby. Helps him to relax after …’

  She left the sentence unfinished and walked back inside the house.

  Cámara and Torres circled the fountain and headed into the private orange grove in search of their prey. They found Segarra with a pair of secateurs in his hand, snipping off green, unripe oranges from the branches of a tree. Cámara noticed his straight, rigid back.

  Segarra had a distant, glassy look in his eye, turning to see who had suddenly appeared in his garden, registering their presence and presumably recognising them, but as though through an old, thick lens.

  ‘Señor Segarra,’ said Cámara. ‘We need to talk to you.’

  Segarra let his secateurs drop to his side and walked towards them.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ he said. ‘Come with me.’

  They followed him back towards the house. On the covered patio he pointed towards a table.

  ‘Please, have a seat. My daughters insist on having air conditioning, but I prefer the natural cool of a shaded spot near running water.’ He nodded towards the fountain. ‘Our ancestors survived for centuries with this simple, and much more affordable, system.’

  Cámara and Torres stood by the table.

  ‘Please, have a seat,’ insisted Segarra. ‘I’ll get us some tea.’

  He walked into the kitchen, his voice echoing through the house as he called the maid’s name.

  ‘Elisabeth!’

  The two detectives sat and waited. After a couple of moments Segarra returned and joined them.

  ‘I like it Moroccan style,’ he said. ‘Sweet and with lots of fresh mint. Cools the blood. They know a thing or two about such matters, the Arabs.’

  He looked at Cámara, almost giving a nod: their visit had caught him off guard, but by playing the host Segarra had reasserted an authority and was now giving him permission to proceed with his business.

  ‘We want to talk to you about Colonel José Terreros of the Legión,’ said Cámara, ‘and your relationship with him.’

  Segarra paused, sniffed, and stared into the distance above Cámara’s head.

  ‘Terreros,’ he said. ‘He was a commander of mine, years back. A long time ago. I was two years in Melilla. One of the happiest periods in my life. Terreros was there. He was already something of a legend.’

  ‘A legend?’ asked Torres.

  Segarra shrugged.

  ‘For his legionario spirit,’ he said. ‘Then, some years after I left, he was wounded and became even more celebrated among the men.’

  He waved a hand towards his groin area.

  ‘They said the bullet took off everything. Most men would probably have shot themselves, or crawled away into a hole somewhere. But Terreros came back, stayed a soldier. He was a legionario. The moment he signed up he had married death itself. So there was no other life for him. The Legión was his bride. And she did not care if he were physically complete or not. All that she wanted from him was self-sacrifice. His death.’

  ‘A bit overdramatic,’ said Torres.

  Segarra’s mouth twitched.

  ‘The Legión’s creed,’ he said. ‘It’s what makes it the toughest unit in the Spanish armed forces. It’s something you have to experience from the inside to understand.’

  A Latin American woman wearing a white cotton apron walked out from the kitchen carrying a tray, which she placed on the table before disappearing again.

  Segarra leaned forwards, picked up the teapot and started pouring the tea into small, decorated glasses.

  ‘I like to do this bit myself,’ he said, lifting the teapot high and expertly directing the flow into the glass in his other hand. ‘One of the habits I picked up in Africa. Takes a certain amount of skill.’

  He filled three glasses, handing one each to his guests, and then sat back in his chair.

  ‘So why the interest in the colonel?’ he said. ‘Is that why you’ve come?’

  ‘We know quite a lot about Terreros,’ said Cámara. ‘We’re interested in your relationship with him.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve told you. He was my commander back in—’

  ‘Your relationship with him now,’ Cámara interrupted.

  Segarra looked down at the tea in his hand. He blew on it and took a sip.

  ‘We know about the money,’ said Torres. ‘The money that your late wife was collecting from EU subsidies, not declaring and then taking down to Ceuta every two months.’

  Segarra sipped some more tea.

  ‘And not just Señora Grau,’ said Cámara. ‘You yourself went down there and took the money for him. That must have been the last payment. Am I right? About three months ago?’

  Segarra placed the glass very carefully on the table in front of him.

  ‘I can only assume you’ve had access to the Hacienda report,’ he said. ‘Congratulations. You must have some powerful – very powerful – contacts.’

  Torres sat motionless, but Cámara could sense the tension in him: he had still not revealed to his colleague the source of the tax investigation material on Segarra’s wife.

  ‘What was the money for?’ Cámara asked.

  There was a pause.

  ‘Señor Segarra,’ Cámara said. ‘We could, if necessary, get a judge’s warrant to take you to the Jefatura for formal questioning. In which case everything – including your wife’s involvement – would be recorded. And your presence at the police station would become public news. Everything would be raked over again – Fermín, your relationship with Célia Capilla. I want to make our position very clear. We are not tax officials and are not here to investigate any of your financial affairs. Our remit is strictly limited to the murder of your son. We are both homicide detectives, and finding his killer is our only goal.’

  Segarra picked up his glass of tea, took another sip and returned it to its place on the table, never lifting his gaze the entire time.

  ‘What is your relationship now with Colonel Terreros?’ Torres said. ‘Are you in—?’

  ‘None,’ Segarra barked. ‘I have no relationship with that man.’

  ‘But you did. Until recently,’ said Cámara. ‘Your trip to Ceuta. Was that—?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Segarra. ‘The last time. I was …’

  He breathed
in deeply, closing his eyes. The situation, so under his control until a moment before, was slipping away. Cámara and Torres crept carefully forward, scenting blood.

  ‘What was the money for?’

  Segarra waved a hand in the air.

  ‘Terreros has this fund. For veteran legionarios.’

  ‘We know about that,’ said Cámara. ‘But we don’t understand why this fund would need so much money. Three million in just one year. And all taken to Ceuta by hand, by yourselves, supposedly under everyone’s noses as you performed the briefcase switch at the Bar Paco.’

  Segarra sniffed.

  ‘The briefcase switch,’ he said under his breath.

  ‘It’s what gave you away,’ said Torres.

  ‘I’m perfectly aware of the contents of that report,’ Segarra said sharply. ‘But, look,’ he said, holding his hands out to them as though in friendship. ‘You’re not here on tax business. You said so yourself. And I know, Chief Inspector, that you are a man of your word. You are well known. So, really, if your interest is purely in solving the murder, then I can assure you this has no connection whatsoever. Terreros has nothing to do with any of this.’

  ‘You sound very certain,’ said Cámara.

  ‘I am,’ said Segarra. And he pushed his chair back as though to get up, trying to draw things to a close.

  Cámara stayed where he was.

  ‘There’s something,’ he said, ‘which makes me think that Terreros is very much involved in this.’

  ‘Chief Inspector, please …’ Segarra began.

  The printed papers landed with a slap on the table in front of Segarra.

  Segarra was startled for a moment.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said.

  ‘It’s a report,’ said Torres. ‘Terreros wrote it over twenty years ago. It was an internal Legión communication, part of a review of tactics and procedures with a view to developing new fighting methods. Came out when you were still in Melilla. I’m surprised you don’t recognise it.’

  Segarra shook his head.

  ‘I was never an officer. It wasn’t my business to—’

  ‘We think you’ll find it interesting reading,’ said Cámara. ‘Nonetheless.’

  Segarra eyed the document with suspicion from his seat.