Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Also by Jason Webster

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Epigraph

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Acknowledgements

  Copyright

  ABOUT THE BOOK

  In the hills above Valencia is a notorious nightclub called Sunset. When its larger-than-life owner, Jose Luis, dies suddenly, everyone assumes it was a heart attack. Perfectly understandable for a man of his age, size and lifestyle.

  Meanwhile, all is not well for Max Cámara at HQ. His new boss, Rita Hernández, has it in for him and his idiosyncratic methods. He must abandon a complex investigation into home-grown extremism to check out what looks like a routine death at Sunset. But an anonymous phone call suggests otherwise…

  Back in the city, Max’s journalist girlfriend, Alicia, is working on a lead that could turn out to be the story of her career. How her own investigation connects with Max’s at Sunset, and an unholy network of drug dealers, priests and shady officials protecting a dark government secret, will place both their lives in jeopardy and push everything to the very edge.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Brought up in England, Jason Webster has lived for many years in Spain. His acclaimed non-fiction books about Spain include Duende: A Journey in Search of Flamenco; Andalus: Unlocking the Secrets of Moorish Spain; Guerra: Living in the Shadows of the Spanish Civil War; Sacred Sierra: A Year on a Spanish Mountain and The Spy with 29 Names. His Max Cámara series of crime novels started with Or the Bull Kills You, which was was longlisted for the CWA Specsavers Crime Thriller Awards New Blood Dagger 2011. This was followed by A Death in Valencia, The Anarchist Detective, Blood Med and A Body in Barcelona.

  ALSO BY JASON WEBSTER

  NON-FICTION

  Duende: A Journey in Search of Flamenco

  Andalus: Unlocking the Secrets of Moorish Spain

  Guerra: Living in the Shadows of the Spanish Civil War

  Sacred Sierra: A Year on a Spanish Mountain

  The Spy with 29 Names: the Story of the Second World War’s Most Audacious Double Agent

  THE MAX CÁMARA NOVELS

  Or the Bull Kills You

  A Death in Valencia

  The Anarchist Detective

  Blood Med

  A Body in Barcelona

  For Mary Chamberlain

  FATAL SUNSET

  Jason Webster

  ‘He knew the detective’s world is not the sunlit world of the eighteenth-century philosophers, but a nighttime world where hunch and chance are more important than ratiocinative acuity.’

  Josiah Thompson, Gumshoe

  Hardly a sea of presents; only five. Left, as usual, outside his door. No cards: the game was to guess whom each was from.

  He picked them up and walked back to his bed, throwing them down in a pile. He stared, then reached for the nearest one: a golden box wrapped in a turquoise ribbon tied with a bow. José Luis tugged at it. Would it be something specially chosen – crafted even – for his sixtieth birthday? It did not have to be big, of course; he was no child. Besides, the box was no larger than a cocktail shaker. But just then he required something of quality, and consideration.

  The bow came undone and he slipped a finger under the lid to prise it open. He lifted out purple tissue paper that spewed from the top, tossing it on to the floor. Inside was a bottle of some kind, with a black plastic lid. Not so promising. His lips pursed: he felt certain he knew who this was from. Still, there was hope. Perhaps he was more of a child than he admitted to himself.

  For the briefest moment he was with Mamá again, clutching her single parcel with nervous anticipation, her eyes expressing so much tenderness, so much anxiety, so much desire that it would please him. He had learned quickly to shower her with kisses, no matter what the wrapping contained. It was never – could never be – just what he wanted: even supplemented by her night work, the pension of an airman’s widow only just kept them alive. Lying alone in their bed, staring at the shadows moving across the ceiling with each passing car in the street – and shooting them down through imaginary sights – he had tried, on occasion, to remember his father, but his uniformed image only grew dimmer, outshone by the glow radiated by his mother. He would pretend to be asleep when she returned, analysing the smell she carried with her of alcohol, tobacco, and sharp, urgent sweat. She would wash herself at the sink in the corner of the room, splashing cold water over her face, neck, chest, and finally – quickly – underneath. Droplets of water would cascade down her thighs, catching the faintest reflection from the street lamps, and he would watch furtively as they hurried down her skin, racing towards the floor, before a towel extinguished them. Dry and freshened, she would plant a kiss on his restless forehead, slide under the sheets beside him and quickly fall into exhausted sleep. She worked hard, Mamá. Harder than anyone knew. Except him.

  He paused as he fingered the present sitting impatiently in the golden box. Nothing had compared since. The pretence to his mother had only been partial, and with the years became no pretence at all, for despite the disappointments he had treasured every gift she had given him – every tin car, every wind-up train, every wooden whistle – because he understood the sacrifices that she made to afford it. And he had never let them go, not even when he left for training college and she threatened to clear them out, make some space in their little apartment. Now they were his mascots, staring down every day from the mirror-backed glass cabinet made specially for his rooms. Mamá had left him long before, but what she gave him, what she taught him, would stay for ever.

  Sixty years old; he would have given anything to be with her today. Perhaps later, if there were time, he might visit the cemetery, put some flowers on her grave. It had been a while.

  He closed his eyes, gripped the object inside the golden box, and extracted it. It was metallic, some kind of tin, with a liquid inside. Gritting his teeth, he peeped through one eye to see what it was.

  A spray-on cologne. One of those advertised on the television, with a young man wearing a bright, white, too-tight shirt grinning knowingly at the camera while girls clung to his arm, trotting down a st
reet on their way to a club. Or home from one. It wasn’t always clear. What was clear was the message: one spray of this stuff and you were guaranteed a fuck. Simple, primitive and – presumably, because he was being given it now – effective. He was only glad no one was there to see his face: no need for pretence. There was something shocking, colossal even, about its inappropriateness.

  He gave the thing a shake and pulled off the lid. What did this stuff smell like, anyway? He pushed the nozzle and particles shot out into the air near his face, lingering in the streaks of sunlight piercing the shutters. He sniffed, and coughed: it was sweet and earthy, like fresh tar sizzling on an empty road. Did people really wear this stuff? He laughed to himself. Perhaps he should give it a try. Perhaps, on his birthday, he might get lucky. The first clients would be arriving shortly after dark – one of them, at least, could be tempted; he still had it in him.

  With a silent prayer, he held his breath, closed his eyes and sprayed the cologne over himself, giggling. It was the last thing he would dream of wearing.

  He coughed again and walked to the bathroom, placing the can on the shelf with the rest of his collection. The other presents could wait. Sweat was beginning to form around his neck as the sun rose and the heat became more intense. The air conditioning hadn’t been working for a couple of weeks: he would have to get it fixed. June was just the beginning, a foretaste of the inferno that July and August brought. At least here in the mountains the nights were still cool. Down in the city the hours of darkness were already as sticky as the day. It was one thing that his nightclub had over the others: clearer, lighter air, and a sense of being elsewhere, away from the city and the usual faces: a place to lose yourself, become someone – or something – different.

  He stared at the mirror, pulling with affectionate despair at the jowls sagging beneath his chin. They only ever got bigger, no matter which diet he was on. ‘Mos refem,’ Mamá used to say: we remake ourselves with age. ‘There’s more of you to love,’ others would – pathetically – insist, trying to cheer him up. But he had given up worrying about his looks years before. The threat of illness – diabetes, God knew what else – concerned him most about his increasing size. He might at least, if he managed to shift some of the fat, have more energy. Simply getting out of bed was becoming a challenge.

  The phone rang as he cleaned his teeth. He gargled and spat, wondered about picking up, then wiped his mouth dry as he crossed back into the bedroom, trying not to notice the overhang of his gut in the mirror on the far wall. He pulled the phone to his ear and listened wordlessly, then he grunted an acknowledgement and hung up. More problems to sort.

  He sighed and stepped over to the wardrobe, swinging the door open with intent. He needed something bright and cheerful, something that would announce to the world that today was his birthday: as loud a statement as possible. Birthdays – his birthdays – were about flamboyance and gaiety. He had sworn, when money had finally started to come, that there would be no more need for pretence: he owed it to the memory of Mamá. She would not approve of how he lived, had never, in fact, learned the truth – although at times he had suspected that she knew – but she would admire what he had built up, the creation of his own kingdom in the sierra, where nothing was wanting and no one told him what to do.

  He picked out a white trouser suit with multicoloured sequins embroidered on the chest and arms. The fabric was stretchy: it would still fit – just, if he breathed in. And it was figure-hugging: perfect for making clear that even at his age – and size – he was as sexy as any of them, could do and take anything that the kids were into. He’d been there long before many of them were born: there was nothing he didn’t know.

  The suit slid on; it felt like a second skin, silky to the touch, sequins glimmering. From a side table he picked up his favourite sunglasses: bright pink and oval with fake diamonds studded in the frames. His Dolly Glasses, he called them, as in Dolly Parton; at once both scandalous and ridiculous, which is why he loved them. Finally, he picked up a large straw hat with a dark red silk scarf wrapped around the head, placing it firmly over his bald scalp and tilting it to the side with a coquettish glance at himself in the mirror. That would do it. That would scandalise the bastard, teach him to call him out on this day. Urgent meeting? What could be so urgent about it?

  His little dog, Blanquita, barked softly as she saw him leave, anxious to come.

  ‘Later, sweetheart. Daddy’s got work to do.’

  Despite the hat and glasses, he squinted in the harsh flat sunlight outside. Evenings could be beautiful here, when the light softened to reveal hidden crags and undulations in the limestone mountains. And mornings too, if he was still up to see them. But the early afternoon was a time to stay indoors, a blanched, shadowless world where the sun ruled without mercy. A grey-skinned lizard sped away under a rock at the beat of his footsteps. He looked around: there was no one in sight; they would all be working. Or sleeping.

  He took the path through the undergrowth towards the pine trees, breathing in their sharp, calming scent. The Chain was just a few metres further on. With luck he could get this over with quickly and then return.

  A breeze, light and threatening, blew through the tops of the trees. When it dropped he heard something new, something he had not noticed before. There, in front of him, was the Chain, yet he was alone. Had the old man given up and gone already? But the sound came back to him: a buzz, circling, darting, changing course around him. Angry, and growing louder.

  Confused, he felt an unexpected piercing stab in the side of his neck. The suddenness and intensity of it caused his knees to buckle, and he fell with a heavy thud to the ground in shock, clutching at the pain. But within an instant the skin on the back of his hand was punctured as well, as though by a hot needle, agony shooting like molten lead up his arm. More pricks and jabs came in quick succession: on his chest, his knee, his back. Harsher, quicker, striking again and again. Like fighter pilots swooping in for the kill.

  His glasses fell from his face and his eyes became agonised orbs of glistening, bloodshot jelly. He opened his mouth to scream out against the unexpected violence. But the air caught in his throat, slamming against his tongue as it bloated and blistered at the back of his mouth like fungus on a dying tree.

  He collapsed, shuddering, fighting. His face like a mirror, as blue as the sky.

  Mamá!

  Where was she? Hot, shamed tears streamed across his cheeks. He needed her now. Urgently.

  Mamá!

  But Mamá wouldn’t come.

  Only the sun, patrician and unforgiving, staring down with a single, all-seeing eye at its child convulsing on the ground. Far, far below.

  ONE

  Her first act as commissioner had been to do away with the late starts. The idea that ten o’clock was a reasonable hour to begin the policing day was criminal itself. No more slinking in when it suited them, no matter what: all officers were obliged to report for duty by eight a.m. Non-compliers were punished by having their pay cut in incremental amounts for every five minutes late. Crime did not rest and neither should they. It was what the new masters insisted on: value for money. God knew most of her staff were already overpaid.

  It had worked, and after only a few days the Jefatura had started to run – with only a handful of exceptions – according to the stricter regime that Rita Hernández insisted on. This was her ship now. Lower-ranking officers might carry out actual policing tasks, but everything was done under her supervision, her very watchful eye. Without her – paying their salaries and giving them their respective tasks – there would be no crime-fighting to start with. And she didn’t care what those ungrateful bastards thought.

  Punctuality, however, was only the beginning. There was much clearing-up to do. Commissioner Pardo had received his distinguished-service medals and very generous pay-off, but in her eyes he should have been crucified for the mess he had bequeathed. Figuratively, of course, although if she were honest about her feelings – which was rar
e – she did sometimes fantasise about hammering the nails into his hands and feet herself. Blasphemy, perhaps, but he certainly deserved it.

  Where to begin? Every morning Hernández’s thoughts followed the same routine as she drove her Range Rover down Fernándo el Católico, turned right by the main entrance to the Jefatura, down the back alleyway and past the policeman – never forgetting to smile and wave – who stood guard by the barrier to the central courtyard, where the highest-ranking staff were allocated parking spaces. She would begin by considering the aching perplexity of the finances – Pardo had frittered away thousands of euros in a complex web of accounts with names like ‘special measures’, or ‘emergency funding’, none of it ever explained.

  This was the least of her worries. There had been attempts in the past to force officers to wear uniform at all times when on duty, yet the measures had never stuck. Pardo hadn’t seemed to care very much one way or another. In fact, it appeared that in his last months he had barely made an appearance at the Jefatura at all. Now, thankfully, uniforms were being worn as a matter of course by practically every member of staff under her watch. The only refuseniks being the same small group of individuals who were failing to adhere to her time directive and generally placing the greatest obstacles in her way as she turned the Jefatura into the police force that a major city like Valencia deserved.

  Madrid was backing her all the way. It was why they had appointed her in the first place. She wasn’t Valencian and neither had she ever served in the city. Born in León to a churchgoing family, she was Castilian – patriotic, hard-working, and, most of all, endowed with a seriousness that was clearly lacking here on the east coast. Valencia had become synonymous in recent years with malpractice, the most rotten apple in a basket of admittedly poor-quality fruit. She would do what was needed to cut out the infection within the Policía Nacional. It was a difficult and necessary path, her own cross to bear. And she was damned if she was going to fail.

  By this point of the morning she would be passing through the door of the Jefatura building and pressing the button for the lift to take her to the third floor. And it was here, at this point, that the darkest thoughts would come. For despite her growing successes with the finances, the discipline, and eradicating the whiff of corruption about the place, there was one issue that never ceased to furrow her brow as the lift doors closed behind her. And that was the issue of personnel.