Despite the gloom, however, there was one thing to be more cheerful about that morning, and he reflected on it as, for the first time in what felt like an age, he was able to move up into second and even third gear. An email had come through just as he was cleaning up Mimon’s liquidation that Operación Covadonga was now complete. Valencia and Seville stations had both reported that the necessary measures had been taken and that National Police and Guardia Civil investigations into Islamic extremist groups had been successfully shut down in their respective areas. As of now, no unmonitored or uncontrolled agents of the State would be sniffing around anything that they shouldn’t. It was a key element in the overall security operation, a necessary, centralising move that would make the rest flow that much more easily. Knowing that there was one less thing to concern him caused Carlos’s jaw to relax. For a moment, with annoyance at his lack of self-control, he realised that he had been biting the inside of his cheek so hard that he had drawn blood.
He turned off the A6, heading along the slip road leading to the three-pointed-star office block at the side of the motorway which was home to his country’s intelligence and security service – the Centro Nacional de Inteligencia – the CNI. By the time he found a place to park, the bleeding in his mouth had stopped. Coffee would soon remove any aftertaste. The relief at having finally arrived came with a sigh and a stifled yawn as he picked up his shiny black leather briefcase from the passenger seat and uncurled himself out of the car.
Yes, he thought, there were things to be grateful for that morning, and he should do his best to concentrate on them. One particular detail about the completion of Covadonga had caught his eye – a new member of the useful-idiot category within the Valencia Jefatura: a commissioner by the name of Rita Hernández. Patriotic, religious and obedient, and seemingly delighted to follow this particular request. And an offer to do more if ever her services were required in the future. Yes, Hernández could prove useful at some point. Carlos had had dealings in Valencia in the past. It could be a tricky place at times.
SIX
Félix Azcárraga didn’t like the new set-up in the operations room. The rotas had changed, meaning officers could be called in at any time for duty over an eight-day period, even if that meant – as had happened on more than one occasion – doing an impromptu double shift through the night and into the next morning. It was meant to make the police a more flexible organisation, part of the drive to create a ‘modern’ law-enforcement agency that could operate in a ‘changing world’. Whatever that meant. What it actually meant, for people like Azcárraga, was that life had effectively been reduced to these four walls, with the giant, multicoloured screen at one end, showing a map of Valencia with moving dots representing the various squad cars – the zetas – on duty, with further, colour-schemed lights flashing at various points indicating incidents. Thankfully, this morning had been relatively quiet so far, but the incessant sound of the police radios – several at once – crackling away from across the city, and the hawk-like eye of the duty officer staring down at them from his glass-walled office meant that there was never any rest. Pretending he was busy took up far more energy than actually being so.
He was keeping an eye on his surroundings, trying to gauge whether there might be a chance to take a quick look at the reports on the weekend’s matches – Athletic Bilbao, his team, had destroyed Seville at home 5–0 only the day before – when he caught sight of someone walking in from the side door. Someone he hadn’t seen for some time, who didn’t often make it into the ops room.
‘Morning, Chief Inspector,’ he beamed. ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’
Cámara shook Azcárraga’s hand, grabbed a spare seat from the adjacent desk and sat down next to him.
‘Good to see you,’ he said.
‘You come all this way just to see me?’ Azcárraga said, surprised. ‘I’m flattered.’
They had barely worked together before, in fact they had merely been in the building together briefly, late one night when the place was virtually closed down, in the days before moves towards ‘twenty-four-hour policing’ had been introduced. But it had been enough for the two of them to create a bond – two naughty boys playing pranks while the teachers weren’t looking. A few shared cigarettes outside and an understanding that the system was there to be dodged, not obeyed, had been enough to make them recognise each other as kindred spirits.
‘How’re things going?’ asked Cámara.
Azcárraga shrugged and pulled a face, and was about to say something when he glanced behind Cámara’s shoulder and flicked his chin up. Cámara turned to see.
‘Morning. It’s Chief Inspector Cámara, isn’t it?’
Cámara saw the figure of a portly, red-faced inspector in his late fifties grinning anxiously down at him. Peralta’s drink problem was well known throughout the Jefatura – it had cost him two marriages. As was his temper.
‘Can we be of assistance?’
Peralta’s smile broadened, eyes narrowing into folds of fatty skin. The message was clear: the operations room was his kingdom – if anyone from outside came in, they had to go through him first.
Cámara tried to think. So far that morning, the only police work he could see in action was policemen trying to police their own colleagues. The Jefatura was beginning to feel more like a prison camp than an operations centre.
He stood up and reached for Peralta’s hand.
‘Forgive me,’ he said, giving it as warm a shake as he could. ‘I got carried away. You know how it is when you’re on the chase.’
‘On a case, are you?’ Peralta said, baring his teeth as the grin began to morph into a grimace. ‘I heard there were changes afoot. Something about you being reassigned.’
Cámara let go of his hand.
‘I would expect you, of all people, to be well informed,’ he said.
‘Oh, not just me,’ Peralta said breezily. ‘Pretty much everyone’s heard about Special Crimes being closed down. Must be quite a blow. Don’t know what I’d do in your shoes. Probably think about quitting. After all that work you’d put into it. What’s the name of the inspector who was with you?’
‘Torres.’
‘Must be tough for him as well. But even more so for you. I mean, he’s just a lowly inspector, like myself. But you’re a chief inspector. A gran subida, gran caída.’ The bigger they are, the harder they fall.
Cámara grinned. Was this man really trying to use a proverb? No one in the entire Policía Nacional had as many refrains at his fingertips as Cámara: they had been drilled into him by his grandfather since childhood and formed a kind of parallel bloodstream within his body, a life force that he could draw on at any moment, like a subtle, invisible web of knowledge stretching back through time.
‘But as you also know, Peralta,’ he said, ‘mala hierba nunca muere.’ A bad plant never dies.
Peralta sniffed, failing to find a riposte.
‘I suspect I’ll be around for some time yet,’ Cámara continued, and as he did so, a way out became clear to him.
‘Commissioner Hernández herself sent me,’ he said. ‘The matter’s urgent and Azcárraga here can help us on a small detail. As to my position, let’s just say things aren’t always what they seem. You get my meaning? I’m not at liberty to say any more at present.’
Peralta stiffened. He was trapped: he doubted very much that Cámara was involved in any undercover work, yet the doubt was enough for him to pull back.
‘One minute,’ he sneered. ‘Not a second more.’
Cámara sank back into his chair; Azcárraga watched until he had gone, then nodded to Cámara.
‘Let’s make this quick,’ he said. ‘Bastard’s making my life hell enough as it is.’
‘OK.’ Cámara rubbed his face, as though trying to clean himself.
‘Yesterday,’ he said. ‘You took a call.’
Azcárraga tilted his head to the side and gave him an exasperated look.
‘Can you be more specific
?’
‘José Luis Mendoza,’ said Cámara. ‘Owner of the Sunset. A call came in.’
Azcárraga nodded. He understood: Peralta was right. Cámara had very clearly been kicked in the pants if he was being given stuff like this to deal with.
‘Just some crazy guy,’ he said. ‘Nothing to—’
‘What did he say?’ interrupted Cámara.
‘Not very much.’ Azcárraga shrugged. ‘It was over almost as soon as it started. Call came in, guy on the phone, wouldn’t give his name, squeaked something about the death not being accidental, being deliberate.’
He threw up his hands.
‘But you know the kind of thing. We get this stuff all the time. Especially when it’s a famous person, or someone people have heard of, like José Luis. I mean, he’s no celebrity or anything, but most people in Valencia have probably heard his name mentioned. Or at least enough people have. So it’s just another one of those types who have to make everything more sinister, like a conspiracy. That’s all. Really, Chief Inspector.’ His voice changed: less informing, more consoling. ‘There’s nothing in it. Some bored idiot trying to make his day more exciting, that’s all.’
Cámara nodded.
‘Did he say anything else?’
‘No, that was it.’
‘You said he squeaked. What do you mean?’
Azcárraga frowned.
‘Well, I don’t know. He had one of those squeaky kinds of voices.’
‘Squeaky?’
‘High-pitched, a bit nasal.’
Cámara squinted at him.
‘You know what I mean,’ Azcárraga said, lowering his voice; Cámara leaned in. ‘Typical maricón. A poof.’
Azcárraga glanced around, making sure no one could hear.
‘Got to be careful what you say these days. Never know who’s listening.’
‘So you’re saying he was gay?’
‘Well, I don’t know. He wasn’t trying to chat me up or anything. But, well, he certainly sounded like one, or a bit like one.’
Cámara sat back in his seat. From the side office, Peralta glanced in his direction, tapping at his wrist with his forefinger.
‘All right,’ said Cámara, ‘I’d better go before I get you into more trouble.’
He made to get up.
‘Listen,’ he said. ‘We need to trace that number, find out who made the call.’
Azcárraga blew out his cheeks.
‘I can’t do that,’ he said. ‘Not without going through the proper channels. And besides, we need a permit, get a judge involved.’
‘It’s got to be done,’ Cámara whispered. ‘I’m serious.’
‘You sure you’re not—?’
‘Get in touch with Judge Jurado,’ said Cámara. ‘He’s one of the old school, total trust of the police, doesn’t give a shit about citizens’ rights. Get him to give you the necessary go-ahead.’
Azcárraga stared at him, eyes bulging.
‘I’ll get the sack.’
‘Any trouble,’ Cámara went on, ‘get in touch with Inspector Torres. Tell him it’s through me. He’ll understand.’
Azcárraga shook his head in disbelief.
‘Not get me into any more trouble, you said. This’ll land me deep in the shit if it goes wrong. And for what? For some case that’s just a simple accidental death? You can’t expect me—’
‘Listen,’ Cámara said, leaning forwards and gripping him tightly by the upper arm. ‘I’ve never been more serious. The fucking inmates are taking over the asylum. There aren’t many sane ones left. We’re a shrinking minority and we have to stick together. Do this for me. Do whatever it takes. Afterwards you can ask for whatever you want.’
‘I want to get out of here,’ said Azcárraga. ‘I want a real job. A job in Homicidios.’
‘Do this,’ said Cámara, ‘and I’ll get you in. You have my promise.’
He stood up to leave.
‘I don’t get it,’ said Azcárraga. ‘What’s so important to you about this?’
‘We have to make a difference,’ said Cámara. ‘While we still can.’
Azcárraga watched him walk out and down along the corridor until he disappeared. Then he turned back to his desk.
Sane ones? What the hell was he talking about? There wasn’t a crazier person in the entire building.
SEVEN
Cámara parked his motorbike on the pavement outside the glass-fronted courtroom buildings alongside half a dozen other machines in the shade of a jacaranda tree. He took off his helmet, locked it inside the top box behind the pillion seat and prepared himself. He’d been to the courtrooms before, many dozens of times, yet it was his knowledge of what lay inside the smaller structure that abutted it – where he was headed now – that always caused a swirling tightness to form in his stomach. The Centre for Forensic Science had a relatively innocuous name, but it was where autopsies were carried out, and having witnessed more than a few over the years, Cámara could almost smell the dead bodies lying within its walls before he even opened the door: the acrid, tinny stench of coagulated blood; the metallic lemon of the disinfectants; the animal pungency of faeces scooped out for analysis from sliced-up intestines. He would do anything not to have to be there right now – ever, even – yet it was a necessary first stopping-off point before he could proceed.
Nervously, he stuck his hands in his jacket pockets, where he felt the smooth casing of his phone against his fingertips. Yes, he thought instinctively, this would be a most opportune moment to make the call.
He found a wall to lean against. After a few seconds, the line at the other end was ringing.
There was a pause before it was answered.
‘Hello, chief.’
Cámara’s shoulders dropped. Just two words from his colleague and he knew that everything was going to be all right.
‘I was wondering when you were going to call,’ said Torres. ‘Bit miffed you took so long about it, to be honest. I’ve got feelings too, you know.’
‘How’s life treating you?’ asked Cámara.
‘What? Since I saw you last night in the office? Well, I’ve had better mornings, tell the truth.’
‘People in Narcotics treating you well?’
‘Almost too nicely.’
Cámara registered the sarcastic tone.
‘Enjoy it while it lasts. Got your own desk?’
‘Well, I’ve got to work somewhere.’
‘Lucky bastard.’
‘What?’ said Torres. ‘No room for you in Homicidios?’
‘Haven’t been in yet.’
‘Where are you now?’
‘Outside the Forensic Science Centre.’
‘Oh,’ said Torres. There was no need to explain: he knew how much Cámara hated the place. If he was there it must be for a reason.
‘Got a case already? That’s quick. It’s only half-past ten. You were sacked – sorry, transferred – just over an hour ago.’
‘It’s almost certainly nothing,’ said Cámara. ‘Routine check.’
‘What are you going to do?’ Torres asked.
‘Well, eventually, perhaps after a cigarette or two, I’m going to steel myself and go inside, I suppose.’
‘No, I mean about this. About Rita.’
‘You OK to talk?’
‘I’m not in the middle of the Narcotics office, if that’s what you mean,’ said Torres. ‘When I saw your call I stepped out. So, you sticking around or what? I was half-expecting you to tell me you were quitting.’
Cámara paused.
‘I’m tempted, course I am.’
‘Can’t live without me, that’s the problem. Life in the police without me at your side is no life at all.’
Cámara chuckled.
‘Something like that.’
‘But?’
‘But I need something to leave for,’ said Cámara. ‘Some other project first. Once I find that, I’ll jump.’
‘Sounds a bit sensible for you. You feeling all right
?’
‘I’ll be fine. What about you?’
‘I’m not going anywhere,’ said Torres. ‘My son’s still at school, I’ve got maintenance to pay and rent to keep up with. They’ve got me by the balls, and they know it.’
‘So have Narcotics put you on to anything yet?’
‘Letting me find my feet, is what I was told. They’ll be checking me out, see if they can trust me. You know how this unit is.’
Torres was right. Barely a year went by without some Narcotics officer being sent down for dodgy dealings of some sort: the huge amounts of cash that moved within the drug world were too powerful a temptation for many policemen, particularly when compared with their own modest salaries. Cámara knew himself: years before he had been a member of the unit and witnessed colleagues stuffing the occasional – or not-so-occasional – note or two of drug money into their back pockets. There were others, however, who were actually in the pay of the drug barons. The air of suspicion and lack of trust between fellow officers had driven him out in the end.
‘OK,’ said Cámara. ‘If you’ve got some spare time, and you’re comfortable with this …’
‘Hah!’ laughed Torres. ‘You kidding?’
‘Great,’ said Cámara with a smile. ‘Can you do some background checks for me?’
‘That never was your forte.’
‘José Luis Mendoza,’ said Cámara.
‘The Sunset guy? What’s happened to him?’
‘Well, I’m sure he’s felt better.’
‘Is that why you’re …?’
Cámara glanced towards the entrance of the Forensic Science Centre.
‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Murdered?’
‘Dunno.’
‘All right. What do you want?’
‘Anything. His past, background. Anything that stands out. Anything that doesn’t stand out.’
Fatal Sunset Page 4
