Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  He wondered how long José Luis had owned the place, how long it had been a nightclub. He dug into his pocket for his phone and dialled Torres’s number again: he might have something already on the dead man. But after a few seconds’ silence and several more staring in puzzlement at the screen, Cámara realised that there was no mobile coverage. He pursed his lips: Sunset really did occupy some different, separate space.

  No matter: he could find a way of getting in touch with Torres later. For now he would continue sniffing around.

  Across the car park, through a gap in the pine trees, he could just make out the shimmer of the sea. The sun had climbed high now, nearing its zenith. Heat burst out of the surrounding stones like popcorn in a pan. He imagined that from the upper storey Valencia itself would be visible down below, with the curl of the coast stretching towards the Montgó mountain at Dénia. Quite a view, if it interested you. He imagined that the many people who frequented this place felt little call to stare out at the horizon, yet something about the positioning of the main house, and what looked like tree stumps in the distance – perhaps of pines that had previously stood in the way of the vistas – suggested that he might be wrong. The grounds, at first glance, were better kept than he might have expected for such a place, with only a slight scattering of rubbish and nightlife detritus on the ground, not the piles of it he remembered from other venues.

  He stepped away from the main house, getting a feel for the place. It was ornate and solid – whoever had built it had spent money and energy on creating something special, if rather grand for Cámara’s tastes. Still, as a country retreat for the summer months it must have been magnificent. The paving outside the front door was made of cobblestones, with swirling, spiral patterns like snails or seashells. There wasn’t a weed growing among them, and each stone shone in the high sunlight, a sheen forged by frequent brushing and mopping. Cámara imagined a small army of assistants and helpers here: gardeners, cleaners, managers, barmen, deliverymen, bouncers. Dozens would be required to keep a place like this going. Yet there was no sign of any of them. It felt very deserted.

  He continued strolling around the grounds: clipped box hedges lined the far side of the car park and formed a pathway leading to the side of the house. He could see that at the back were some outbuildings: more modern constructions perhaps, and smaller, but painted in the same Andalusian colours. It was shaded down there, trees at the side of the house forming a kind of tunnel. He turned his feet towards it, all senses open for signs of life.

  Something near the ground caught his eye, wedged near the bottom of the box hedges. He knelt down to see: half-shredded toilet paper had embedded itself in the tiny branches and sat listlessly in the motionless air. Cámara tugged at it hesitantly: it was white, but stained dark, rusty red. He pulled again and more revealed itself, appearing from under the soil where someone had hurriedly tried to bury it. He lifted it to his nose and sniffed: the stains were clearly blood. Whoever it had once belonged to had lost large quantities of it. He pressed it between his fingers: there was still a stickiness to it.

  ‘What the fuck are you doing!’

  A voice bellowed from the side. Cámara turned and saw a narrow-shouldered man with a loose belly and shaved head pounding the earth as he stormed towards him.

  ‘We’re closed. Go on, get off with you!’ said the man.

  Cámara stood up.

  ‘Didn’t I make myself clear?’ The man came closer. Cámara watched his right hand dart behind his back, as though about to draw a weapon.

  ‘Police,’ Cámara said.

  The man stopped. His hand fell back to his side.

  ‘ID?’ he demanded.

  Cámara pulled out his wallet, with his police identity card inside. The man took it. Cámara noticed his hands: they were pale and weak, unused to any physical labour. Whoever looked after the grounds, it clearly wasn’t him.

  ‘You’re the manager, I take it,’ he said. The man was still looking at the ID.

  ‘You’re a bit far from home, aren’t you, Chief Inspector,’ he said, handing it back. The emphasis placed on Cámara’s rank was deliberate. ‘The Policía Nacional keeps itself busy down in the city. This is Guardia Civil country. You sure you haven’t got lost?’

  ‘It’s to do with José Luis,’ said Cámara.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the man. ‘He died. Yesterday. What the fuck’s it got to do with you?’

  Cámara nodded. This kind of open hostility towards policemen had become more common in recent years. No one had dared speak to an officer like this in the past, but that had been when memories of having to fear the police were still fresh. This was an ordinary citizen exercising his right to be suspicious of a law-enforcement officer, Cámara told himself. He was no reactionary and held no rose-tinted views about the good old days, but he had to admit that general respect for the law had made life simpler back then.

  ‘Let’s start with the formalities, shall we?’ he said. ‘First of all, what’s your name?’

  ‘Paco. And yes,’ he added before Cámara could continue, ‘I am the manager. And I’m asking you for a second time what you’re doing up here.’

  ‘What’s your full name?’

  Paco left an indignant pause before answering.

  ‘Francisco Jaén Díaz.’

  ‘José Luis died at La Fé hospital,’ said Cámara, ‘which is why it’s a police matter, not Guardia Civil. And I’m here making routine checks.’

  Paco snorted.

  ‘Must be overstaffed if they can send a chief inspector round for this kind of work. Come on, don’t treat me like an idiot – what’s the real reason you’re here?’

  ‘I came on a motorbike,’ said Cámara. ‘On my way, two men tried to run me off the road. Just here on the track leading up to the club.’

  Paco shrugged.

  ‘Two men driving a black BMW with tinted-glass windows,’ continued Cámara. ‘Know them?’

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ said Paco.

  ‘Had any other visitors here before me this morning?’

  ‘No one.’

  ‘Car sound familiar?’

  ‘There are loads like that. Besides, I didn’t see it, so how would I know?’

  He grinned through small yellowing teeth, dark gaps between all of them.

  ‘Are we done? I’ve got—?’

  ‘Hold it,’ said Cámara. ‘A few more questions first. Is Abdelatif around?’

  ‘Never heard of him.’

  ‘Abdelatif Cortbi. José Luis’s partner.’

  Paco looked confused.

  ‘You mean Abi,’ he said at length.

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Never knew his full name,’ Paco said. ‘Sounds Moroccan or something.’

  ‘Is he around?’ asked Cámara.

  ‘He rang earlier. Said he’d be coming back later today.’

  ‘Anyone else here?’

  Paco looked to the side, as though trying to decide whether to answer.

  ‘The Abuelos will be somewhere, I suppose,’ he said.

  ‘Abuelos?’

  ‘Vicente and Vicenta. Elderly couple. Which is why we call them the “grandparents”. He gardens, she cleans. And cooks sometimes. Don’t know where they’ll be.’

  ‘I’ll find them,’ said Cámara.

  Paco looked uncomfortable.

  ‘Yeah. Suit yourself. It was an accident, and we’re all cut up about it, to be frank. It was his birthday, meant to be a happy occasion, presents and a party and everything. Instead … Not the best time to have police wandering around.’

  ‘Where did it happen?’

  Paco waved a hand behind the house.

  ‘Up at the top. Few minutes’ walk.’

  ‘Did José Luis often go up there?’

  Paco shook his head.

  ‘Do you know why he went up there yesterday?’

  Paco shrugged.

  ‘There was a call from Enrique, the guy who owns the land beyond. Said he
wanted to meet José Luis, said it was urgent. I passed on the call. Next thing I know …’ He stopped.

  ‘You took the call from Enrique?’

  ‘Yeah, then I passed the message on.’

  ‘Anything else you remember from yesterday?’

  ‘Isn’t this all a bit unnecessary?’

  ‘Routine, as I say,’ said Cámara.

  ‘Right, I’ve got stuff to do.’

  Paco turned to leave.

  ‘Have many enemies?’ said Cámara. ‘José Luis?’

  Paco gave a hollow laugh.

  ‘Not many people round here love this place, I can tell you,’ he said. ‘I imagine there’ll be a few bottles of cava opened tonight.’

  TWELVE

  ‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure I saw something about it from the news agencies. But, you know, it’s just not the right time for something like this. There are bigger stories around at the moment. As you know.’

  ‘I’m aware of them, Sergi. I read the papers from time to time. It’s just—’

  ‘I really don’t think there’s a story there.’

  ‘I just wanted to do some background checking, see what people were saying.’

  ‘Well, as I said, the agencies picked it up, but even they were playing it down and as far as I know no one’s running with it. I mean, I can check if you like.’

  ‘That’s fine. Don’t worry.’

  Alicia could see where the conversation was going. Sergi was a former colleague at the Valencian newspaper Llevant and nominally in charge of environmental stories – although he could be asked to write on anything from local politics to the sport these days after all the cuts, a generic staff writer, a mere word machine, like everyone was becoming. He was busy and overworked and had a finely attuned nose for what was or was not news. And the Cabrera story was not engaging him.

  ‘Just remind me quickly, will you?’ Alicia could sense him itching to hang up. ‘What’s the actual status of Cabrera?’

  ‘It’s a nature reserve. Has been since 1992.’

  ‘But the military …?’

  ‘The military still own it. Some arrangement was reached to allow it to become a nature reserve, but at the same time the military retain control. And can use it how they like. I admit it’s a bit strange. But to be honest, with the way things stand, everyone’s more concerned about whether they’ll still have a job in the morning than the plight of some jellyfish or a handful of birds on a rocky island. At any other time it might be a story – but even then only a small one. I’m sure some of the ecology magazines might be interested. But, you know, they don’t pay well. Perhaps not anything at all these days.’

  ‘OK.’ Alicia smiled. ‘Thanks, Sergi.’

  ‘Look, Alicia,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to be rude or anything, but shouldn’t you be looking for bigger stuff than this? I don’t know, it’s just …’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right, Sergi. It was a tip-off from a friend. I was simply following it through. But you’re surely right.’

  ‘Try the press office for the Captaincy General.’

  ‘I doubt it’s worth it.’

  ‘No. But at least get the official word on what’s going on, from the source itself. Just saying.’

  ‘Thanks. I’ll see.’

  ‘You should come round some time, drop in, say hello.’

  ‘OK. I’ll make sure to do that.’

  She rang off and tossed her notebook on to the desk by the phone. The apartment felt silent and hollow.

  The press officer took her call on the third attempt.

  ‘Yes, this is Lieutenant Espinosa, chief joint military press officer at the Palma de Mallorca Captaincy General.’

  Quite a mouthful, but he had perfected the delivery so that it tripped off his tongue with unhesitant fluency. She wondered if being able to do so were a prerequisite for getting the job.

  ‘And you are …?’

  The tone was friendly but insistent. She gave her details and named a national newspaper in Madrid. The one she used to work for, but no longer did. But Lieutenant Espinosa didn’t need to know that.

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’m interested in what’s going on at the island of Cabrera,’ she said.

  ‘The military manoeuvres. Yes, I’m assuming you saw the official statement we sent out about that. Didn’t it reach you?’

  ‘Yes …’

  ‘I can send you another copy if you like.’

  ‘That’s fine. I’ve seen it.’

  ‘Good,’ said the officer. ‘So how can I assist you?’

  ‘I was wondering if you might fill in some of the details. Cabrera hasn’t been used by the military for anything like this for over twenty years. I’d like to know what prompted the sudden change.’

  ‘Oh, I can assure you there’s nothing sudden about it at all,’ said the soldier. ‘It’s been planned for some time and everyone concerned given ample notification.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, yes. I have records of all our communiqués about the matter going back several months. I can send you copies if you like.’

  She wondered for a moment – her old email address from the newspaper no longer worked. If she gave him her private address he might suspect something.

  ‘Perhaps I can get back to you on that. But could you clarify what’s behind the change? Why now? Why is the military carrying out these exercises now?’

  ‘You will of course understand, Señora Beneyto, that I am not at liberty to discuss everything with you – these are military matters after all. But we are carrying out exercises in preparation for much larger manoeuvres in conjunction with NATO which will be taking place at a future date. That’s all I can say. But it was deemed necessary to use Cabrera for this purpose. The island remains a military property and all non-military personnel have – regrettably – had to be evacuated. For their own safety, you’ll understand.’

  ‘So you’ve imposed an exclusion zone around the island?’

  ‘That is correct. We are obliged to exclude all non-military traffic from approaching the island.’

  ‘Is this temporary or permanent?’

  ‘Have you visited Cabrera yourself?’

  ‘No,’ said Alicia. ‘I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, rest assured that you will get the opportunity at some point in the future – it is a beautiful place. But I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say now when that will be.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘You’re very welcome,’ said the lieutenant. ‘And please do not hesitate to get back in touch if you want copies of any of those papers and files I mentioned.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure.’

  ‘Oh, wait,’ said Alicia before he rang off. ‘Sorry, just one last quick question. Is the term “Clavijo” linked to any of this at all? Operación Clavijo, perhaps? Is that the name given to the exercises?’

  There was silence from the other end.

  ‘Lieutenant?’ Alicia said.

  ‘Urgent call,’ said the soldier. ‘I have to go. Goodbye.’

  THIRTEEN

  Paco slumped off, heading for the main door of the house, and disappeared into the dark interior. After a pause, Cámara turned and walked the other way, continuing down the side of the building and round the back, where a paved patio area opened up. What looked like former stables lined the far side, converted perhaps into offices or apartments: as with the main house, their windows were firmly barricaded with shutters and metal bars. To the side stood a wooden post with an ornate iron handle sticking out on one side and a spout on the other: an old water pump. He wondered if it still worked. Beyond it was a small structure butting against the back of the house, with small open windows and a wooden door slightly ajar. Cámara could make out the low sound of someone singing gently from inside.

  He walked silently to the door, listening, then rapped his knuckle against the frame.

  ‘¿Hola?’

  The si
nging – more a lilting mumble than an actual tune – stopped.

  ‘Who is it?’ said a suspicious voice.

  ‘Can I have a word?’

  A woman’s face appeared from inside, framed with short white curly hair.

  ‘Oh!’ she said.

  Cámara peered down into eyes yellowed with age and sunlight. Lines ran across her face in a myriad directions like tracks on desert sand. Her mouth was small and tight with anxiety and a tiny crescent of dried saliva curled around the edge of her lip.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she said.

  ‘Vicenta?’ said Cámara.

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘I’m from the police,’ continued Cámara. ‘I’m here about—’

  ‘Oh, oh, oh!’ said the woman. ‘Terrible business. Such a tragedy. I haven’t been able to think of anything else all day.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ said Cámara. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Please, yes,’ she said. ‘I’ll put some coffee on.’

  No questioning, no inspection of his ID. Vicenta belonged to a generation who had never lost their respect – or fear – of a policeman.

  Cámara stepped into a small scullery kitchen with a flagstone floor and ceramic sink at one side. Large brass taps were set into the wall, while opposite was a small inglenook fireplace with a blackened, round-bottomed pan suspended from iron chains hanging over the grate. No fire was burning, yet fresh ash on the hearth and the smell of woodsmoke told him this was a very traditional kitchen where the traditional ways were still employed. Vicenta filled a coffee pot with water, spooned in the coffee and placed it over a tiny gas ring next to the sink.

  When she turned round, her eyes were glistening.

  ‘We heard last night,’ she said. ‘Abi called from the hospital. I’d been praying for him ever since the ambulance took him away. My husband thought there was little hope – they got to him so late, you see. But, well, miracles can and do happen sometimes. But not yesterday. Not for José Luis.’