TWENTY-SIX
The sun would be setting before long. Cámara reached the Chain, trying to leave as much space between himself and the hives as possible. It was difficult to tell in the fading light and from a distance, but the creatures appeared less active, less aggressive now. He dodged through the trees to a safer space some metres away.
He was exhausted. The stings had drained his energy and he longed to go home. The path back towards Sunset – and his motorbike parked outside – lay in front. In a few minutes he could be putting on his helmet and riding away. Within just over half an hour, he could be pushing through his front door once again, and into the arms of Alicia. And quickly taking a couple of painkillers.
It was tempting and, leaning against a tree, he had resolved to head off, finish his working day, when he heard a rustling sound to his right. He turned to look: a long-tailed lizard was scuttling off, hugging the ground and kicking up tiny nebulae of dust as it disturbed the pine needles in its way. Cámara followed its progress as it sped along, passing under the chain and away down the path that led to the Molino.
He checked the position of the sun: it was low, but there was still time. If the place was as beautiful as people claimed, it would be good to see it, especially now as the sun was setting. He might even have a quick swim down there, ease the stings a little with fresh water. Then come back with Alicia one day, when this business was over.
He took a breath, pushed himself off the tree and headed down the track, carefully lifting his feet over the chain, and began his descent.
The earth soon changed from the light grey of lime to a softer, more orange sandstone as the path emerged out of the pine wood and continued along a short flat section. On both sides, he could see the valley stretching away, curling and sweeping in tight arcs as it followed a course millions of years old and slowly wended its way down towards the fertile plain of the city, and the sea beyond. Above, the sky appeared to have been painted by a child’s bright crayons, with streaks of red, orange, yellow and purple shooting in many directions from the smiling disc of the setting sun. At last the birds had come to life in the cooling, more forgiving air, tweeting light bursts of song as they flew like shadows in front of him, darting from tree to bush to rock. Cámara kept his eyes open for any snakes basking in the last rays of light, yet he already felt certain that there would be no danger here, that he had entered an altogether more benign and less threatening world. This valley, unlike the forest, had a welcoming feeling about it, as though it beckoned him, promising beauty and shelter, a place to heal and recover.
His thoughts wandered through the dying day as he walked along the path. There was, he decided, no murder to answer for here. He had seen it in Quintero’s eyes that morning at the Forensic Science Centre; had heard it in Torres’s voice. There had been an anonymous call suggesting something more sinister, yet as Azcárraga had insisted, there was nothing to it, no clues, not even a name to go on. Just some crank, probably one of the regulars at the club, distraught that José Luis had left them so suddenly. Perhaps the caller was stoned. Certainly there were enough narcotics inside José Luis’s apartments to keep a small army in a state of altered consciousness for several days. Drugs, he suspected, were in no short supply at Sunset, and if anyone was involved in providing them, then his first suspect would be Paco, the manager.
But Paco being a drug dealer didn’t make him a murderer. Neither did Enrique’s long-held grudge against José Luis.
He grinned to himself at the thought of the interview back at Enrique’s farmhouse. Yes, there were questions still to be cleared up. If Enrique hadn’t called Paco, then who had? Perhaps no one. Perhaps Paco made the whole thing up. Perhaps he needed José Luis to be off-site for a time while he conducted some of his business. There could be many reasons. Perhaps some of them involving illegal activity. Yet despite being suspicious, even important, none of them pointed directly to murder.
And what was he thinking? That the bees had somehow been used to kill José Luis? The very thought had been floating somewhere in the back of his mind, yet was clearly absurd. Had he actually accused Enrique of murdering José Luis by getting bees to sting him to death? He shrugged and carried on walking. Perhaps it was getting stung himself, perhaps it was the mountain air, perhaps it was delayed shock from being kicked in the balls by Rita that morning. Whatever it was, he seemed to have temporarily lost his senses.
Still, there was one thing he could carry away from this day, and that was discovering a hidden beauty spot in the mountains.
The path veered to the left, the descent becoming steeper as it passed through a cluster of holm oaks, with dusty-green leaves and gnarled, knotty trunks. Cámara crunched acorns underfoot, skidding slightly on the loose stones and holding himself upright by pulling on the branches of a nearby rosemary bush. A cloud of comforting scent was released as he let go, and clung to him as he carried on.
The path zigzagged down the slope, heading towards the bottom of the valley. The sun was starting to clip a ridge of mountains to the west. At the sound of rushing water from below, he picked up his pace, crouching and lowering his weight so as not to trip over the uneasy rocks along the path.
After crossing what looked like a couple of ancient and unused water channels, he inched his way down a flat slab of rock before finally reaching the river. The water gushed and bubbled joyously near his feet, as though revelling in its own youthful energy and escape from the insides of the mountain into this vibrant stream. The bare rock just below was smooth and rounded, like polished marble, sculpted by the tiny hands of many thousands of years’ flow into a myriad curling, twisting shapes.
Along the banks of the river, leaning across the water and forming an arch, were dozens of oleanders, with bright pink and red flowers like torches held aloft. Beyond them, in the middle distance, stood the remains of what had once been the waterwheel, its walls crumbled until they stood barely a metre above the ground. Nothing remained of the wheel that had once turned with the force of the stream.
The place was magical, thought Cámara, in the true sense of the word. The last sunlight reflecting off the rippled surface of the water; dragonflies, bright blue and green, darting from side to side like fairies; the deep, calming sound of the stream, the scent of flowers and herbs. It was, he thought, the kind of place where one could step out of time, where the strain of everyday slipped away and was discarded like an unwanted skin. It was wonderful just to absorb the sensation for a moment, to let it soak into him like ink into paper.
The oleanders and dragonflies, the ruined watermill and the sunlight dancing in the eddies of the stream were almost as nothing, however, to what had caught his eye as soon as he had arrived: the waterfall, where the river shot over a ledge some three metres above a large pool of dark blue water, like an image of paradise from the brightly coloured films he had seen as a child. The pool was deep and clear and inviting; he knew, as soon as he set eyes on it, that he must jump in.
It took almost no time for him to rid himself of his clothes, leaving them in a loose pile on an outcrop of dry limestone at the river’s edge. There was no need to check if he were alone: the time of day, the day of the week, even the time of year – late June, before the real summer had begun – all told him that he had this place, this moment, to himself. With not a scrap of clothing on, he worked his way to the top of the waterfall, standing where it cascaded into the pool below. He paused for a second, gauged the angle of his jump, felt the stings throbbing once more, closed his eyes, and launched himself.
The water was cold, much colder than he had imagined. He sank deep under the surface, eyes suddenly open to the full with shock. He saw a light green and turquoise world, its outlines blurred, yet with shapes and patterns scattered like some code or language whose meaning he could not decipher. Light streamed in from above, a single pale finger slicing through the surface and illuminating his chest, as though the sun had cast its final ray and found him, lost in this sacred pool, arms an
d legs flailing about like the limbs of a newborn child.
He pushed upward, breaking through the surface of the water into the evening air with a yell. A moment longer, he thought, and he would freeze. Yet almost at the same moment, a burning sensation began in his chest and spread over the rest of his body as a reaction kicked in and his skin responded to the sudden change. He allowed himself to float for a few seconds, turning on his back and staring up above the falling water at the sky beyond. It was turning a dark violet now, the sun having passed over the edge of the mountain and working its way towards the inevitable horizon.
He lingered a few moments more before gradually drifting towards the edge and standing up to get out. He was cold and invigorated. Alicia would adore this place; he would bring her as soon as he could.
The path back up to his clothes proved trickier than he expected, and he had to jump up on to the bare rock, pulling at a bush lodged in a crease in the stone to help himself up. He cast a disparaging glance at his ageing body as he stood and dried himself in the light breeze, then arched his back and gazed at the canopy above his head. He himself was no beauty, but nothing mattered when all this surrounded him and offered so much.
It had been worth it, he thought, as he pulled his clothes back on. Today, everything that had happened. All of it worth it for this moment alone, discovering this wonderful corner of the sierra. Any amount of trouble could be wiped clean by such a place.
He put his jacket on and slipped on his shoes. It was getting quite dark now, with just a faint glow of twilight to guide him. Just enough to see him back to the nightclub, and his bike.
He stuck his hands in his pockets and made to step towards the path leading back up the slope.
Which was when the shooting began.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Cámara dropped to the ground. A moment later, a second shot came blistering across from his left, smashing into a rock just metres in front, sending splinters of stone scattering, the bullet ricocheting off into the bushes beyond.
Whoever was firing was aiming to kill.
Without thinking, he lifted himself in the pause after the second shot and sprinted off up the river bed, in the opposite direction to the firing, bending low, keeping his weight as close to the ground as possible. It was impossible not to make a noise as he splashed against the current, pushing his way past oleanders and other plants, prickly and less friendly that suddenly appeared in this previously idyllic spot. Yet he had to move, get out of sight, or out of range, of his attackers. A deep, animal instinct within him understood that if they found him he would be dead.
His right hand had already reached round for the pistol that he normally carried on duty, only to find an empty space where the heavy piece of metal usually nestled against his body. He was unarmed and alone; there was no way he could either defend himself, or, with zero mobile coverage, call for assistance or backup. Any cry for help would only give his position away. He would have to face this – and whoever was trying to kill him – like an ordinary man. No longer a policeman trying to resolve a murder, but suddenly and without warning a lone individual trying desperately to save his own skin.
He pushed on up the river, staring with wild, open eyes in the increasing gloom. If there was one element in his favour, it was that night was falling and he would become a more difficult target. Yet he had to put enough distance between himself and the shooter first. And with every step he was making more noise.
Still he pushed on, throwing an occasional glance behind, yet intent on getting up the valley as quickly and as far as possible – the only direction open to him. The water grew shallower as he climbed, falling below his knees and pushing against his shins, yet still it was an effort to make progress. The banks at the sides were too dense with bushes and trees for him to be able to break out on to dry land.
He heard noises in the distance behind him, the sound of a voice calling. To an accomplice? Was there more than one person trying to kill him?
A sudden break in the undergrowth, and he tumbled out on to a flat patch of rocky ground. To one side the water gathered in a shallow rippling pool before rushing down the valley. This must be the source of the river, he thought, with relief. From here on he could stay on dry land, head up the remainder of the valley bed without having to struggle against the stream.
He darted across, cursing every stone and pebble beneath his feet as it turned and crunched loudly under his weight. At the far side was the thick trunk of what looked like a weeping willow, a steep rock face arching up behind it towards the top of the valley wall. He sprinted over to it and threw himself behind, lungs straining for breath, heart pounding like an engine.
With the tree as protection, he turned back to see if he was still being followed, straining his eyes against the slowly intensifying darkness to catch a glimpse of any movement back down in the river. The sun had long gone over the horizon, leaving a faint glow in the sky. Soon even that would vanish and he would have even more cover of darkness in which to lose himself. Yet first he wanted to see who was trying to kill him.
Thoughts raced through his mind like the blood speeding through his veins. The first suspect was Enrique. Had Cámara disturbed him? Perhaps triggered something with his accusation of killing José Luis? Had Enrique followed him down to the Molino to finish him off, here in this lonely, distant setting? There would be no witnesses and, if he did things right – disposing of the evidence efficiently – no body to point to either. Only the shots themselves might have to be explained away. Sound travelled far out here. But that wouldn’t be difficult; he could easily put it down to a spot of furtive, out-of-season hunting.
Yet almost immediately he had doubts. More than one attacker didn’t fit. Enrique was a loner. Also, where was the dog? The Alsatian would have tracked him down by now, have sunk its sharp white teeth into some soft part of his anatomy. The animal had looked fast and obedient: it would have had no trouble catching Cámara. Yet here he was, cowering behind a tree, with no sign of a dog, not even a growl to indicate one nearby.
He stared out, watching for any signal that he was still being followed. Slowly, his breathing began to settle, yet every muscle was taut and prepared, ready to sprint off again into the undergrowth at the first opportunity.
Something in the sky distracted his attention: he looked up at the radiant glow high above the edges of the valley. For some inexplicable reason it was getting brighter, not duller. And with a sinking heart he realised that what he had assumed was the fading glow of the sun was actually the sharpening light of the rising moon, and from the brightness he could tell it was in its fullest phase.
He swore to himself: the darkness he had been relying on would not provide the thick cover that he needed. He had a choice: stay where he was and hope that he had lost his attackers. Or start moving again, covering as much ground as he could before the moon came over the mountain and illuminated the valley.
The crack of a bullet slamming into the trunk of the willow made the decision for him. Pushed backwards by the force of the shot, he saw that the blast had come from beyond the source of the river, directly in front of him. Far from having lost him, the gunmen were on his tail and closing in.
He reached for a branch of the tree and hauled himself up on to the rocks behind. A fortuitous foothold helped launch him upwards and he grabbed at whatever he could to bear his weight, using arms, legs, fingers and nails in his ascent. Breaking out from the cover of the willow and trying to run up the dry valley bed was too dangerous now. His only possible escape was to climb upwards, head for the top of the valley wall and try to break out into the land beyond.
Another shot rang out, slamming once again into the tree, which was now a few metres below him. Had his attackers not realised where he was going? Surely they could hear him, yet the direction of the sound might be distorted in the narrow confines of the valley. He heard a voice again, low, querying, then silenced by a second. Two men, that much was clear now. Were they both armed? Un
like many of his police colleagues, Cámara was no firearms obsessive, yet the sharp, high pitch of the shots made him suspect they were using handguns, not rifles or anything more powerful. Which gave him some degree of hope: an accurate shot with a pistol over distance – and in the dark – was difficult. Staying as far away as he could from these men would be key to surviving, and doing so before the rising moon betrayed his position.
A smooth ledge of rock along his climb allowed him a moment to pause. Down in the valley he thought he could make out two shadows crossing towards the willow, perhaps to see if they had hit him. Had they not heard his climb? When they saw that he was not there, their attention would soon turn to finding him again. And logic, and the evidence of their senses, would give his position away once more.
He slipped over the ledge, clinging on to a low branch of a tree, finding his way feet first in the absence of any clear light. He felt a step in the ground, smooth stone cut with a 90-degree angle. He leaned forwards and fingered it, his hands creeping up to feel for another, and then another above. His blood seemed to give a jump. Here, perhaps, was a way out: what appeared to be a path leading up the mountainside, away from the river bed below.
He began crawling on all fours, reaching for each step with the palms of his hands before following behind with his feet. The path rose steeply, pushing past angry gorse bushes and long tentacles of bramble that pierced his skin, scratching at his face as he forced his way up and through. This was his only chance, a stairway out of danger, and he had to make the best use of it that he could.
From below he thought he could hear angry voices: the men had realised that he had escaped and were cursing. A couple of shots rang out, then stopped abruptly. The bullets flew wildly, far to his left. And for a second he thought that he would make good his escape, that they would not be following him.
Panting and scraping his way along the path, ignoring the thorns and needles, he climbed steadily to the top of the valley wall. The path began to flatten out, and he was able to stand upright, staggering forwards, trying not to trip over the rocks and stones that littered the way. He glanced up: the moon had now emerged and was shining down with angry determination. With a shudder, he realised that he would be clearly visible from below, his shadow sharply defined against the earth.
Fatal Sunset Page 14
