Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  Carlos stood in Fernando’s office and watched while his superior picked up a fresh cup of burning hot coffee and drank it down in two gulps. Quite what the man’s gullet was made of, Carlos couldn’t say, but whatever it was it had the fire-retarding properties of asbestos. Any other mortal would have screamed in agony.

  Fernando reached for a madalena cake, pulled off the case, threw it into the overflowing bin at the side of his desk and took a large bite, chewing slowly and deliberately before swallowing. His secretary was still in the room, standing at his side. Fernando pointed silently at his empty coffee cup and it was immediately whisked away for a refill, the secretary striding past Carlos to step out of the office in the direction of the hot drinks machine.

  When the door closed, Fernando looked up, wiping crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand. Carlos watched as they tumbled down his chin and came to rest on the upper curve of his belly, nestling in a fold of his shirt.

  ‘Fill me in,’ ordered Fernando.

  ‘The Beneyto woman,’ said Carlos, ‘the journalist from Valencia – she’s in Madrid.’

  Fernando sniffed. Carlos recognised that look. Others misinterpreted it as one of unconcern, even a lack of interest. But Carlos knew it disguised a deep and very focused concentration wrapped in a layer of studied calm. And he viewed it with unalloyed admiration.

  ‘When did she arrive?’ Fernando said.

  ‘Late last night. She caught the last AVE from Valencia.’

  ‘Which gets into Atocha at 2310,’ said Fernando. He nodded to himself. ‘I’m assuming this is abnormal behaviour.’

  ‘We’ve checked,’ said Carlos. ‘She travelled on the AVE before, but never the late one.’

  ‘Where is she now?’ Fernando asked.

  ‘At a flat on Calle Santo Domingo.’

  ‘Is she alone?’

  Carlos nodded.

  ‘Has she gone anywhere this morning?’

  Carlos shook his head.

  ‘It’s already ten past ten,’ said Fernando without looking at his watch. ‘Which means that if she caught that last train it was in order to do something or meet someone late last night.’

  Carlos didn’t react.

  ‘And now you’re going to tell me exactly what she did when her train got in,’ said Fernando.

  Carlos took a breath.

  ‘There’s a gap,’ he said.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘About an hour. Between her arrival and our picking up the trail.’

  Fernando lowered his eyes and nodded. His secretary came in through the door behind Carlos carrying another cup of steaming coffee. He placed it down on the desk and stepped away.

  ‘Leave us,’ said Fernando to him.

  Walking towards the door, the secretary pursed his lips and gave an involuntary raising of the eyebrows. There was trouble afoot.

  The door clicked shut. Fernando picked up the coffee and sniffed at it, then he placed it back without drinking. Carlos could feel a tremor in his right knee.

  ‘There’s …’ The words stuck in his throat. He brought a fist up to his mouth and coughed. ‘There’s more.’

  Fernando tapped his fingers together, staring at him to carry on.

  ‘The Beneyto woman made a phone call this morning. She’s … she’s found out more.’

  Fernando’s eyes didn’t blink.

  ‘Who did she call?’

  ‘Someone in the Valencia Jefatura. An inspector by the name of Francisco Torres.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘A colleague of her partner, of Chief Inspector Max Cámara.’

  Fernando breathed in heavily.

  ‘You’ve mentioned that name to me before,’ he said.

  ‘I believe he’s out of the picture,’ said Carlos. ‘Neutralised in the course of Operation Covadonga.’

  ‘But?’

  Carlos felt the quivering now in both knees.

  ‘But Inspector Torres has clearly seen more than he should have,’ he said. ‘He knows about Covadonga for a start.’

  ‘How?’ demanded Fernando.

  ‘An oversight at the Valencia Jefatura,’ said Carlos. ‘It’ll be taken care of.’

  ‘Does this Beneyto woman know they’re connected? Covadonga and Clavijo.’

  ‘Not as far as I’m aware, sir,’ said Carlos. ‘They’re completely separate as far as she’s concerned. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘Well, the names, sir. She might work out a connection herself.’

  Fernando nodded slowly and silently.

  ‘Bloody soldiers,’ he said. ‘This is what happens when a bunch of elderly generals get given too much to do. Make basic mistakes.’

  Carlos shuffled his feet; the tension in his legs was becoming quite uncomfortable.

  ‘I’m afraid the Beneyto woman knows something else as well, sir.’

  Fernando gave him a dark, unwavering look.

  ‘She’s found out about Abravanel,’ said Carlos.

  There was a lengthy pause where the only thing in the office that moved was Fernando’s chest as it slowly rose and fell with his breathing.

  ‘Who was her source?’ he said at last.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Carlos. ‘We have to assume it was someone she met during the hour that we lost her in Madrid last night.’

  ‘You need to find out who that was,’ said Fernando calmly. ‘If we have a leak we need it blocked immediately.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘This is your responsibility, Carlos,’ said Fernando. ‘Security for the whole of Operation Navas is on your shoulders. I vouched for you, said you were the man for the job. I don’t need to tell you what is at stake here.’

  ‘No, sir. Should I …’

  ‘Put the Guardia Suiza on high alert,’ said Fernando.

  Carlos nodded.

  ‘When the time comes,’ said Fernando, ‘it’s on you. You’re the one who’ll be pulling the trigger.’

  THIRTY-SIX

  Cámara walked down stone steps to the arcade. He passed a bank, a hairdresser’s and a hardware shop before reaching the door of Los Arcos bar. A couple of empty tables stood on the pavement. Cámara pushed through the beads hanging in the doorway and went inside.

  There was a long dark passageway before the actual bar area. Next to a public phone he saw colourful posters pinned to the wall: the village would soon be celebrating the first of its summer fiestas. In the gloom he saw an image of a bull running full-speed at the camera, a flaming torch blazing from the end of each horn.

  Two men were sitting at stools at the bar, hunched over small glasses of coffee. One of them had a shot glass of brandy at the side and was mixing the two drinks to make a carajillo. No one seemed to notice Cámara entering, but within a few moments of his sitting down at a side table, the two men had finished and were leaving money on the counter, hitching their trousers up and marching out.

  Cámara was alone: there was no sign of anyone behind the bar. He got up and walked over.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘In a minute,’ came a voice from the kitchen.

  Presently, a short man in his forties with greasy black hair and close-set eyes appeared, wiping his hands dry on his hips, a look of mild annoyance on his face

  Cámara already had his police ID out.

  ‘Oh,’ said the man, checking himself, an expression of some confusion in his eyes. Cámara dived straight in.

  ‘I’m investigating the death of José Luis, the owner of Sunset,’ he said. For a moment he had almost said ‘murder’.

  ‘Did José Luis ever come in here?’ he said.

  The man hesitated.

  ‘Your name is?’ Cámara demanded.

  ‘Ramón,’ he said.

  ‘So, Ramón. Did you ever see José Luis in this bar?’

  ‘He wasn’t a regular,’ Ramón answered. He had a nervous, high-pitched voice, like a twittering sparrow.

  ‘But he did come in sometimes.’

  ‘Once or twi
ce. Perhaps a bit more often. Had a meal here in the evenings occasionally. But not for a while. Hadn’t seen him for some months, in fact.’

  ‘You know he’s dead,’ said Cámara.

  ‘Yes, I heard something.’

  Cámara paused.

  ‘Did he ever meet people here?’

  Ramón looked circumspect.

  ‘His neighbour, perhaps? Enrique, who has the farm up near Sunset?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Ramón grinned with relief. He was naturally suspicious, perhaps had a sense of loyalty to his customers, didn’t want to pass on anything that he shouldn’t – almost like a priest with his sacramental seal – but Cámara had already answered for him.

  ‘Yes, with Enrique,’ Ramón said. His teeth were pitted with black streaks. Did he ever – had he ever cleaned them, Cámara wondered.

  ‘When was the last time you saw them here together?’

  Ramón paused, a knot of concentrated yet hesitant thought on his brow.

  ‘Recently?’ Cámara asked.

  Ramón shook his head.

  ‘No. Not for a long time,’ he said. ‘Maybe a year or more.’

  ‘You know what they came here to discuss?’

  Cámara had crossed a line.

  ‘Oh, I never listen in on customers’ conversations.’

  ‘You know about the argument between Enrique and José Luis over the Chain.’

  Ramón frowned.

  ‘Don’t know anything about that,’ he said with emphasis.

  Cámara tried a different tack.

  ‘Can you tell me,’ he asked, ‘was José Luis liked in the village?’

  Ramón shrugged. And thought.

  ‘He wasn’t popular with everyone,’ Ramón said at last. ‘I don’t know what goes on up at Sunset. Not my business.’

  In Cámara’s experience, it was the business of every bar owner to know exactly what was going on in his or her local area, yet Ramón continued with his pretence.

  ‘There were rumours. Don’t know if any of it was true, but a lot of people round here didn’t approve. Old people can’t understand that kind of thing. Belong to a different generation.’

  Cámara wondered about Vicente and Vicenta for a moment: people of the previous generation who appeared to have accepted Sunset and what went on up there in their own way.

  ‘Did you ever hear Enrique speaking about José Luis when he was in here?’

  ‘What, during their meetings?’

  ‘When he came here alone.’

  ‘No,’ Ramón said categorically. Then he looked Cámara in the eye. ‘This is a small village,’ he said. ‘Small community. People tend to watch what they say.’

  ‘I get it,’ said Cámara. He decided it was time to leave.

  ‘Some of the hunters used to grumble occasionally,’ Ramón said. Cámara pricked up his ears.

  ‘What about?’

  ‘Don’t know the details,’ said Ramón. ‘You should talk to the mayor.’

  ‘Whose name is?’

  ‘Javier Santos. He’s one of them, keen hunter. Something about a protection order José Luis had slapped on his land. Stopped the hunters from roaming on his property.’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Can I find the mayor at the Town Hall?’ he asked.

  Ramón looked at his watch.

  ‘You might just catch him. Should be halfway through his round.’

  ‘His round?’

  ‘He does the local mail delivery as well.’

  Cámara stepped back out into the square. At the far end of the arcade he noticed a grocery shop with fruit and vegetables displayed on two wooden tables at either side of the entrance. A woman wearing a work overdress was arranging the bananas and swatting away flies. She had dark hair and olive skin, but there was something about her features and body language which Cámara could not quite put his finger on that made him suspect she wasn’t of Spanish origin, was possibly an immigrant.

  He turned and headed across the square towards a large, ornate building on the far side with Casa Consistorial written in pale blue letters above a large, open double doorway. Inside was a spacious, empty hall with a brightly coloured tiled floor, geometric patterns in green, red and white spreading out from beneath his feet with dizzying complexity. A woman wearing glasses and holding a sheet of paper walked past.

  ‘I’m looking for the mayor,’ said Cámara. Like Ramón, she looked at her watch before answering.

  ‘He’s …’ she began. Then she looked behind Cámara out into the square.

  ‘He’s just coming now. There.’

  She pointed. Cámara saw a small yellow van pulling into a parking space outside the door.

  ‘Thank you.’

  He waited for the mayor to get out of his van and greet a couple of locals who were passing, before approaching.

  ‘Policía Nacional?’ said the mayor when Cámara introduced himself. ‘We don’t tend to see your lot …’

  ‘Is there somewhere we could talk?’ Cámara said.

  ‘My office.’

  The mayor was a small man, barely reaching Cámara’s shoulders, but he was used to being in charge. Cámara judged him to be in his mid-sixties, perhaps close to retirement. His hair was cropped short and his chin was freshly shaven that morning, with a hint of cheap, traditional old-man’s cologne about him. He removed his grey postman’s cap and slipped it under his arm, as though to signify that he was moving from one municipal duty to the other. With it, his bearing stiffened and his clothes – white shirt, dark trousers and dark, but not matching, cotton jacket – almost took on the air of a suit.

  Cámara followed as they walked up a large marble staircase to the first floor. The building was probably a hundred years old or more: there must have been more money about back then. Certainly today, judging by the shops and the general appearance of its inhabitants, the village did not have a look of wealth about it.

  At the top of the stairs, the mayor pulled out a large bunch of keys hanging from a chain on his hip, unlocked three bolts on his office door and beckoned Cámara in. They passed into a large, well-lit chamber with views through a balcony window on to the square below. It felt almost like a throne room. Cámara was immediately struck, however, by the large number of stuffed animal heads on the walls: wild boar, mostly, but there were others, including an ibex with its distinctive horns like the one he had seen the day before, and animals that were not native to the Iberian peninsula.

  ‘You a hunting man, Chief Inspector?’ the mayor asked, mistaking Cámara’s curiosity for approval.

  ‘No,’ Cámara said bluntly. ‘I just shoot people.’

  The mayor froze, eyes staring, uncertain how to react.

  ‘But only bad guys,’ Cámara added with a smile.

  ‘I see,’ said the mayor. He went to sit behind his desk, easing himself down into a tall oak chair with a red velvet covering.

  ‘So what can I do for you?’ he said. ‘It must be quite important if someone of your high rank has been sent.’

  ‘These animals,’ Cámara said, pointing at a zebra and what he felt certain was a gazelle. ‘Where do you hunt them?’

  ‘I travel all over the world,’ said the mayor proudly. ‘I’ve hunted on almost all the world’s continents.’

  ‘And you bring your spoils back home with you?’

  ‘I don’t travel with them myself,’ he said with a condescending smile. ‘They’re couriered to Spain. Then a specialist works with them and they eventually reach me here. I have more at home. These are just a sample.’

  ‘Must be an expensive hobby,’ said Cámara. ‘All the kit, all the travelling.’

  The mayor’s face was impassive.

  ‘So, Chief Inspector. Are you here to talk about hunting? I’m afraid I have the second half of my postal run to complete. And then there’s a plenary council meeting to attend. And other duties.’

  Cámara walked to the window, hands on hips, and looked down into the square. People were moving ab
out, none of them at any great speed. He wondered if a village like this ever experienced the sense of rush that almost always prevailed in the city.

  ‘José Luis,’ he said. ‘Sunset.’

  ‘Very sad business,’ said the mayor, shuffling in his chair. ‘I heard yesterday.’

  ‘Did you know him?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘Of course. Not intimately, you understand. But as mayor I have dealings with most people at some point.’

  ‘My understanding,’ said Cámara, ‘is that there was tension between José Luis and the local hunters.’

  He raised his eyebrows and looked pointedly at the rows of dead animals on display.

  ‘You’d know all about that.’

  The mayor placed his elbows on the table, his fingertips together, and spoke in a flat voice, as though addressing an official meeting.

  ‘Any private land measuring less than forty hectares,’ he said, ‘is part of the local hunting area, as I’m sure you’re already aware.’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Meaning members of the local hunting club have every right to roam and hunt on any such land.’

  ‘How many hectares did José Luis have?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘Eighteen.’

  ‘So less than the minimum needed to seal it off from the hunters.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘And did local hunters – did you – hunt on his land?’

  ‘When you’re chasing down a wounded boar …’ the mayor began.

  ‘All right,’ said Cámara. ‘And I assume José Luis wasn’t too happy about it.’

  The mayor paused before answering.

  ‘There’s a loophole in the law,’ he said. ‘And he used it.’

  ‘The nature reserve?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘You’ve already heard,’ smiled the mayor. ‘He found a sympathetic biologist to identify some species of moss on his land. Quite rare, apparently. Anyway, it was enough to declare his land a mini nature reserve. Meaning—’

  ‘Meaning that the hunters no longer had a right to go on his land.’

  ‘Correct.’

  Cámara walked across and stood over the desk, looking down at the mayor.

  ‘Must have caused quite an annoyance.’

  The mayor shrugged it off.

  ‘The hunting areas around here are ample enough,’ he said. ‘And there were never many boar near Sunset in the first place.’