Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  ‘I thought you would be coming,’ said Marisol. ‘And I know exactly what you want, what you need.’

  Her hand was hovering over the bag now sitting on her lap. It was large, not unlike the one Alicia had left behind at the Atocha metro station. And a file of papers was poking out of the top.

  ‘At some point in our lives we have to do something we can be proud of,’ said Marisol. ‘For me, to date, there’s precious little. Except perhaps teaching a few things to a handful of young women, like yourself.’

  She put her hand on the file, clutching it between her fingers.

  ‘But …’ She hesitated. Alicia watched her like a hawk.

  ‘They’re going to get me anyway,’ said Marisol at length. And she pulled the papers out and handed them to Alicia.

  ‘So it might as well be for something worthwhile.’

  Alicia took the file from her, flicking her thumb through it: it was at least two or three hundred pages long.

  ‘Take it, use it,’ said Marisol. ‘And tell the world what it needs to know.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Alicia.

  ‘Don’t,’ said Marisol. ‘You still don’t understand how much danger I’ve put you in.’

  She gripped Alicia’s arm.

  ‘Now, darling, it’s time to run.’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  Cámara was woken by Corporal Rodríguez prodding him repeatedly in the shoulder.

  ‘Your phone,’ said Rodríguez when Cámara finally opened his eyes. ‘It keeps ringing.’

  He left it on the floor by Cámara’s head and walked out of the cell, leaving the door open behind him. Cámara hauled himself up: the phone was silent now. He rubbed his eyes and took a look around: he was still alone in the cell, but two other Guardia Civil officers were in the main part of the office with Rodríguez, looks of studied professionalism on their faces as they did their best to ignore the Policía Nacional chief inspector lying on the floor not far from their feet.

  There was a smell of coffee in the air, smooth and invigorating like a cat brushing its fur against his fingers. Cámara sauntered over, trying to overcome a spinning at the back of his head. A coffee pot stood in the middle of the desk where all three men were writing reports on the arrests made the previous night. Rodríguez’s cup was almost empty. Cámara took it without a word, shook the dregs on to the floor and poured himself a full cup, which he downed in three mouthfuls, the coffee already lukewarm. Then he filled it again, draining the last of the coffee pot, and took another gulp.

  ‘The bathroom’s that way, isn’t it,’ he said flatly, pointing towards a door at the back.

  The three Guardia Civil men looked at him with unconcealed scorn as he stepped across, still holding the coffee cup, and let himself in.

  When he emerged several minutes later, Rodríguez pushed mugshots of Bogdan and Dorin across the desk in his direction.

  ‘Have they said anything?’ Cámara asked, tucking his shirt into his trousers.

  ‘Don’t have to,’ said Rodríguez. ‘We recorded everything that was said last night.’

  Cámara looked at him darkly.

  ‘The wire,’ he said. ‘There’s no way it could have survived. Dorin destroyed it. I saw him.’

  Rodríguez shared a knowing glance with the other two men. Then he reached into a drawer in the desk and pulled out one of the grenades that Cámara had carried the night before. Holding it up carefully in one hand, with the other he gently twiddled with the cord that was still tied to the pin.

  ‘I know this looks like a standard grenade,’ he said. ‘But it’s actually a recording device.’

  Cámara stared in disbelief.

  ‘There’s a microphone in the fuse section. We could listen to every word, even though you threw away our other wire. But as you yourself said, it’s important to have some security, a backup. So that’s why I gave you this.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Cámara, ‘I was totally unarmed in there. I was carrying two duds.’

  ‘Oh no,’ said Rodríguez. ‘The other grenade was real, all right. You would all have been blown up if you’d dropped that one.’

  Cámara could see the other two officers smiling – at their glee at having outwitted not only the Romanians, but also a member of the Policía Nacional.

  ‘Congratulations, Rodríguez,’ Cámara said. ‘Fine piece of work. You must be pleased.’

  Yet instead of the look of pride that he expected, Cámara only saw resignation in Rodríguez’s face.

  ‘I have to go,’ said Rodríguez.

  He collected his papers, put them in a file and placed them in a drawer which he locked with a key. Cámara was silently impressed that they were still doing things with pen and paper up here. The digitalisation of everything appeared to have bypassed this particular corner of the policing world.

  Rodríguez picked up his green cap, put on a jacket and walked to the door. One of the other men obeyed a silent command and went with him.

  ‘If there’s anything you need …’ said Rodríguez as he was stepping through the door. He left the sentence unfinished. A formal, un-heartfelt offering. The door closed behind him before Cámara could respond.

  ‘You’d think he’d be a little bit more pleased,’ Cámara mumbled to himself.

  The remaining officer pushed his chair back from the desk, turned to make sure the door was closed and that Rodríguez had gone, then spoke.

  ‘It’s a personal thing for the corporal,’ he said.

  Cámara looked into unforgiving brown eyes. The man was in his late thirties, a Guardia Civil de primera, just under Rodríguez in the chain of command.

  ‘What happened?’ asked Cámara.

  ‘A couple of years back,’ said the officer. ‘A young lad died at Sunset of an overdose.’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘I remember.’

  The man’s face twisted.

  ‘It was the corporal’s son,’ he said.

  Cámara sighed and nodded.

  ‘I understand,’ he said.

  ‘No you don’t,’ said the officer. ‘None of us can understand something like that.’

  Cámara rubbed his face and prepared to leave.

  ‘Yes. I’m sure you’re right.’

  He stepped out of the station and into the street. Two cars were waiting at the petrol station. The pump attendant came out, watched Cámara coming down the steps, and looked away, pretending he hadn’t seen him. Cámara turned left and headed up the hill back towards the village square. As he did so he remembered his phone. The screen showed that Torres had been trying to call him. He dialled the number to ring him back, but a robotic voice told him that the number he was trying to contact had no signal, and to try again later. Cámara pocketed the phone and walked on.

  He was tired and his body ached from having slept on the cold cell floor. He needed a shower badly, a slimy, unpleasant layer of sweat clinging to his skin with the smell of stress and dirt hanging around him like a cloud of flies. He needed to get home, lie down in a proper bed and forget everything – this case, the people involved, all that he had learned since arriving in the sierra. There was nowhere further for him to go: his plan had backfired spectacularly; he had no suspects. Should he hand in his resignation now? Go straight to the Jefatura and have done with it? He needed some means of transport. Perhaps he could find a taxi in the square, someone prepared to give him a lift back to Sunset, where he could pick up his bike and ride back to the city.

  His feet took him up the street and into the sunlight at the top where the cramped buildings parted near the fountain. Pulling on iron railings, he lifted himself up the three steps to where spring water was trickling gently into the marble basin, creating a bubbling, soothing sound. Without thinking he leaned over and pushed his face into the clear liquid, feeling its cool fingers reach up and caress his cheeks, his eyes, his brow. Then with both hands he scooped more of it up and over the back of his head, drenching his hair and rubbing it with his fingertips into his scalp.
It was cleansing and calming, as though some spirit of the water penetrated his body through this sudden contact and washed something deeper within him. He breathed out hard through his nose, watching the bubbles underwater as they floated up to the surface like laughing children scampering up a hill.

  He pulled his head out, feeling the water cascade down his neck and shoulders and soak into his shirt and jacket.

  ‘You look like a man freshly baptised,’ said a voice nearby.

  Cámara turned to look.

  ‘It’s a perfect day for it.’

  Estrella was smiling at him, her skin tanned and creased with laughter, eyes bright like suns.

  He leaned over to kiss her on the cheeks. She accepted the wetness of his skin without complaint.

  ‘You all right?’ she said.

  ‘Fine,’ he answered. ‘Just needed a bit of a wash. Jimmy with you?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘He doesn’t like this place much. Tries to avoid it. I’m just here to pick up a few odds and ends.’ She glanced around at the handful of shops in the square.

  ‘We’re self-sufficient in most things,’ she added. ‘But not everything, unfortunately. We need to come in and buy the odd thing or two every so often.’

  It was a curious experience seeing her here in the village. She wore a simple cotton dress, patterned with circular star-like designs in red and white. Cámara thought there was something Japanese about it. The first time he had seen her she had been naked. Later, inside the house, she had wrapped herself in a cloth of some sort, yet it had merely been for the sake of the visitor, as though her nakedness and animal grace were only partly veiled from view. Now here she was, dressed to appear in ordinary society, with sandals on her feet and her skin almost completely covered, yet still it was as if he could sense the litheness in her limbs, a majesty and suppleness that mere clothes could never disguise. He felt certain that were it not for fear of arrest or causing unnecessary scandal, she would happily walk the streets of the village as unclad as she did at home.

  ‘As far as I see it,’ said Estrella, ‘this place is just a distribution point. We come in and we take what we need from it and go. Nothing more. Doesn’t mean we have to be a part of this world. We are in our own. Mere presence doesn’t signify belonging. But Jimmy doesn’t see it like that. He’s more sensitive.’

  ‘A distribution point,’ Cámara echoed her words.

  ‘That’s it,’ she said. ‘Nothing more.’

  Cámara suddenly leaned towards her and gripped her by the shoulders.

  ‘What was it you said a moment ago?’

  ‘When?’ she smiled.

  ‘Just now, when you first saw me. Something about …’

  ‘Baptism,’ she answered. ‘I said you looked like you were baptising yourself in the fountain.’

  Cámara looked up to the sky, his mind turning.

  ‘But I’m not the one to talk to about these things,’ she grinned. ‘If it’s baptism you’re after, you should speak with Father Ricardo.’

  ‘Father Ricardo?’

  ‘The village priest,’ she said. ‘Look, there he is now.’

  She pointed across the square.

  ‘Just going to the church. He’s the man for divine intervention. If you run you can catch him.’

  He lifted his hands to the sides of her face and planted a quick, passionless kiss on her mouth.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, turning to go. ‘I think you’ve just saved me for the second time.’

  FORTY-NINE

  Cámara caught up with Father Ricardo just as the priest was letting himself into the church through a side door and closing it behind him.

  ‘I need a quick word,’ he said, holding the door. ‘Police business.’

  He raised his ID clearly in front of him through the gap. The pressure from inside relented and the door opened.

  ‘You’d better come in,’ said Father Ricardo. ‘But I don’t have much time.’

  ‘I shan’t keep you.’

  ‘We can talk in the vestry,’ said the priest. ‘Follow me.’

  Father Ricardo was in his late sixties, clean shaven and with short, balding grey hair. He wore large heavy glasses over a thick, sensual nose, a black cassock over black trousers, with black, rubber-soled shoes. Walking behind him as they ascended a staircase into the main body of the church, Cámara could see where the heels had worn on the insides of his feet: Father Richard was pigeon-toed.

  The church was made up of a single, broad nave with simple Gothic arches. The altar was baroque, a riot of gold with statues of saints painted in pastoral colours standing in various niches, holding the symbols of their martyrdom or faith. At the centre, beneath a crucifix with an agonised Christ hanging from nailed hands and feet, was an image of St Christopher wading through stylised water, staff in hand, an infant Jesus sitting peacefully on his shoulders. It looked almost like a simple, domestic scene.

  Cámara glanced at the rows of pews filling up most of the nave. They were made of undecorated wood, with a low shelf for the faithful to kneel in prayer. Cámara quickly scuffled over and checked: there was space underneath, ample room.

  He hurried over and rejoined Father Ricardo before the priest had a chance to notice, stepping in behind him to the vestry: a small, cold, octagonal room with a high ceiling and a single narrow window above head height that only allowed a gloomy light to enter from outside.

  ‘So, Chief Inspector,’ said Father Ricardo, easing his stiff, heavily clad body down into a comfortable chair behind a table. More robes were hanging from hooks in the walls, ceremonial garb for his various church functions. ‘What’s this about?’

  There was the slightest hint of impatience behind the stiffly welcoming smile.

  ‘Two of your flock were arrested late last night,’ said Cámara.

  Father Ricardo affected a look of concern.

  ‘By you?’ he asked pointedly.

  ‘Two Romanians,’ Cámara continued. ‘Bogdan and Dorin. They said they knew you.’

  The priest nodded slowly.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ he said. ‘I believe I’ve come across them. What sorry news. What …?’

  ‘They told me they were regulars,’ said Cámara. ‘Came to mass on Sundays.’

  Father Ricardo placed his fingertips together.

  ‘This is a quite devout community, Chief Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘So you must know them well,’ said Cámara. ‘I mean, if you see them here every week.’

  ‘I know them both,’ answered the priest. ‘As well as their wives. They run the grocer’s shop. But do tell me, what can I do for you? It is very unfortunate to hear that these two men appear to have fallen into sin, but I must hurry. Was it some kind of character reference you were looking for? I can vouch for their faith, that is all. What they did outside these walls is, I’m afraid, unknown to me.’

  He gave a resigned smile and glanced at the large, heavy watch on his wrist.

  ‘A question has been bugging me,’ said Cámara. ‘One of those things that, you know, are in the back of your mind and then POP, all of a sudden they spring into consciousness.’

  ‘I see,’ said the priest.

  ‘The thing is,’ said Cámara, ‘Bogdan and Dorin are both Romanian.’

  ‘So I understand.’

  ‘And yet, here they were coming regularly to this church. A church which, I assume, is Catholic.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Father Ricardo with some confusion.

  ‘Most Romanians follow the Eastern Orthodox rite, as far as I know,’ Cámara continued. ‘Which is quite strange. I mean, why would two Orthodox men – and their wives, as you say – regularly attend mass at a Catholic church? You’re a man of the cloth, clearly. Perhaps you can resolve this for me.’

  ‘The Church of Rome welcomes all God’s children into her bosom,’ said Father Ricardo. ‘It is perfectly acceptable for those born to a different tradition to be embraced by the true faith.’

  ‘Yes,’
said Cámara. ‘I thought you might say that. But there are differences between the Catholic and Orthodox systems. Important ones. I mean, important enough to have kept the two churches apart for centuries. Your rituals, for example. Or your symbols.’

  Father Ricardo shuffled in his seat.

  ‘Is this going to be a conversation about theology, Chief Inspector? If so, I will have to leave it for another time, for I really must be—’

  ‘The Orthodox Church uses a different crucifix, doesn’t it?’ interrupted Cámara. ‘Please, just another minute or two of your time. How is it different? Could you enlighten me?’

  Father Ricardo looked annoyed.

  ‘The Orthodox crucifix,’ he said in a hurried voice, ‘is more complex than our own. It has a smaller cross-beam above Christ’s head for the nameplate, and then another at the feet, which slants down at an angle.’

  ‘That’s it,’ said Cámara. ‘I thought so. Because I saw one very recently. Only last night, in fact. In Bogdan and Dorin’s plumbing office. You know, the one they never used for any actual plumbing. It was hanging on the wall and I spotted it just as the two of them were incriminating themselves as major drug dealers. Turns out they were supplying large amounts of narcotics to Sunset, the nightclub. I’m sure you’ve heard about it. And what happened the other day to José Luis, its owner.’

  Father Ricardo stared at him silently.

  ‘Where is this conversation going?’ he said at last.

  Cámara leaned across the table, his weight on his knuckles, towering over the priest.

  ‘Those men aren’t Catholic,’ he said with sudden force. ‘Any more than I am. And there’s only one reason I can see why they would come here to this church on a weekly basis. And that’s to drop off their merchandise.’

  ‘What?’ Father Ricardo spluttered.

  ‘I suspect you know the Guardia Civil have been trying to take those men down for some time,’ said Cámara. ‘Yet they never had enough on them to put them away. Well, now they have.’

  He glared at the priest.