And he almost certainly had. Ballester had mentioned Roures talking to Sofía when they’d gone to eat at his restaurant. What would he have said?
You and I have a common enemy. There’s something you need to know.
Mezquita hadn’t known about that, but the fear that the two of them might have spoken at some point would have haunted him. He couldn’t walk up to Sofía and ask her, though; if he was to regard her as a threat he needed some way of finding out what she knew.
The phone tap.
It had been clear once Flores started talking that he didn’t know everything, despite his air of omniscience, but he was aware that Mezquita was involved in the Sofía case in some way, and that his receiving the phone tap transcripts was damning in itself. As head of the committee in charge of the papal visit, Mezquita had insisted he be given a copy for security reasons: the pro-abortion lobby, he argued, might be planning to stage something while the Pope was in the city. The phone tap was already in place. It would be irresponsible of him not to take advantage of an important source of information like that.
The excuse had been taken at face value at the time. Only Flores had had his doubts.
The Pope had been and gone. Then Navarro was arrested. Flores saw which way things were about to fall. And helped push them along, against the interests of his Town Hall rival.
Cámara wondered for a moment if Flores had been back at Emilia’s side during the news conference.
He stopped circling in his chair and stood up. A small patch of sky was visible from his window and he stared at the irregular shape of cloudless space formed by the edges of the nearby buildings. From one end, high above, the vapour trail from an aeroplane was slowly streaking a double white line in its wake, cutting across his little azure parcel and splitting it in two.
His eyes jerked to the side: another plane had appeared and was moving in at the same time, almost at right angles to the first. With a frown he realised that the two were on a collision course, that in a matter of seconds they would crash into each other.
He held his breath and watched: the two planes crossed paths almost directly above his head, merged into one…and then continued along their respective routes, unharmed, the vapour trails hovering motionless behind them now in an ‘X’ shape.
He smiled. From where he stood down there near the ground he’d been right: to all intents and purposes they were about to crash. Only his perspective had been wrong: what he couldn’t see was that one of the two planes had been flying at thousands of feet higher than the other. There was never any collision course to begin with.
But he’d been blind to that.
There was no one to bother him as he walked down the corridor to take the lift: almost everyone was out trying to locate Mezquita–and Sofía. The fire exit at the back on the ground floor was left permanently half-open these days to allow smokers quicker access in and out. And the air conditioning in the building was so poor it barely made a difference if hot humid summer air was allowed to waft inside.
He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, leaning against a white cement pillar as his eyes lazed on the scattered remains of a thousand other smokes that had taken place out here.
What had Mezquita seen in the phone tap transcripts? He’d seen the one thing he’d hoped never to see: proof of contact between Sofía and Lucía Bautista. Two women who had only met briefly once thirty years before, now convening at Sofía’s insistence after she called the clinic back in Paris to double-check what Roures had told her, and what her diaries said–that Sofía had given Lucía an abortion. There was only one thing they had to talk about, one thing they had in common. Did Lucía confirm to Sofía that Mezquita, not Roures, got her pregnant?
He had to assume that she had, for Mezquita had then seen Sofía on television, making a statement in the wake of the Lázaro investigation, commenting on her past, her time in Paris, and ‘consequences’ if the harassment continued. ‘Right-wingers also abort,’ she said. Maldonado had been right–it was a threat. But not to the people he imagined.
And so Mezquita had put in his plan to have Sofía kidnapped, another attempt to stop the spread of the rotting infection. Guisado and Navarro had played their parts well. Until Navarro had cracked.
What was the idea? To keep her locked away for the duration of the Pope’s visit, to prevent her making embarrassing public comments about Mezquita? But the Pope had left a couple of hours before. If Mezquita hadn’t killed her already, they had very little time to get to her first.
Now at least they knew who they had to find. They just didn’t know where to look.
The cigarette was burning low and beginning to singe the skin on his fingers. He cast his mind back to his conversation with Mezquita when the Pope had visited his street.
Don’t think about it, part of him was saying. Just let the thoughts come.
But there was nothing, no clue. Just a fairly straightforward chat. Mezquita had seemed helpful and genuinely concerned.
He stubbed the cigarette out and went to step back inside. Close by were the stairs leading down to the cells in the basement. Ballester would still be down there, he imagined, all but forgotten in the chase to find Sofía, another victim of the country’s illiberal laws on detainees’ rights. He wondered for a moment about heading down to tell him about the morning’s developments, but stopped himself: better not give the man false hope; they didn’t know yet whether Sofía was alive or dead.
Ballester. Part of him understood what had led him to lash out at the Pope like that. Not that he had anything against the Pope. Not really. But the sense of rage, of helpless, nihilistic rage. He knew, because he had it in him himself. It was what separated him from Alicia.
He had seen the disgust in Mezquita’s face as they hauled Ballester away. Ballester at least gave wild, uncontrolled release to his anger. Mezquita had been nursing his, building it up, even. Had he ever forgiven Sofía for killing his child–even though he himself would have demanded the abortion?
He stopped still. There was something of himself in that image. How had he felt towards Alicia? Anger, frustration. But as she’d said–not so much at the loss of the child, but at not being able to resolve an irresolvable situation. And over time the anger had begun to fester, until he’d become infected by it.
He breathed deeply as he saw how close he’d been to becoming a reflection of the man he’d been searching for.
What had Mezquita uttered as they dragged Ballester away from the security men?
He was the lover of Sofía, the lover of–it was a curious phrase–‘l’anti-mare’, ‘the anti-mother’.
The phone slipped from the sweat on his fingers as he tried to dial a number.
‘Torres. Get over here right away. I know where she is.’
Thirty-One
A greasy black cloud was ballooning up from the restaurant as they braked hard and Cámara leaped out. The police cordon still wrapped around the door was beginning to melt and flames were visible licking at the upstairs windows.
Torres had already spoken on his phone to raise the alarm.
‘I’ve got to go in,’ Cámara called.
‘No!’
‘Sofía’s in there!’
He pulled off his jacket to wrap around his hands so he could touch the door, but before he reached it Torres had wrestled him to the ground.
‘You’ll be burnt alive.’
‘Let me go, you bastard. She’s in there.’
But Torres only tightened his grip harder, wrapping his arms and legs around Cámara’s torso till he could barely breathe.
Immobilised, and with his face pressed hard into the pavement, Cámara stiffened as the acid smell from the fire filled his nostrils. Tears were falling down his nose and he coughed, a hacking, sickened cry rising up from his guts. A few days ago he could barely have cared for the fate of Sofía; now he would throw himself into the blaze just to see if she was in there.
He was strong, and although Torres was no wimp,
Cámara could probably throw him off if he drew up enough force, but a weakening resignation seemed to be descending on him. And as long as Torres sensed Cámara might throw himself in there, he wasn’t going to loosen his hold.
Cámara could hear the first sirens racing in towards them now, growing steadily louder until they drowned out the humming, cracking sound of the fire. The hardness in his body began to lessen. By the time he realised he could move again, Torres had already stood up and was briefing the wave of policemen surging in in the firemen’s wake.
He leaned against one of the squad cars, his back to La Mar as he heard the sound of the front door swinging open and firemen running in. There was a cruel, evil irony to Mezquita coming here. La Mare, people had called it–the mother, as though it were some kind of birthplace. Where else would he want to take the woman who threatened him now–the woman who had aborted his unborn child?
Someone was pushing a bottle of water into his hand. He lifted it to take a gulp, then poured the rest over his head, as though trying to rid himself of the putrefaction of the scene.
A few yards away Torres was talking to the fire chief, nodding. He spied Cámara and walked over to him.
‘They’ve found one body,’ he said. ‘It’s a female.’
Flecks of ash were beginning to fall from the sky. Cámara wiped them from his face where they were sticking to his wettened skin.
‘Sofía,’ he said flatly.
‘Almost certainly.’
Had she been killed first? Dear God, let her not have burnt to death.
‘Just one body?’ he said.
‘Yes.’
He gave a start.
‘Get in the car!’ he shouted.
He broke into a sprint as he rushed across the street, Torres following close behind.
‘We might just make it.’
There was only one other place in his mind that Mezquita might go, one other mouth, in his desperation, that he needed to silence.
It took them less than five minutes to get there, racing across to the other end of El Cabanyal. The door to Lucía’s house was open and the old neighbour from across the street was peering in suspiciously.
Cámara pulled her as gently as he could away from the doorway.
‘We’re from the police,’ he said.
‘I know you,’ she said, startled.
‘Is Lucía in? Please, it’s very important.’
‘I can smell smoke,’ she said.
‘Yes, there’s a fire. It’s under control. But right now I need to know if Lucía’s in there.’
‘I don’t know,’ she said, pulling away from his grip on her arm.
‘But you were looking in through the door,’ he said.
‘She’s my neighbour. There’s nothing wrong with—’
‘Señora,’ he interrupted her. ‘This may be a matter of life or death. Why were you looking through her door? Did you see something? Something unusual?’
‘I just wanted to see who that man was,’ she said, looking away. ‘Never seen him before. Thought he might be one of your lot. Just walked in. We’ve got to be careful. There’s been robberies round here.’
‘Is he still in there?’
‘What?’
The old woman was beginning to look disturbed, her hands shaking.
‘Did you see him leave?’
‘No. I thought, I don’t know. I just wanted to see…’
Torres had already pulled out his service weapon, and was poised at the door and waiting for Cámara’s nod. Cámara edged up to the other side of the doorway, signalling for the neighbour to back off to the other side of the street, but in the confusion, she didn’t understand. At that moment a younger woman carrying shopping bags came around the corner. Cámara waved to her; she saw Torres’s gun, the two men poised outside Lucía’s door, and in an instant took in the situation. Dropping her bags where she stood, she ran over and escorted the old woman away.
Cámara took a breath; they could either do what they were expected to do: stand here and call for backup, another GEO team, perhaps even get Beltrán with a bit of luck. And arrive too late once again.
Or they could do what they should do: go in now.
He pulled out his own pistol, looked across at Torres, then in a low voice counted: uno, dos, tres.
The front room was empty. Torres came in behind him and searched the bathroom to the side as Cámara kept his gun trained on the entrance to the patio at the back of the house. Nothing, either in the tiny bedroom, or the kitchen next to it, although a drawer full of chopping knives had been left open. Cámara signalled a flight of stairs leading up to the next floor. Torres took over watching the back exit as Cámara crept up the steps, keeping his head as low as possible.
The first bedroom was empty, as was the bathroom next to it.
He sensed the blood before he saw it, an earthy, metallic smell.
Lucía was sitting on the floor of the second room, propped up against the side of the bed, eyes closed, face pale grey, a deep gash just above her breastbone. She’d lost litres of blood already and it was coursing in rivulets across the tiled floor.
‘Torres!’
But putting pressure on the outside of the wound itself wasn’t enough. Torres ran in and pushed Cámara aside.
‘It’s deeper inside,’ he said. ‘I’ve got to find her artery.’
Without pausing for breath, he slid two fingers of his right hand deep into the wound.
Lucía opened uncomprehending eyes for a moment, then they closed again.
Cámara had already pulled out his phone and was calling for an ambulance.
‘I’ve found it,’ Torres said. ‘I think I’ve found it.’
Cámara hesitated. Torres was holding Lucía against him, taking her weight and keeping her upright.
‘You can’t do anything else here,’ he said. ‘Go!’
Cámara paused, then raced down the stairs, his feet slipping from where he’d stepped in Lucía’s blood. Pausing at the bottom, he quickly wiped his hands and gun handle dry on the tail of his shirt, then resumed his search.
Outside in the patio, a roof tile had fallen and smashed to the floor.
He ducked to the side of the glass door leading out, fell down on his ankles, and glanced upwards.
Nothing.
Holding his pistol firmly in his hand, he took a breath, and then shot out into the open.
The tail of a shadow passed out of view up above.
A windowsill served as a step up. He stuffed his gun into the back of his trousers and lifted his foot on to the ledge, reaching up to some iron railings spiking out from the sides. Within a few seconds he was up on to the lower section of a sloping roof.
Away to the left, he heard the loosening and cracking sound of more tiles as feet scampered away over neighbouring houses. He stood up and started following, his ankles bending sharply as his shoes got stuck in the ruts.
As he moved slowly upwards, an earthen red landscape of rooftops came into view like an undulating patchwork, some flat, others cascading down to the street or to more patios like the one he had just climbed out of. Three or four houses further on, he spotted the torre-miramar rising up another four metres or so above the height of the surrounding buildings.
Mezquita was skipping along a ridgeway only a few yards distant. Seeing that Cámara had almost caught up with him, he sped across to a nearby terrace, gripping on to the railings and hauling himself up. Cámara made chase, feeling the roofs creak and bend under his feet as he charged across.
Mezquita had miscalculated, though: on the far side of the terrace was a steep drop to a courtyard patio. Cámara managed to reach the edge and lift himself over on to the flat roof before Mezquita was able to find a way off.
The two men faced each other. The kitchen knife that had moments ago plunged into Lucía’s breast was flashing silver and red in Mezquita’s hand. His face was stained with crimson droplets where the pulse of her severed artery had spat at him. There was a
smell of petrol about him, no doubt from the fuel he had used to set La Mar on fire earlier, and his eyes had the dulled, black stare of a man divorced from any human spark. He had killed once that day, perhaps twice, and in the surging heat of his escape he was more than capable of killing a third time.
Cámara felt the icy rush of blood through his veins: this was what he wanted, this was what part of him was always seeking–a bloody fight. The gun was nestling in the small of his back, and he knew that faced with a man with a knife–a man taller and longer-limbed than he was–he should reach out and draw it on him. But there was a hesitation there: to fight this man and beat him, even though unarmed? A swaggering, animal arrogance overcame him for an instant: he could do this; he didn’t need any gun.
But the momentary uncertainty had made him pause, and in that second Mezquita launched himself at him. Cámara took a step to the side as the blade came swooping forward in a vicious, rapid thrust. Mezquita was quick, lashing out in a series of wild swipes and cuts, aware himself that his strength lay in the weapon in his hand: Cámara was obviously strong; he had to wound or kill him at arm’s length.
Cámara ducked and parried as best he could, slapping the knife away while trying to get a grip on Mezquita’s wrist, but he had been backed up against the terrace railings and was in danger of getting cornered. Blood was beginning to flow from the cuts in his hands where he had caught the point of the blade, and still Mezquita kept coming at him. It was impossible to think of a counter-attack, of kicking his shins, or using his knee against his torso: all attention had to be focused on the knife, and not getting caught on the end of it.
Cámara’s feet slipped and he fell on the ground. Mezquita tried again for a mortal thrust, but Cámara fended him off with his feet. It worked, for a second. Mezquita would take only a moment, however, to realise that Cámara’s feet and legs could now be a new target. And it was only a matter of time before he stabbed him well enough to disable and then murder him.
A Death in Valencia Page 22
