Blood Med

by Jason Webster

  Laura made to leave.

  ‘One other thing –’ Maldonado sat down in his chair and looked over the papers on his desk. ‘The woman’s American. Young – only in her twenties. The husband’s a local. Probably won’t complicate things too much, but it’s not normal, obviously. At least not for us. More likely to have been shot had she stayed at home, what with all the guns in America. But there you have it.’

  He shrugged. Laura walked to the door; Cámara did not move.

  ‘The chief inspector will be along with you in a moment, Martín,’ Maldonado said. ‘He and I have something to talk about first.’

  TWO

  SOMETHING GOLD FLASHED from beneath Maldonado’s shirt cuffs. Cámara tried to catch a glimpse of it as the head of Homicidios waved an arm towards a hard wooden chair on the other side of the desk.

  ‘Have a seat.’

  It was a Rolex. Where the hell was Maldonado getting the money from to buy himself a Rolex? Not from a chief inspector’s salary, that was for sure. Unless it was a fake, which would not be beyond him. The easy way to tell was by checking the magnification glass over the date: if the numbers were clearly visible it was real; if they were small and hard to read it was phoney. Cámara tried to see, but the watch was either out of sight or moving around too much on Maldonado’s wrist.

  Maldonado saw that Cámara had noticed his new acquisition and grinned.

  ‘You’ve been back for how long now?’

  He knew the answer but was asking all the same.

  ‘Just over a month,’ Cámara said.

  ‘You got quite a lot of time off. Nine months?’

  A lot had happened in nine months. His previous boss, Commissioner Pardo, had sent him on extended leave at the end of the Sofía Bodí case. Cámara had been made homeless: his block of flats had collapsed after digging for the new metro line in his street had weakened the foundations. A neighbour and her young son had died when the thing came crashing down.

  Maldonado was just one of the others back then, a murder detective, albeit a pain in the arse. Now he was a pain in the arse with power: Pardo had been promoted and in Cámara’s absence Maldonado had taken his place.

  Cámara had been uncertain about returning to his police job, despite Torres’s pleas for him to save them from Maldonado’s petty-minded tyranny. Life had been moving in new directions – getting back with Alicia and spending a few months at her place in Madrid – before his grandfather had a stroke and Cámara rushed back to his home town Albacete to look after his ageing – and only remaining – relative. Mercifully the stroke had been mild and Hilario was now almost fully recovered. But events in his home town – the murder of a young woman and the subsequent investigation – sucked Cámara back into work, and fantasies of leaving policing for good were abandoned.

  Now he was back in Valencia, in his old job. The country was running out of money and the State could barely afford to pay its civil servants: their salaries had been cut twice already and there were rumours that the measure might be repeated soon. But he knew that if he had not returned when he did there would have been no chance of walking in where he left off. The accountants were looking for any opportunity to reduce costs and a murder detective who had not shown up for months would be an easy target. And then finding some other kind of work would be almost impossible. The fact was that there were virtually no jobs any more. For anyone. Being kicked out of the police would mean a couple of years’ dole money and then he would have to live off his wits – like millions of others.

  The idea of scavenging in rubbish bins or getting food handouts from the Red Cross did not overly trouble him. The problem was that he had dependants now, people who needed him to earn a wage in order to survive. Hilario had left Albacete and come to live with him. Despite his protestations to the contrary, his grandfather needed someone around, just in case. He had happily accepted the idea of coming to live in Valencia, framing it in his imagination as a new beginning, new horizons. And in his usual way he had been keeping himself very busy since they arrived. But his advanced age – which for so long had appeared not to hinder him – could no longer be ignored. He was in his mid-eighties now, and despite having survived more difficulties than most – the Spanish Civil War as a boy, the Eastern Front as a young man, then the harsh early Franco years back in Spain – he was getting frailer, at least physically. Mentally he was as sharp as ever – perhaps even sharper: Cambio de pasto engorda a la ternera, he kept repeating. A change of pasture makes the cow fatter. And pushed back death by at least another ten years.

  But it had taken a while to sort things. First cleaning the flat in Albacete and renting it out; no one was buying any more. Then finding somewhere in Valencia and settling in. They had a place in the Barrio Chino – the old Chinatown, on the edge of the Carmen district in the centre. Hilario had a room at the back with a terrace that he soon filled with pots of bright red geraniums and marijuana plants. And Alicia had joined them shortly afterwards. The newspaper in Madrid had folded and she was out of work; there was no point to her staying in the capital now. Her Valencia flat could provide something of an income, as long as she could find a lodger. But the luxury of her and Cámara having separate lives was not affordable. Besides, now that circumstances had pushed them closer, they found living together more enjoyable than they had expected. Even with Hilario around. Perhaps even because he was around.

  In nine months he had moved three times, rekindled an old relationship and solved a murder while supposedly on leave. Much had happened while he was away from the police. Time, he thought, would be better measured by its density than its length.

  ‘I’m sure Personnel can confirm how long it was,’ he said now.

  The garish watch on Maldonado’s hand came briefly into view and Cámara tried to get a glimpse of the second hand, but it quickly disappeared under the shirt cuff again.

  ‘Things have changed,’ Maldonado said. ‘You know the situation. Things are tight, very tight.’

  ‘I’ve heard.’

  ‘Now I’ve been meaning to talk to you since you got back, but have been tied up.’

  ‘Cut the shit, Maldo. There hasn’t been a murder since the beginning of the year.’

  ‘Watch your mouth, Cámara.’ Maldonado thrust out a threatening finger from his puffy fist. ‘We’re not just work colleagues any more. I’m your superior now and talk like that will get you into trouble. I’ll have you know many here didn’t want you back, would have been happy to pay you off and see the back of you. But I was pushing for your return.’

  There was something about Maldonado that made him lash out, like a nervous tic. It had got the better of him in the past, and now that he was in the Jefatura again his old patterns of behaviour were falling back into place. Better to hold them in check – or at least to try.

  ‘What’s this about?’ he said.

  ‘Look, I know we’re all upset over what’s going on.’

  This was a new Maldonado, he thought: a peacemaker, a manager of men. The truth was that the King’s illness meant little to him: the man looked closer to the grave each year. So he had not been surprised at the news. What really struck him was the reaction of people around him, as though they could never have foreseen this coming, as though they thought the King would be there for ever. No matter how much politicians insisted that democracy was now deeply rooted in the country, Spain was entering uncharted and potentially very troubled waters.

  ‘No one is more worried than I,’ Maldonado went on. ‘But I have to be frank with you, Cámara, your position is very tenuous right now.’

  Cámara pressed his hands together, as though in prayer, and looked straight into Maldonado’s eyes.

  ‘Yes, you’re back. But for how long? Don’t be under the impression that you’re safe now you’re in again. You’re not. All that time off looks bad. They have to make cuts. There’s no money. It’s a fucking miracle we’re still getting paid every month.’

  ‘They want to make cuts?’


  ‘Yes, like I said.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The powers that be.’

  He waved a hand to the upper floors. On the top floor lived the regional head of the Policía Nacional, a political appointee answering directly to the ministry in Madrid. A free and very large flat in the Jefatura building was one of the perks of the job. Some perk, they used to joke.

  Cámara tried to get another look at the ‘Rolex’ as Maldonado’s arm moved around. If there was no money, what the hell was he doing wearing such an expensive watch? It had to be a fake. Surely.

  ‘You know who I mean.’

  ‘Be more specific.’

  ‘Look, they want to cut at least one – and perhaps two – members from Homicidios. Is that specific enough for you?’

  ‘They can’t do that.’

  ‘They can and they bloody well will.’

  ‘And I’m the candidate for the chop.’

  Maldonado leaned back in his chair.

  ‘You’re one of them, certainly. Like I said, I’m trying to be frank with you. I would want to know, if I was in your position.’

  ‘So this case you’ve just given me . . .’

  ‘The American girl.’

  ‘It’s, what, some kind of test? A probation?’

  Maldonado tapped a finger on his desk several times before answering.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So fill me in. If I don’t solve the crime I’m out? Is that it?’

  ‘These things are more complicated, you know that.’

  ‘Fuck that, Maldo. Lay it to me straight. Is that it or not?’

  There was a pause as Maldonado milked the drama of his moment.

  ‘That’s about the size of it,’ he said at last. ‘I can’t watch your back for ever, Cámara. I need to give them something to prove that you should stay, that you’re a good murder detective. But conversely, if you fuck up, there’s not much that I can do. The knives are out and they’re going to get someone. Do you understand?’

  Cámara sniffed.

  ‘Hold on,’ he said. ‘I’m one of them, you said. There are others you’re looking at for the chop.’

  ‘Not me,’ Maldonado said defensively. ‘It’s not my call. It’s them.’

  ‘That’s why you called Torres in as well.’ He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Two cases come in at once and who do you pick? Torres and me. We’re the ones, aren’t we. Torres’s neck is on the block as much as mine.’

  ‘Less so, as a matter of fact. Which was why I gave him the suicide and you’ve got the girl. Yes, you’re right, Cámara. It’s between you and Torres. But Torres hasn’t been on extended leave fucking some journalist while the State paid for the privilege.’

  Cámara’s legs jerked underneath him as he stood up sharply, his right fist already screwed into a ball to slam against the side of Maldonado’s head.

  ‘Punching your superior?’ Maldonado grinned. ‘Now that really would make my decision much easier.’

  Cámara breathed deeply, willing his limbs to relax. Not now, he thought.

  ‘Does Torres know?’ he asked at last.

  ‘You’re a detective. Find out for yourself. Now fuck off and get going on this American girl.’

  Cámara made for the door. Then stopped in his tracks and turned round. Stepping closer to the desk he reached over and pulled on Maldonado’s arm. The Rolex swung into view.

  ‘What? What the fuck?’ Maldonado spluttered.

  He tried to pull his hand away but Cámara held on, his powerful grip tight over Maldonado’s forearm. The special glass clearly magnified the digits of the date window to the right of the dial. There was no mistaking it: the watch was genuine.

  ‘Just checking the time,’ Cámara said, dropping Maldonado’s arm.

  ‘You might want to brace yourself for this one, Cámara,’ Maldonado said. ‘It won’t be pretty.’

  He sneered.

  ‘The girl was shot in the head. Several times from point-blank range.’

  THREE

  ENOUGH TIME HAD been wasted already. The moments immediately after a murder was reported were crucial.

  Laura was waiting for him near the entrance to the murder squad offices.

  ‘Torres has taken the car,’ she said simply. ‘And mine’s at the mechanic’s.’

  There was only one official car for the squad these days – another consequence of the cuts. Detectives usually ended up driving their own vehicles when on police work, or hitching a lift with a squad team.

  ‘I’ve got the motorbike round the back,’ Cámara said. ‘We’ll take that.’

  ‘Do you have a spare helmet?’ she asked. He was already grabbing his keys from his desk.

  ‘You wear mine. I’m sure it’ll fit.’

  He reached up to the shelf to grab his helmet and was about to pass it to her when he caught the expression on her face.

  ‘Come on. It’ll be quicker.’

  ‘I’m not going on a motorbike if one of us doesn’t have a helmet,’ she said. ‘It’s illegal.’

  Cámara gave an exaggerated shrug. Who cared?

  ‘I’ve heard about your unorthodox ways,’ she said.

  ‘We’ll be there in five minutes. No one’s going to see. We’ve lost enough time as it is.’

  But he could tell it was pointless.

  ‘I’ll talk to the control room,’ she said. ‘See if there are any squad cars.’

  ‘As you wish.’

  The bike was parked on the pavement at the corner by the back entrance. Cámara had bought it soon after returning to Valencia. The city was flat, the weather was good for most of the year, the traffic was terrible and no one bothered where you left a motorbike so long as it did not block anyone’s way. The place was made for them.

  He had taken his test years before, back in Albacete, where he rode a Bultaco. A licence was a requirement for a police officer and many of his colleagues were bikers – it was something of a cliché. There was even a club for them at the Zapadores barracks, the other police headquarters on the far side of the city. They called themselves ‘The Guardian Angels’. Like Hell’s Angels only good guys. Supposedly.

  Most went for the modern sports bikes these days, the ones that could do almost 300 kph down the motorway but which were mostly made of brightly painted plastic. Cámara preferred an older look, which was why he had picked up a rare second-hand Kawasaki W650, with wire spokes and a naked engine. It was how motorbikes were supposed to look, he thought. Alejandro, his genius mechanic friend, had done some alterations – putting in a proper, tougher suspension at the back and front, and giving it new, more scrambler-style tyres. It was no crotch rocket, but it was fast enough and could take a beating if necessary. And he liked to think it had a touch of class: at his request Alejandro had repainted it for him in red and black – a tribute to his family’s anarchist traditions. And a private joke that no one in the police could know about. Hilario loved it.

  The only thing he had not done was change the battery. It was still starting all right, but he would have to get it seen to sooner or later. Today, though, it caused no problem: he pressed the button and it fired into life immediately. Strapping on his helmet, he sped off towards Cánovas.

  The flat was on one of the more fashionable streets – at the quieter end, away from the bars and restaurants that had spread like fungus near the old river bed. At ground level there was a boutique selling hippy-chic clothes, a dry-cleaner’s opposite, a gym and what looked to have been a bookshop but was now empty.

  Cámara parked his motorbike under an acacia tree, looped the chain through his helmet and locked it to the back wheel. Two policemen stood by the front door of an imposing block of flats with carved art nouveau wooden doors. Stone faces stared through static foliage from the facade, with bulging eyes and bared teeth. The building was solid and exclusive. Prices around here never went down, no matter how deep the recession.

  A handful of neighbours were standing around with anxious looks on their faces.
They could sense that something awful had happened: the guards on the door; the vehicles of the Policía Científica parked on the pavement nearby; the equipment being rushed in and carried up the marble stairwell in the rattling elevator. But they would not be aware of the full horror that had bloodily burst among them. It was immediate and directly relevant, however, which was why it was enough to distract them – momentarily – from the intense coverage of the King’s illness on television.

  Cámara identified himself and walked into the spacious entrance hall. At one time all of these buildings would have had caretakers living on the premises – useful witnesses or contacts to fill investigators in on the goings-on inside each flat. Now he doubted if one was still employed. The wood and glass cabin in the corner where the caretaker would have sat, reading the newspaper and sipping hot coffee, had dusty curtains drawn firmly shut.

  Waiting for the lift to come down, he heard footsteps descending from above. A young, inquisitive face appeared on the stairs, a man with dark skin and Moroccan features.

  ‘Chief Inspector Cámara, from Homicidios,’ Cámara explained.

  ‘Yes,’ said the man. His accent was southern, from Cádiz. ‘You’d better come up. It’s only on the second floor. The lift takes ages.’

  Cámara followed him.

  ‘I’m Fernández, from the Científica.’

  They shook hands mid-stairs, neither looking the other in the eye.

  ‘So what have you found?’

  ‘You should have a look for yourself.’

  Cámara recognised the reluctance to talk, the monosyllabic utterances and collapse of protocol. They were less formal in the Policía Nacional – saluting and chain-of-command stuff was more the reserve of the Guardia Civil. But when truly shocking crimes came along each one of them sucked into a protective space within themselves, doing their job as professionally as ever, but barely speaking. Only later, perhaps even after a few days had passed, sharing a drink at the bar, would anyone talk about what they had seen. And some not even then.