Cámara could smell the blood from outside the flat door – dark and metallic, like earth stuck under your fingernails. Fernández had gone on ahead, donning plastic shoe covers from a box on the floor. Cámara picked up two small bunches of blue plastic, opened them up and wrapped them around his own feet before stepping inside.
The hallway was painted white. A dark wooden table with a light marble top stood to one side. Above it, set into the wall, an ornate clock with gold leaf details ticked in heavy silence. The floor was original, with colourful mosaic tiles creating a geometric pattern in red, black, green and cream. So far, so traditional for a flat of this neighbourhood, he thought. Whoever the dead girl was, she had connections with old Valencia money.
He could see that Fernández had gone off to the left, down a corridor where two or three colleagues were working. The flash from the camera made sharp shadows against the softer light of the sun streaming in through thin curtains beyond. That was where the body obviously lay. He would get to it soon enough. And he gave silent thanks for only having drunk coffee that morning – so far nothing solid had passed his lips.
To his right he wandered into what looked like an extended living room. Here the traditional style of the entrance had been passed over in favour of something younger and more modern. The far wall was painted a thick tangerine colour, while the upper beams had been exposed, with long barrel arches running in parallel between them. A pale and invitingly soft sofa sat at one end, while at the other a large television screen occupied almost the entire wall. Magazines and newspapers were scattered on a glass-topped coffee table, some in Spanish – a copy of yesterday’s newspaper – and some in English – Newsweek, Time and a copy of the Financial Times.
On the sofa, half-covered by a red velvet cushion, was a book. Cámara walked over to take a look. Blog Your Way to Success, the title encouraged. Ninety-nine tips to get you writing – and earning – like the pros. His English was not fluent, but good enough to get the gist of it. Flicking through the pages he noticed that some had pencil marks on them, while on others the corners had been folded down. He could not make much of the scribbling in the margins. A bookmark fell out and on to the floor. ‘Fulcanelli’, it said in gold letters. ‘New and antiquarian books’. Had that been the name of the closed-down bookshop downstairs? It seemed that whoever was reading had not got to the end. He lifted the bookmark from the floor and slipped it back into the page where it had fallen out. Chapter Nine, he read. On the art of never giving up.
It was time to take a look at the corpse. He made a cursory inspection of the bedroom as he walked past – unmade bed, more books and a box of tissues on one bedside table; a lamp and an alarm clock on the other – before heading to where the científicos were still working. Broken porcelain crunched under his feet and he saw the scattered remains of a blue and white figurine on the floor. A chip of wood was hanging out of a door frame, low down, as though someone had kicked it hard. Beyond it, lying on the floor, he saw the feet of a woman clad in pink house socks with yellow rubber spots on the soles to give better grip on the tiled floor.
He breathed in deeply through his nose, willed his passions to be still, and stepped forward.
Someone had cleaned up as much blood as they could so that he and the others had access to the body, but red stains streaked across the tiles showing how wide the puddle had spread before they got to her. He could see that it had reached most of the walls, covering almost the entire room – a dining room, from the table and chairs pushed to one side – with her head as the epicentre. She was lying on her front. An arm lying flat and stretched out had stemmed the flow in one direction, while her hair had slowed down its progress in another. Yet still it was as if every drop of the three and a half litres that had once flowed under her skin had been pumped free from her body. More bloodstains spattered on the walls and up one of the doors on the other side of the room bore witness to how brutal this killing had been.
Cámara’s eyes registered naked, bronzed legs above the pink socks, a blue cotton dress covering the rest of her body almost as far as her knees. A bulge was discernible just below her buttocks where, he felt he could already see, her knickers had bunched after someone had tried but failed to remove them. If he did not know better she might look like someone in the recovery position, waiting for help to arrive after a shock or a fall. But the crushed malformation of her skull, visible beneath the wet matting of her dark brown hair, told a different story.
Fernández stood on the other side of the body.
‘Five shots. All to the head.’
The autopsy would confirm the exact number.
‘We’ve found five rounds on the floor.’
He signalled the metal case where the científicos were bagging and collecting evidence.
‘It’s practically destroyed her.’
What was left of her skull was turned away from him, and for an instant he was struck by a powerful urge to see her.
‘Face?’ he asked, dreading the answer.
Fernández shook his head.
‘It’s round on this side if you want to . . .’
Cámara shrugged.
‘It’s all right.’
There was no point looking at something he could already imagine, had seen too often before.
‘But if you’re wondering,’ Fernández continued, ‘you might want to look at this.’
He leaned over to the table, picked up a dark blue booklet and passed it over to Cámara.
‘Her passport.’
He noticed the Great Seal of the United States on the front and opened it to take a look. Inside was the picture of a young woman with a fresh complexion and bright blue eyes. It was funny how Americans could look good even in passport photos. She had a fringe and a clip at one side of her hair and wore a white blouse just open at the neck.
Beside the photo he read her name: Amy Catherine Donahue. And the date of birth: she was barely twenty-five years old.
The sound of footsteps approaching from the entrance drew his attention for a moment. He looked up and saw Laura Martín entering. She had come straight to the corpse, unlike himself.
Cámara handed her the passport. She looked at it, absorbed the necessary information, and handed it back. Then she stared down at the body, taking in as much detail as she could. She is recording this, Cámara thought to himself, watching as her eyes glanced this way and that, like a multi-directional scanner, catching everything and storing it.
He glanced down at the passport again, looking at the visa pages. There were several stamps for entering and leaving Spain, a French stamp as well as two Arab countries: Egypt and Morocco.
When he looked up, he noticed that Laura had knelt down and was lifting the dress away from Amy’s body with a pen to expose her backside. White knickers clung to her skin at an angle halfway down her legs. Dark pubic hair was visible between the tops of her thighs.
She nodded to Cámara. They both knew what it meant; it was the reason why she was there.
‘The husband?’ she said.
‘In the back room,’ Fernández said. ‘Beyond the kitchen.’
Laura was already on her way.
FOUR
A POLICEMAN WAS standing in the doorway. When he saw the two chief inspectors approach he stood to the side and let them through.
‘His name’s Alfredo Ruiz Costa,’ he said, looking towards the back room.
‘Thank you,’ Laura said. Cámara nodded to the policeman as he fell into Laura’s slipstream.
Amy’s husband was sitting on a low sofa in what looked to be a small office space. A computer sat on a desk under a window that looked out on to the street. Hundreds of books were stacked tightly into expensive metal cases along the walls. A rug – probably North African – covered most of the floor. Scattered around the computer and over most of the desk were scraps of paper with black handwriting. Amy’s?
Laura took the office chair, spun it around and sat opposite and very close to the husb
and. The man was in his mid-thirties, Cámara guessed, although his dark brown hair, slicked back over his scalp, was already thinning. Neither of them could see his face – it was still covered by delicate, long-fingered, blood-streaked hands. A platinum wedding band nestled in the hairs covering the back of his ring finger.
He was of slight build and wore a black suit with a white shirt and what looked like a burgundy tie, although from his curled, cramped posture it was difficult to see. Underneath his clothes Cámara discerned the loose-bellied, slouching body of a sedentary man.
Ruiz Costa seemed to be aware that he was no longer alone and slowly pulled his hands away from his face. Dark stubble was already pushing through the pallor of his cheeks, although it was only early afternoon. Cámara glanced down at his feet: the man wore black polished leather shoes. And pink socks. Which was when, he realised later, that he knew.
‘My name’s Laura Martín,’ Laura began. ‘I’m a chief inspector with the Policía Nacional. And this is my colleague Chief Inspector Max Cámara. We need to ask you some questions.’
The eyes stayed fixed on the floor, broken and unseeing.
‘I need you to confirm your name,’ Laura continued.
He raised his face very slightly, then coughed, as though trying to bring life back into his mouth and throat.
‘Alfredo Ruiz Costa.’
‘Thank you,’ Laura said. Cámara kept a distance, watching from the side of the room.
‘You called this in,’ Laura said. ‘You called the police.’
Ruiz Costa nodded, burying his face in his hands for a moment before drawing them away again.
‘What is your relation to the deceased?’
He tried to breathe in, almost choking.
‘She’s my . . . I’m . . . We’re married.’
‘You’re married to Amy Donahue. Correct?’
‘Amy . . .’ He could barely say her name. Then the tears came, shuddering, heaving sobs. Laura looked up at Cámara. They both understood. Strictly this was an initial conversation with a witness, a means of quickly gathering basic information about a crime scene. Yet if either of them were honest about it, this should be taking place at the Jefatura, with the man’s lawyer present: a formal interrogation of their main suspect. Yet wait that long, change the setting and place a legal representative beside him, and the dynamic would change. There would be time for emotions and nerves to be steadied, for thinking and planned storytelling. They had to speak to him now, had to listen carefully to his first words. But it would be impossible if he broke down.
They waited; Laura did not move. After a few moments, Cámara thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a paper handkerchief. Checking it was clean first, he handed it over. Laura took it and offered it to the husband. After a pause, he grabbed it, took a couple of deep, jerky breaths, and then wiped the tears from his eyes and face.
‘Take your time,’ Laura said. He started moving his head back and forth. Was he nodding or trying to calm himself?
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes.’
‘We need to talk to you now,’ Laura said. ‘These early moments immediately after a tragedy like this are important. You can help us a lot.’
‘Yes.’ More rocking and nodding. Then he stopped.
‘Can you tell us what happened?’ Cámara spoke from his position at the side of the room. The sound of his voice, a new voice, changed something. Ruiz Costa looked up, aware of Cámara for the first time.
‘I came back for lunch,’ he said, glancing back to Laura. ‘I came back a bit early for lunch and . . . and . . . just found her.’
More sobbing welled up inside, but he managed to press it down in his chest. Cámara thought he could see beads of sweat forming on the back of his neck. It was not hot.
‘Were you at work?’ Laura asked. ‘Did you come home from work?’
‘Yes.’ His voice had lowered to barely a whisper.
‘What is your work? What do you do?’
From his attire, and the size and postcode of the flat they were in, both of them expected him to say something like ‘lawyer’ or perhaps some high-up role in a government institution. Even a managerial post in a large company.
‘I’m a salesman,’ he said. ‘For a pharmaceutical company.’
Laura’s eyes darted towards Cámara.
‘You’re the head of sales,’ she said, turning back and leaning in slightly.
‘No. A salesman. Travelling. I go to doctors, chemists, hospitals.’
Even on a good rate of commission – which was rare these days – he should not have been able to afford such a place.
‘Do you always come home for lunch?’ Laura asked. Keep it moving.
A long sigh. ‘Not always. When I can. If I’m in the city. Like today.’
‘So today you came home for lunch.’
‘Yes. Yes, I did. I wasn’t . . . We hadn’t . . . Nothing special. Perhaps just a plate of lentils, or a sandwich. Amy . . . Amy’s American, you see. They don’t eat much at lunchtime. In America.’
‘How long have you been married to Amy?’
He looked up sharply with heavy, deep-set eyes.
‘A year. A year last month. She . . .’
He lost concentration, eyes rolling under their lids for a second before he dropped his head again.
‘Did anything happen this morning?’ Laura asked.
‘What do you mean?’ he said, returning to them.
‘Tell me about this morning, about before you went to work.’
He shrugged.
‘Nothing. I mean . . . it was normal, like any morning. I was in a rush, she was in a rush . . .’
‘Why were you in a rush?’
‘I . . . We woke up a bit late. You know. I had a meeting at work early and then an appointment . . .’
‘Did you make it? Did you get there on time?’
‘Yes. Yes, I did.’
‘What time was that?’
‘The meeting? It was at nine.’
‘And your appointment?’
‘At ten.’
‘Where? Who was it with?’
‘Dr Olmedo Pérez. He’s a plastic surgeon. Has a surgery near the train station. I had some new products to show him.’
‘Did you get there on time as well?’
‘Yes, almost. I was no more than fifteen minutes late. I thought it might be cancelled, what with the situation. All my other appointments were cancelled today. People are just . . .’
‘What time did you finish your appointment with the doctor?’
He frowned.
‘I don’t know. Maybe eleven-thirty. Or almost twelve. Something like that.’
‘And then what did you do?’
Laura was firing the questions like rounds from a gun. Not too hard, Cámara thought to himself. Don’t make this feel like an interrogation.
‘I . . . I did nothing. I just . . .’
‘What? What did you do?’
‘My other appointments had been cancelled. I didn’t want to go back to the office. So I . . . I just went to the beach. Parked the car and went for a walk.’
‘You went for a walk on the beach.’
‘Yes.’
‘Did anyone see you?’
‘I don’t know. It was very quiet. Maybe a couple of people were there. I don’t know.’
Cámara looked down at the man’s polished shoes again. There was no sign of any sand or dust on them.
‘Did you walk by the shore?’ he asked.
Ruiz Costa looked up.
‘Excuse me?’
‘When you went to the beach. Did you walk by the sea itself?’
There was a look of puzzlement on Ruiz Costa’s face.
‘No. I don’t think so. Just along the walkway.’
‘You said Amy was in a rush as well,’ Cámara continued, taking over from Laura for a second. ‘Why? What did she do?’
The slip into the past tense. He had not meant to – it could throw things at moments like thi
s to finalise a person, to remove them from the present so suddenly. But Ruiz Costa did not seem to notice.
‘She’s a journalist,’ he said. ‘A blogger, I mean. She wants to be a journalist, get a job one day for a newspaper or magazine.’
‘In English?’
‘Yes.’
‘And she had something on this morning?’
‘Yes.’
‘What?’ Laura asked, taking back the questioning.
‘I don’t know. I don’t follow much of it because my English isn’t . . .’
‘Then after your walk?’ Laura began. ‘Señor Ruiz,’ she said, using his name for the first time. ‘We need to know what happened. Did you come straight here?’
‘I was walking on the beach,’ he said. ‘I didn’t want anyone to know I wasn’t working.’ He dropped his head again. ‘Sometimes I work six, even seven days a week. It’s not often I can just slip away like that. I didn’t want anyone . . . not even Amy. I don’t know. To have a little bit of time like that. Do nothing.’
‘So what time did you come home?’
The husband linked his fingers together, the skin sticky with blood. His hands were trembling.
‘I could have come home sooner . . .’ he said.
‘What time did you come home?’
He closed his eyes.
‘Just before lunch.’
‘So, what? Two o’clock?’
Cámara glanced down at the screen on his phone. It was gone half-past three.
‘Yes, about then. Perhaps a little bit before.’
‘Amy,’ Laura said. ‘Where was Amy when you got in? Was she here?’
Ruiz Costa looked her in the eye.
‘Yes, she was here.’
‘Where was she? Where was Amy?’
His jaw began to quiver, teeth clenched as a shudder seemed to grip his body. Then with a sudden, jerky motion, he lifted his arm and pointed to the dining room.
‘There,’ he said forcefully. A white line of drying spittle was lining his lower lip.
‘There.’
For a moment Laura appeared to have lost momentum, caught between helping a grieving man and interrogating her prime suspect for a fresh and violent killing.
Blood Med Page 3
