‘I’m not sure if it’s a good idea for her to see us,’ Torres said. ‘If she and the family members start seeing police here they might wonder what’s going on. She’s going through hell as it is.’
Cámara walked on down the corridor, away from the waiting area. A man in a white coat appeared from the far end walking quickly. Cámara flicked his police badge in his face and caught his attention.
‘We need to talk to someone about a patient in intensive care. It’s urgent.’
The doctor scuttled off, promising to fetch someone for them.
‘Subtle,’ Torres said. ‘Why not announce on the tannoy that we’ve arrived?’
Cámara ignored him. A few moments later another doctor introduced himself.
‘What’s this about?’
He was young – perhaps in his early thirties, and looked as if he had not shaved for four days. The rings under his eyes screamed out for sleep. He was coming to the end of his shift, Cámara was certain.
‘Inspector Torres,’ he said, motioning towards his uniformed colleague. ‘And I’m Chief Inspector Cámara. We’re from the murder squad.’
At the word ‘murder’ the doctor gave an almost imperceptible jolt. Cámara had his full attention.
‘We need your help,’ Cámara said. ‘It’s a very delicate situation. I hope I can take you into my confidence.’
The doctor listened to Oliva’s story, nodding as Cámara explained.
‘We were told it was a suicide attempt,’ he said, his eyes widening.
‘It’s very important,’ Cámara said. ‘We’re hitting a brick wall with the case, and the only person who can take us forward is Oliva himself.’
The doctor bowed his head and stared at the ground.
‘Whoever did this to him,’ Cámara continued, ‘and I’m convinced he was pushed – needs to be caught. Quickly.’
The doctor was shaking his head.
‘His head injuries are quite severe,’ he said. ‘We don’t know yet how much of it is permanent. There’s injury to the brain tissue, haemorrhaging, swelling.’
‘Is there any way that you can help us?’
Cámara was aware of Torres rolling his eyes.
‘Anything at all.’
‘Well, we can’t just bring him back,’ the doctor said. ‘There’s no button to press. If there was we could do it with everyone in a coma.’
Torres was already shifting his weight on to his other foot, as though to start walking away. They were wasting their time.
‘Anything.’
The doctor sighed, his head still bowed.
‘What about zolpidem?’ Cámara said.
The doctor looked up, surprised.
‘Zolpidem?’
‘What’s that?’ Torres asked.
‘It’s a sleeping drug,’ Cámara said. ‘They’ve used it on coma patients. It can wake them up.’
‘Look,’ the doctor shrugged his shoulders. ‘That kind of thing makes for a good news story, but it’s not that simple.’
‘A sleeping drug that wakes people up?’ Torres was mumbling into his beard. ‘Pah!’
‘But you could try it,’ Cámara said.
‘We’ve used it in the past, but the success rates are almost negligible.’
‘But not entirely.’
The doctor was still with them; he had not walked away. There was still a reason to insist.
‘Very occasionally you may see a slight improvement. But it’s not always permanent. And it can only stimulate parts of the brain that haven’t been damaged. Even if you saw more brain activity, he might not be able to respond in any meaningful way.’
‘But it’s worth a try.’
The doctor dropped his head again, his shoulders hunched. He was tired and was losing the energy to resist.
‘Do you have any in stock?’ Cámara asked.
‘Not much,’ said the doctor. ‘We’re running out of a lot of drugs at the moment.’
‘But you’ve got some zolpidem.’
The doctor sighed.
‘Come on,’ he said.
They entered the ward from the far end so as not to be seen by Oliva’s ex-wife and family. Cámara and Torres were given flimsy throwaway green robes to place over their clothes, with caps from the same material for their heads and slip-on covers over their shoes.
‘Even if he can’t speak, he might be able to respond in some way by a squeeze of the hand,’ the doctor said. ‘Here, take these.’ And he passed a box of latex gloves over.
They waited as he administered the drug.
‘It will take a while.’
Cámara took a chair and sat by Oliva’s bed. The man’s neck was in a brace and breathing apparatus stuck out from his mouth, obscuring much of his face. His eyes were closed and heavy bruising stained much of the visible skin. A membrane had been placed over his skull. Tiny whiskers seemed to glisten over his cheek, reflecting the overhead lights.
‘How old is he?’ Cámara asked.
‘Thirty-eight,’ Torres said.
‘That helps,’ the doctor said. ‘A bit. The younger you are the greater the chances of coming through something like this.’
‘There’s no danger, doing this, is there?’ Torres said.
‘I wouldn’t be doing it if there were,’ the doctor said. ‘No. He’ll either respond or he won’t. If he doesn’t there are no ill side effects from this.’
They sat in silence for a few moments. Cámara tried to get a sense of Oliva, of the kind of person he was. It was almost impossible, though. He lay inert, the only signs of life coming from the machines attached to his body and the unnatural sound of the breathing machine.
Cámara reached out and held his hand. It felt warm and limp.
‘Is there anything we should be looking out for?’
‘It might be a twitch, or some kind of response. Maybe in his eyes, or his hand. Keep holding it. We’ll need a few more minutes.’
The steady electronic beat of Oliva’s heart marked the seconds. Cámara imagined the drug moving through his body, willing it to have the desired effect. Then almost without realising it, he started talking to him.
‘Diego,’ he said, squeezing his hand. ‘Diego, we’ve come to speak to you. We’re from the . . . We’re friends, Diego. We need to talk to you. Can you hear me? Can you hear me?’
Oliva was motionless. Cámara kept his gaze on his face. If there was any sign, he thought, it would be there. Perhaps just a twitch in his eyelids. Anything. Perhaps even a smile.
‘Diego, Diego . . .’
Time was passing. Torres was sitting on the other side of the room. He crossed his arms and legs. Cámara kept talking, gently massaging Oliva’s hand in his as he spoke. There had to be something, some reaction from him.
‘We need to talk to you about what happened, about your fall. Can you tell us . . .’
The minutes ticked by.
Torres was the first to make a move.
‘It should’ve happened by now, right?’ he said, standing up. The doctor looked at Cámara, then at Torres.
‘If we were going to see a response I would have expected something by now, yes.’
Cámara did not move, still holding Oliva’s hand.
‘Diego . . . Can you hear me?’
‘Perhaps we should leave it.’
Torres was clearing his throat, signalling as loudly as he could that he thought they should be on their way.
‘As I say,’ the doctor began, ‘enough time has passed. Any response . . .’
But Cámara tuned out, not hearing him. Oliva’s body lay as still and leaden as when they had come in. A last attempt? Five more minutes?
No. Understanding came and with a sudden clarity he saw that this was as much about Hilario as it was about Oliva. Yes, he wanted to talk to the man, but he was conning himself if he thought he could bring people back from the dead – or the near-dead in Oliva’s case. The loss of his grandfather, the strange hours, not sleeping properly – carry on like
this and he would lose his mind. Coming here and trying this – it was almost the stuff of witchcraft.
He got up and took a last look at the inanimate form lying on the bed, the battered face and broken head. And the burning promise flared in his mind.
I’ll get them.
Torres had gone on ahead while Cámara exchanged some final words with the doctor.
‘Thanks very much.’
‘I’m sorry we couldn’t help.’
Cámara gave his and Torres’s numbers on a card.
‘Get in touch if anything changes.’
‘We will.’
When he’d finished he stepped outside into the dying light of the day. It was almost dark.
He wended his way through the car park. They had been lucky earlier and had found a space near the entrance. The street lamps overhead were flickering on, casting a pink hue. He stepped from behind a van to the place where he knew Torres had parked. But there was nothing but an empty space.
He heard an engine pulling away and looked up.
In the distance, the Seat reached the end of the car park and pulled out with an angry growl, merging with the traffic on the main road and disappearing into the city.
TWENTY-ONE
‘YOU’VE GOT TO see this.’
Alicia was in the sitting room watching a twenty-four-hour news channel on television. Cámara shuffled over towards her, his limbs still heavy from the long walk from the hospital.
‘What’s going on?’
He sat on the arm of the sofa. On the screen he saw a familiar face.
‘Emilia?’
‘This happened earlier this afternoon,’ said Alicia. ‘They’ve been repeating it on a virtual loop ever since. Watch.’
The Mayoress of Valencia appeared to be holding a press conference in the centre of the city. Just behind he could make out the rose window of the cathedral and people making their way around the Plaza de la Virgen. Emilia Delgado was wearing a bright yellow dress with a red carnation buttoned to her collar. A former cabaret performer, she never did understatement when it came to make-up, and her eyelids sparkled with some golden glitter added to her thick dark blue mascara. The crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth were only partially disguised, however: she appeared to have aged since last he’d seen her. He was surprised she had not resorted to Botox injections or plastic surgery.
There was history between Cámara and Valencia’s longest-serving chief executive. Years back Emilia had tried to interfere in Cámara’s investigation of the murder of bullfighter Jorge Blanco. Cámara had done his best to sidestep her blocking tactics – there had been local elections at the time, which she went on to win for a record fifth time – but her sidekick Javier Flores came close to scuppering everything. Ambitious, unscrupulous and allegedly Emilia’s lover, Flores was now hovering in the background as Emilia spoke to the cameras. Wearing a peppermint green jacket with an orange-and-pink checked shirt and brown leather tie, he was hard not to notice.
Aunque la mona se viste de seda, Cámara thought to himself, mona se queda. Even when she wears silk, a monkey is still a monkey.
After the bullfighter case, Flores had played a part in a subsequent investigation: the kidnapping of Sofía Bodí, leading Cámara to the guilty party, but again, only for his own benefit. He was the worst kind of politician: self-obsessed, manipulative and drawn inexorably to power like a fly to shit. They said Emilia only allowed him into her bed on occasion, playing her councillors off one against another through sexual favours. Deep down, Flores probably hated her. Now he stood at her side as she spoke and displayed a grave, concerned face.
‘. . . which is why we must condemn these acts in the strongest possible terms.’
‘What’s she saying?’ Cámara asked.
‘It’s about the riots again,’ Alicia said, not taking her eyes off the screen. ‘They’re still going on about them. I hadn’t realised how bad it got – it all happened while we were busy with Hilario. There were fifty arrests, and fifteen demonstrators and three policemen were wounded. It turned into a pitched battle. Then earlier today Emilia showed up to make a statement where it all took place. Said she had to reclaim the streets for law-abiding citizens.’
‘. . . this cannot be allowed and the perpetrators will be brought to justice.’ Emilia’s voice sounded even huskier in real life, like a fully laden cement mixer, supposedly from too much drinking and smoking. A rumour went that she had worked as a prostitute when she had been in cabaret, but if anything the allegations only made her more popular. She was a maverick and knew that many Valencians supported her because she championed the city, wearing her identity as a Valenciana like a badge of honour. No scheme was too grand, no project too costly for Emilia and her home town, not even now, when the coffers were bare and the debts threatening to drown the place for generations to come. For all her faults – her tackiness and authoritarian instincts – the city had become almost her personal fiefdom: her position was never seriously threatened. Other local politicians came and went, some whisked off to Madrid, others shipwrecked by corruption and scandal, but Emilia was always there, as if she had become a permanent fixture. Valencia, soy yo went the joke. In the style of Louis XIV, Emilia believed that she was Valencia.
Cámara watched as she continued her speech, demonising the protestors, calling for law and order to be restored, and a counter-demonstration to be held to show the city’s respect and good wishes for the King. With the people’s prayers, she insisted, he would make a full recovery.
‘Prayers and a load of public money spent on his private healthcare,’ said Alicia.
‘So far, so predictable,’ Cámara said.
‘Wait. Watch this.’
He kept his eyes on the screen. Flores was the first to be hit, with what looked like an egg smashing into the side of his head. His closely cropped head jerked to the side as the projectile impacted. Cámara sat up in his seat.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘There’s more.’
There was something of a scuffle among Emilia’s entourage before more missiles came streaming in. The images were blurred as the cameraman had clearly moved and ducked for cover himself. As the image stabilised for a moment on the ground, stones and rocks – broken pieces of masonry or rubble – came into view. The camera then looked back up at Emilia’s group. The mayoress was holding the side of her head, doubling up, yet still on her feet. A cracking, thumping sound could be heard as other missiles rained down. More rocks and eggs, pieces of rubbish, what looked like the contents of someone’s shopping basket: cartons of fruit juice, half a lettuce and a packet of biscuits.
‘Get her out! Get her out!’ came a voice. A security man was finally reacting and the images went black just as arms were thrown around Emilia and she was led away from the crowd. The sounds of shouting and whistling carried on for a few seconds, with angry voices calling out against the mayoress.
‘Corrupt thieving bastards!’ said one, the only discernible voice. Then the recording stopped.
‘Wow,’ said Cámara, slipping off the arm of the sofa and down next to Alicia.
The footage cut to the news presenter. It was Canal 9, the local channel, sensationalist and heavily controlled by Emilia’s party. At the bottom of the screen a red banner appeared with the words: ‘Mayoress targeted by terrorists’.
Alicia hit the off button on the remote.
‘That’s big news,’ he said. ‘I would never have thought . . .’
‘Big news and a big lie to explain it away,’ said Alicia. ‘Terrorists? Those were ordinary people throwing stuff at her. She can’t understand how angry people are.’
‘Perhaps Hilario was right.’
Cámara stood up and walked to the kitchen. He was hit by an urge to get out. Suddenly the flat, the city, felt suffocating.
‘Do you fancy a picnic?’ he asked.
Alicia checked the time on the wall clock: it was almost half-past ten.
‘You’re not working tonight?�
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Cámara shook his head. She got up from the sofa.
‘Come on.’
A quarter of an hour later they were on the motorbike and heading towards the sea, a rucksack of supplies on Alicia’s back. The Avenida del Puerto was empty and the traffic lights were on their side. A few thrilling moments passed and within minutes they reached the Cabanyal beach. They parked on the other side of Las Arenas and crossed the sand, taking off their shoes and feeling tiny soft grains sifting between their toes. It was the first properly warm night of the year.
The waters of the Mediterranean were calm, with small waves barely a few centimetres high gently stroking the shoreline. Cámara stared out at the horizon, the sky just half a shade lighter than the sea. Lights from a handful of scattered ships twinkled from afar. They ate some bread and cold tortilla that had been sitting in the fridge. Alicia opened a bottle of red wine, took a swig, and passed it over.
I love this woman, he thought, a calm certainty appearing within him like a slowly blossoming flower. And I always want to be with her.
The bottle top was wet with her saliva. He placed it against his mouth, lifted the wine and drank deeply.
‘I went to the metro earlier,’ she said. ‘They’re carrying on as usual. Daniel said not to worry, that they can manage. Got some new helpers.’
‘Good,’ he said.
Bereavement moved within him like a storm, sometimes waning, sometimes blowing so hard he thought he would be swept away. With time, he assumed – as everyone always said – it would lose some of its force. Yet now, so fresh, it had an energy that seemed entirely its own, as though he were merely a spectator caught up in its booming and grandiose performance. Mourning for his grandfather might consume him, he thought at times. And yet only now, sitting by the quiet waters of the sea, was he aware of how powerful and embracing his feelings for Alicia had become.
‘I should pop over and see them,’ he said.
‘They’re fine without you. You’ve got enough going on.’
They ate and drank in silence for a few moments, listening.
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