‘Looks like you already know your way around,’ Torres said with a grin. The energy from the demonstration and the thrill of getting inside what effectively had been turned into a fortress was lightening up his usually dour expression.
‘You might want to put your cap back on,’ said Cámara.
The lift went up smoothly and reached the top floor with a muffled, expensive ping.
‘Show time.’
A young woman with heavy make-up and an upstaging cleavage was sitting behind a reception counter. Cámara marched up to her, waving his police ID in front of her face.
‘Felicidad Galván,’ he said. ‘Police emergency.’
The receptionist was clearly startled, her nerves on edge from what was going on outside.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I mean, no.’
Torres took a step forward and snarled.
‘Police?’ she said. ‘Emergency? It’s just that Señorita Galván—’
‘Is in a meeting?’ Cámara said. ‘Point us in the right direction.’
The girl’s eyes flickered to her left, down a central corridor.
‘They specifically said no interruptions.’
But Cámara and Torres were already on their way.
They passed large pot plants, modern sculptures in bronze and concrete – the work of a celebrated Valencian artist – and large paintings of typical Valencian scenes hanging from the walls. Above them, daylight streamed in through tinted and very thick glass, illuminating the top floor yet keeping the heat out. Cámara felt the sweat on his neck drying in the air-conditioned climate: outside the temperature was close to thirty degrees; here it was in the very low and comfortable twenties.
A trolley laden with bottles of water, fruit, a large chrome coffee pot and several plates of cakes and sandwiches told them where the conference room was. Without a pause they walked over. Torres opened the door and they stormed in.
Out of a dozen or so people sitting around a large oval table – walnut, by the black grain, Cámara suspected – Felicidad Galván was the only woman. She sat near the head, two down from a clean-shaven man in his sixties with near-white hair slicked back over the tops of his ears – presumably the president of the bank.
It took a moment for everyone to register the new presence in the room: the discussion was heated, several of the bankers were talking at once. No one looked happy.
The president noticed them. He held up a hand and tapped the tabletop with a pen. Eventually the others saw where he was looking and fell silent.
‘This is a private meeting,’ the president began. ‘You need the head of security. He’s one floor—’
‘Felicidad Galván,’ Torres said, his normally muffled voice calling loudly and capturing everyone’s attention. He looked across to the one female presence in the room. ‘We need to speak to you.’
‘Impossible,’ the president said, waving his hand as though to brush them away.
‘Is it to do with the riot?’
There was the slightest of tremors in Felicidad Galván’s voice, barely audible, but Cámara caught it just at the end of her question. The riot, she said. So far the crowd outside was expressing its anger only through its massive presence and power of voice. He guessed that over ten thousand had gathered, but so far there was no ‘riot’. It almost made him laugh. These people had no idea – or had forgotten – what real street violence was like, what a terrifying and unpredictable force it could be. Yet a siege mentality had already set in.
‘It’s an emergency.’ he said. ‘You must come with us at once.’
She stood up at the sound of his command, then looked across at the president. He nodded that she could leave.
‘I don’t like this at all,’ he said.
Felicidad walked away from the table. Torres went to open the door. The others sat in stunned silence. Cámara watched as she walked towards him: of average height, she had a fleshy nose, thin lips and speckled brown eyes. Her dark brown hair had been dyed with purple highlights and her walk was slightly lopsided, the left leg swinging round the right as she moved forward. He sensed doubt, fear and the beginnings of defiance in her. They would have to act quickly while she was still caught off guard.
She stepped past him without a word towards the open door held out by Torres. Cámara caught a whiff of sweet perfume. Her white blouse was closed at the neck by a thin brown tie made of some shiny material, perhaps leather.
‘Just a minute,’ the president called out as Cámara made to leave. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Chief Inspector Max Cámara of Valencia Homicidios.’
‘Jot that down,’ the president said without a pause.
Torres had led Felicidad along the corridor and found an empty office. Cámara followed, entered and closed the door behind him.
‘Make it quick,’ Felicidad said.
‘Diego Oliva,’ Cámara said, sitting on the edge of a desk.
She looked at him, puzzled.
‘He used to work for you.’
‘Yes, I know who he is,’ she said.
‘So tell us about him.’
‘You pulled me out of an emergency board meeting to chat about one of our ex-employees? We’ve got thousands of hooligans outside trying to storm in and steal whatever they can. And you want to talk about some guy who used to work for us?’
She made to leave. Torres jumped across and barred her exit. She stared at his chest, willing it to go away.
‘You know about Oliva being in hospital, right?’ Torres said.
‘Are you going to get out of my way?’
‘No.’
‘Just answer our questions,’ Cámara said.
‘You haven’t asked any yet.’
‘Did you know Oliva was in hospital?’
She turned, but did not look at him.
‘I heard something. An accident. He fell from his balcony.’
‘He fell. That’s right.’
‘He used to work for you,’ Torres said. ‘Directly under you.’
Her eyes tightened.
‘What’s going on?’
‘We need to know about his time working here,’ Cámara said.
‘Why?’
‘Talk to us and then you can get back to your meeting. There’s a crisis on.’
‘You’re right,’ she said. ‘And you’re wasting my time.’
Again she tried to make for the door, but Torres leaned back on it, making it impossible for her to leave. From outside, the volume of the demonstration began to increase. She looked towards the window on the other side of the office, then back in Cámara’s direction without meeting his gaze.
‘He worked in the development and investment department,’ she said.
‘That’s yours, right?’ Cámara said.
She nodded.
‘Help me. I’m still trying to work out what that bit of the bank actually does.’
‘It’s a liaison section, ostensibly,’ she said, failing to keep the sarcasm out of her voice. ‘Dealing with the bank’s biggest customers.’
‘Local government?’
‘The building industry, mostly.’
‘That’s the same thing, right?’ Torres said.
‘Can we wrap this up?’
‘Why did you fire Oliva?’ Cámara asked.
‘We didn’t. His contract came to an end. Several others left around the same time. It was the beginning of the recession.’
‘Natural wastage?’
‘That’s the phrase that’s usually used.’
‘We heard there was bad blood.’
‘What?’
‘Between you and him, specifically.’
‘That’s not true.’
‘Some of your co-workers don’t agree.’
‘Who? Give me names. It’s untrue. Diego worked very well for us. Then he had to leave. We couldn’t keep him on. It’s as simple as that.’
‘But he didn’t find a job elsewhere.’
‘That’s very sad.’
Felicidad shook her head.
‘As I say, it was a shame.’
‘You didn’t try and help him, put in a good word?’
‘Perhaps you put in a bad word,’ Torres said.
‘That’s a lie. How dare you?’
‘Made sure he never worked again. He must have been talented to have got a job in your department in the first place. We can’t understand why he was unemployed for so long afterwards.’
‘I had nothing to do—’
‘What do you think happened?’ Cámara interrupted.
‘What?’
‘His fall. What do you think happened?’
‘I don’t know. I heard it was a suicide attempt.’
‘He couldn’t afford his mortgage payments any more,’ Torres said. ‘A mortgage he got from this bank, the bank he used to work for. Then this happens. Don’t you find that ironic?’
‘It’s tragic,’ Felicidad said. ‘You might find it funny.’
‘It’s not funny,’ Cámara said. He lifted himself off the edge of the table and stepped towards her.
‘Diego Oliva is dead. Died three days ago at the hospital.’
Her expression was stable, unchanging.
‘And this is now a murder inquiry.’
Her lips were dry. She parted them slightly to wet them with her tongue.
‘I understand,’ she said. ‘Then Caja Levante must do all it can to assist.’
‘We’ll be sending some people round,’ Torres said. ‘I expect them to receive full cooperation.’
‘Of course. I shall make certain that everyone knows.’
There was another surge in the noise from outside. Cámara wondered how long the riot police would wait before moving in. Things were still peaceful enough, but there was the potential for a lot of trouble if the wrong decision was made.
‘You can go back to your meeting now,’ he said. Torres stepped out of the way. She paused, then reached for the handle.
‘One other thing,’ Cámara said.
She turned.
‘What’s the connection between Oliva and Amy Donahue?’
‘Who?’
‘An American girl. She was murdered on the same day that Oliva was pushed from his balcony window.’
She looked blank.
‘I’m afraid I can’t help you.’
There was no way out at either of the exits on the ground floor: the demonstrators were packed too tight around the building.
‘Try the car park underground,’ a guard said. ‘Then press the button to open the doors. Comes out round the back.’
They took the lift down, walked past several dozen expensive German cars, then climbed the ramp up towards the street. The automatic doors clanged and creaked as they rolled open.
A smaller group of protestors was in front of them, blowing whistles and banging drums.
‘Try getting in down there,’ Cámara said, pointing at the car park doors just beginning to close again.
‘It’s the Achilles heel.’
TWENTY-SIX
IT WAS LATE evening by the time he got away. The cemetery was about to close and he had to race north, jumping traffic lights and weaving in and out between the cars in order to get there in time. Pulling away from the main road, he took a short cut down a pedestrian path that crossed the fields. It was unpaved and bumpy, but the new shocks meant that the bike could take it. A few evening joggers were surprised to see him and were forced to jump out of his way. One of them, in a theatrical gesture, put out a hand as though to stop him.
The cemetery guard was tidying his office, carrying out his last tasks before closing for another day. He was disgruntled on hearing a late visitor arriving, just five minutes before he clocked off, but his expression changed when Cámara took off his helmet and showed his face. The guard remembered fondly the torchlit funeral of a few days earlier. There had been real feeling there, and although he had never met Hilario and had no idea who he was, he was convinced that a great man had been buried in his cemetery that day. Some things you just know.
‘The mason was here this morning,’ he said to Cámara, stepping out of his office to shake his hand. ‘Did a good job. I made sure of that. I think you’ll be happy with it.’
‘Thanks.’
‘Nice epitaph.’
‘He always lived by it.’
The guard nodded and let go of Cámara’s hand.
‘Take all the time you need.’
Cámara walked under the colonnade round the edge of the cemetery. His legs felt heavy and his lungs seemed to be pushing up into his throat. Another wave of grief: he should have expected it, coming here again, but he had kidded himself that he was getting over it. Now it caught him unawares. He tried looking at some of the other graves to remind himself that he was not the only person in mourning. For every other corpse in its niche, dozens must have cried and suffered. But the names and photos meant little to him, no matter how he tried.
Hilario’s plaque was made from a single piece of limestone and sat neatly over the bricks that sealed his grandfather in his tunnel-like tomb. The flies had gone. He could not have borne seeing them again.
He knelt down and placed his fingertips against the masonry, tracing the words.
‘Hilario Maximiliano Cámara Belmonte’.
Underneath were carved the dates of his birth and death. No crosses or symbols: Cámara had been insistent. The font was plain and undecorative, yet elegant.
At the bottom, in italics, ran a single sentence. Cámara had wondered about putting something there. It was impossible to sum his grandfather up in a single phrase, and he had been about to scrap the idea. But to leave the plaque with just a name and dates did not seem fitting to Hilario’s memory either. In the end, as he had watched over the dead body at the funeral parlour, the right phrase had come to him.
It was the single most important lesson that Hilario had taught him:
‘No sientas el tiempo perdido sino el que puedas perder’.
Do not worry about the time you have lost, but about the time you may yet lose.
He stood up, disturbed by the emptiness that had descended upon him.
Wiping his face with his sleeve, he made for the exit. Outside, on the other side of the gate, the single eye of the motorbike stared at him, unblinking.
The Barrio Chino prostitutes on his street had organised a barter system to keep going through the crisis. Many were holding pieces of card announcing that they would accept food or ‘services’ from clients with no cash to pay. He imagined queues of plumbers, electricians and restaurateurs quickly forming once word spread.
He skipped upstairs and found the flat empty, but Alicia had been back while he was out. Her computer screen was on and new notes were scattered on her desk. There was no sign of her, though. He thought of giving her a call, but at that moment a text message arrived.
Interviewing and being interviewed. Will be back late. Kisses.
He checked the fridge: there was half a packet of limp salad leaves, some cherry tomatoes and a stick of chorizo. Nestling in the door were two cans of beer: he would be fine. The crust of a baguette lying on the counter helped fill him up. Swallowing the last of it, he went into the living room, picked some files out of his bag and sat down in a chair near the window. Time to go through things again, from the beginning, taking in every detail that they had amassed during the investigation. It was time to see the murder of Amy Donahue through new eyes.
But the lack of regular sleep over several days and seeing Hilario’s grave again dulled him. He read the words but understood none of them. After twenty minutes he gave up, pulled off his clothes and climbed into bed. A last look at the clock before falling asleep told him that it was only half-past nine in the evening.
He woke just before dawn, images of metro trains
and dank dark tunnels slipping from his mind as he pulled himself up and looked around. Alicia’s naked body lay next to his, her ribs rising and falling to the slow, steady rhythm of her breathing. He kissed her shoulder, made sure that the sheets were covering her properly, and got up.
The streets were practically deserted at that hour. A three-wheeled van drove past, bearing lettuces freshly picked from the fields to market. The driver had a cigarette hanging from his mouth and nodded to Cámara from his open window. There was a natural camaraderie among the city’s very early risers. Sometimes he had experienced it when returning from being out all night.
Two blocks away there was a baker’s oven that served most of the bread shops in the neighbourhood. If you banged loudly enough on the door they usually opened and let people off the street buy a couple of loaves.
‘You got cash?’ the unshaven man said when he opened. ‘We’re not giving credit. And we’re not interested in any new local currencies or barter systems either.’
Cámara pulled out the last note from his pocket and showed it to him.
‘How much do you want?’
Armed with some bread, spinach pasties and two slices of pizza, he strolled back to his street, hopped on the Kawasaki and sped off to the Jefatura.
Azcárraga was at reception on his own.
‘You must be about to finish,’ Cámara said.
‘Another hour to go,’ said the sleepy policeman. ‘They’re changing my shifts again. Don’t know if I’m coming or going.’
‘Here. You hungry?’
Cámara handed him a slice of pizza.
Azcárraga looked nervously up at the security cameras above the doors.
‘Not supposed to eat or drink anything at the desk.’
‘Well, look the other way, then.’
Azcárraga smiled.
‘Salud,’ he said, raising the pizza like a drink. Cheers.
‘Coffee machine working?’ Cámara asked.
Azcárraga leaned down and pulled up a flask.
‘Have some of mine,’ he said, pouring a cup. ‘The piss that machine makes will kill you.’
He almost had to force himself to sit down at his desk. Over the past days he had felt increasingly uneasy in the murder squad offices and now it took all his willpower to enter the room. It was empty – far too early, still, for any of his colleagues to come in – but every piece of chipped furniture, every screwed-up ball of paper in the waste bin and every broken tile on the floor reflected the tensions and low morale in the group. The real poison around here was not manufactured by machines, but by people. By Maldonado.
Blood Med Page 18
