Blood Med

by Jason Webster

  The cell door was opened, the handcuffs unlocked, and he stepped inside. There was no need for force now. He could not break his way out of here: he would need other methods.

  The door thudded behind him and he was alone.

  Torres. The betrayal had caught him by surprise: Maldonado’s game had finally paid off, breaking the partnership that most threatened his control over Homicidios. Separated, Cámara and Torres were so much easier to handle; Maldonado would be toasting himself over his great success.

  But none of this – not Maldonado, nor Torres, nor even the fact of his imprisonment – weighed heavily on him at that moment. His only priority was getting out as quickly as possible and saving Alicia. He was certain he knew who had taken her, and he had an idea of where they had gone.

  But he needed to get a message out to the one person who might be able to help.

  He stuck a hand into his back pocket and pulled out a receipt – it was from the ticket he had bought to get into the botanical gardens. The front was printed with numbers, but the back was clean. He only lacked something to write with. He tried scratching it with his nail, but the letters that he marked were indecipherable.

  Sitting down on the metal bench at the side of the cell, he started looking around. It was small – about four metres long by two across and about three metres high. The walls and floor were covered in grey, utilitarian tiles. They were cleaned regularly, judging by the scent of chemicals mixing with the more human odours present, but they spoke of nothing but dirt and neglect. Cámara started running his fingers along the wall behind him, finding the groove of the grouting and following its regular grid pattern. It felt smooth to his touch, and nothing caught his skin as he dragged his hands across. Standing up, he followed his course around to the end, before it turned ninety degrees on to the back wall. Here the grouting felt very slightly different – thicker and rougher – an apprentice, not the master, had done this section. He hovered over it for a few seconds, tracing up and down, seeking with his fingertips what his eyes could not see.

  Finally he felt something: a tiny loose section of grouting, the broken end of it catching on his nail as he drew it across. Digging in, wriggling it and catching it between three fingernails, he gradually pulled it loose, until a slither of grouting sat, cool and sharp, in the palm of his hand.

  It was almost perfect. Crouching by the edge of the bench, he scraped a point and a blade on one edge, disguising the sound from the guards by doing it to a rhythm, as if, bored by his incarceration, he was tapping out a tune.

  ‘You all right in there, Chief Inspector?’ one of the guards called out – he had caught a glimpse of the two of them at the desk when he was hauled in and his things confiscated. Chief Inspector, they said. Not Cámara. They knew who he was and were respecting his rank. It was a good sign.

  ‘Hanging in there,’ he called out cheerfully.

  The guards laughed.

  ‘Hey,’ Cámara said. ‘Do either of you know Azcárraga?’

  ‘Not sure. Heard of him,’ one of the guards said. They were still at their desk. ‘Why?’

  ‘Do me a favour, will you?’ Cámara said. ‘He’s on reception. I was supposed to pick his kid up from school, but obviously with the ways things are going . . .’

  The guards sniggered.

  ‘Just pop up and tell him I’m sorry but he’ll have to make other arrangements, will you?’

  He heard the shuffling of feet.

  ‘I’m sorry. He was relying on me. Don’t want to let him down.’

  ‘There’s supposed to be two of us here at all times,’ a guard said.

  ‘Is there anyone else being held down here?’

  ‘No. You’re our only guest today.’

  ‘All right. Listen. Nothing’s going to happen. I’m clearly not going anywhere soon. It will only take a second to run up and tell him.’

  ‘I’ll do it,’ said the second guard. ‘Just make sure you don’t tell our superior.’

  ‘You’ve got no worries on that score. I’m a delinquent, remember. They wouldn’t believe me anyway.’

  He heard the guard shuffle off and start up the stairs.

  ‘Azcárraga, right?’ he said.

  ‘That’s the one.’

  When he had gone, Cámara took the sharpened piece of grouting and, making sure not to break it, pushed it into the palm of his hand. Drawing a droplet of blood, he dipped the grouting in it and started to write on the back of the receipt. If he calculated right, he would only have a minute or so to scratch out his message.

  The blood dried up quickly and he had to push into his skin again, harder this time, to make it flow. But the grouting broke, leaving just the tiniest slither still embedded in his hand. Carefully, he eased it out, and then holding it with his fingernails, he finished the message. At the top he wrote the name of who it was addressed to, blew on it to dry, and then folded it to make it as small and slim as possible.

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs, two pairs this time.

  ‘It’s Azcárraga,’ the guard called out as he took the last step. ‘Insisted on coming to say hello when I told him.’

  Alone in his cell, Cámara closed his eyes and stilled himself.

  Footsteps approached his cell door and he stood up.

  ‘What a surprise,’ Azcárraga said as he peered in. The door was virtually solid, made of thick square bars, but there were thin gaps between them so that the guards could see inside.

  ‘Thanks for the message. Didn’t realise what had happened.’

  ‘And your kid?’ Cámara looked him straight in the eye.

  ‘Oh. Yeah. No worries,’ Azcárraga said. ‘I can – I can make other arrangements. Don’t you worry about it.’

  ‘Nice of you to pop down,’ Cámara said. He took a step towards the door, the slip of paper held between two fingers. He waved it very briefly in front of Azcárraga, then pushed his hands against the bars. After the tiniest of pauses, Azcárraga mirrored him.

  ‘You left reception unmanned?’

  ‘No,’ Azcárraga laughed. ‘Someone else can cover for a couple of minutes. Just wanted to make sure you were all right.’

  The piece of paper slipped between Cámara’s fingers and into Azcárraga’s.

  ‘Well, I appreciate it,’ Cámara said. ‘Nice to know I’ve still got some friends in the Jefatura.’

  The guards could hear everything: there was no need to raise their voices. But so far there was no indication that they had seen anything suspicious.

  Azcárraga glanced in their direction, then back at Cámara. The expression of confusion on his face turned into one of concern and determination.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘You’ve got lots of friends in the Jefatura.’

  He stepped away from the door and made to leave.

  ‘Hurry,’ Cámara called after him. ‘You’d better get back to reception quickly. You never know what might be happening while you’re away.’

  Azcárraga quickened his step and swept past the guards.

  ‘I’m on it.’

  THIRTY-THREE

  EVERY MINUTE THAT passed was a minute closer to Alicia being harmed. Or killed.

  He sat on the bench and waited, closing his eyes and trying to control the nervous, churning throb in his guts, the stickiness of his hands. The small wound on his palm had stopped bleeding, but was beginning to sting. Everything now depended on Azcárraga.

  He had no watch to measure the passing time. And his phone – his usual means of knowing the hour of the day – had been confiscated. Yet he could hear a ticking in his head: every second that he spent motionless in the cell felt like a kick in the ribs.

  He tried to force himself into a calm state, listening to his breathing, watching his thoughts racing through his mind. If salvation were to come he would have to be as relaxed as possible in order to react quickly and efficiently. Right now there was nothing he could do.

  And so he waited.

  He stirred when he heard new
footsteps coming down the stairs: a sudden rush of blood, adrenalin flowing. Was this it?

  There were voices at the reception desk. Papers were unfolded and handed over. The decision was being made quickly – he could tell. The policemen did not like the situation: it was unorthodox, should never have been like this in the first place.

  The jangling of keys and three pairs of feet now walking towards his cell. There was a clang as the key was fitted into the lock. Cámara looked up.

  It was Laura.

  ‘I got a direct order from Madrid,’ she said. ‘It’s time to get you out.’

  Cámara’s legs trembled as he got up. The guards smiled when he walked out and into the corridor.

  ‘We’re sorry about all this,’ the first one said. ‘If it had been my call I would never have allowed it.’

  He gave Cámara his phone and keys back.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Cámara said. ‘I understand.’

  ‘Thank you, gentlemen,’ Laura said, addressing the two men. ‘I appreciate your goodwill, and will remember it. But right now Chief Inspector Cámara and I have some urgent business to attend to.’

  They skipped up the stairs and Laura led him to reception.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Azcárraga said, with a relieved smile on his face. ‘Am I glad to see you.’

  Cámara spotted his helmet on the desk.

  ‘I picked it up from the murder squad office,’ Laura said. ‘Thought you’d need it.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  He slung the helmet over his arm and made to go.

  ‘Cámara!’ Laura called. He stopped.

  ‘What just happened – Maldonado locking you up – that wasn’t right. That’s why I agreed to get you out. But let me help you now. You can’t do this on your own.’

  ‘What do you want me to do? Get the police involved?’

  ‘At least let me do something,’ she said.

  Cámara grabbed a piece of paper from the desk and wrote a telephone number on it.

  ‘Call this number,’ he said. ‘Tell them everything.’

  He looked around, making sure no one else in reception could hear them.

  ‘Tell them I’m going to the far end. That’s where she’ll be. The far end.’

  Laura looked confused.

  ‘They’ll understand,’ said Cámara.

  ‘Good luck!’ Azcárraga called out.

  But Cámara was already out the door.

  He slung on his helmet and ran round to the back of the building where he had left his motorbike. He sat down, flicked up the side stand with his heel and pressed the starter button. The engine made a dull whine, and stopped. He pressed the button again. And nothing happened at all.

  ‘Fucking battery.’

  He should have changed it months back. Now it had finally given up on him.

  Should he take a car? Commandeer something from a passing motorist? The options were rejected in less than a second – they would all take up too much time. He was almost about to get off the bike and start running, when he remembered: the W650 had a kick-starter. He had only used it once, when he first got it, just to try it out. They were rare these days.

  He glanced down to his right. The pedal was folded in against the engine. Pushing it out with his fingers, he rested his instep on it, stood up, gently turned the throttle, and pushed down with all his strength. The engine coughed into life, then died. Again he jumped on the kick-starter, careful not to flood the engine, but again it fired up only to switch off again.

  With a final effort, he stamped down with his foot, willing the bike into action. It roared, coughed, and settled into a healthy hum.

  He released the clutch so hard that he sped down half the street on his back wheel.

  It was time to go underground once more.

  It was time to save Alicia.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  HALFWAY DOWN THE Gran Vía, he heard the sirens. Ahead, the street was blocked by a wall of red city buses in what looked like another demonstration.

  But there was no time to wonder what it was about; blue lights were flashing in his wing mirrors and he had to hurry.

  There was one way in, one place from which he could penetrate the network and start his search. He had to get there fast.

  The only way forward was to get off the road and ride down the pavement. The squad cars would not be able to follow him there. He cut right, leaning into the corner, and then dog-legged left into the pedestrian area. People jumped out of his way, terrified of being hit. But the sound of his exhausts – louder and more powerful than the standard ones on the Kawasaki – gave prior warning that he was coming.

  He stood up on the footrests to make himself more visible, honking the horn.

  ‘Police!’ he shouted. ‘Get out the way!’

  A woman with twins in a pram stood still in the middle of the pavement, petrified and unable to move at the sight of him speeding towards her. Cámara swerved on the bike. The mother screamed and he barely brushed her shoulder as he passed, throwing the weight of the bike from one side to the other to keep his balance. Straightening himself, he rode on. A quick glance back told him the woman and her children were unhurt.

  But to the side, on the road, the squad cars were chasing. Soon they would be held up by the backed-up cars and the buses ahead. But he could see bus drivers already climbing into their vehicles to move them out of the way, alerted by the sirens that an emergency was upon them. It would only take a minute or so for his pursuers to squeeze their way through.

  He pressed on, carefully weaving his way around people and obstacles. So far, there were no police motorbikes involved in the chase, otherwise he would lose his advantage.

  Beyond the demonstration, where no traffic had been able to flow, his way ahead lay clear. He sneaked around the side of a bus, kicked over a barricade, jumped off the pavement and back on to tarmac, and shot off. This time there was nothing standing in his way. But he had to hurry: before long the police cars would be on his tail again.

  The metro station lay half a kilometre down a straight, palm-lined avenue. He knew the area well. This was where the rumblings caused by building the new line in front of his former home had caused his block of flats to come crashing down. Now the station was nothing but an empty hole, a barricaded, abandoned blot on the city landscape.

  And this was where he was heading.

  The ‘bunker’. It was no reference to the last days of Franco. It was here, down in the forgotten Valencian underworld.

  It was here – he knew – that he would find Alicia. Alive or dead.

  He pulled up outside. The hole sat in the middle of a wide pavement area in front of a school building. Dusty metal fencing backed with green gauze material circled it, a barrier to getting in. The gauze had been ripped in most places now and hung in rags. The view inside was clear enough: a cement staircase led underground to a central area. Below that would be the tunnel.

  Cámara looked back up the avenue. The first cars were beginning to flow, finally being allowed to pass the demonstrating bus drivers. The police would not be far behind.

  Leaving the engine running, he got off the bike and quickly scouted around. He would be able to climb the fencing, but once inside would be forced to carry on on foot. And speed was essential.

  He wondered about trying to fiddle with the locks, but it would take too long. The police would be on him before he could open them.

  A green rubbish container stood nearby. He spied two wooden planks poking out from the top. They looked rough and splintered but had metal rims around the corners: builders must have used them and thrown them away. They would be strong, could take the weight.

  He ran over, pulled the container lid open and started hauling the planks out. They were about four metres long. Perfect.

  Dragging them back to the hole, he threw first one, then the other over the fencing, pushing them together to make a ramp. The fencing bent just a little with the pressure, leaning in.

  From
the top of the avenue, he could hear the sirens again. The squad cars had got through and would be with him in less than a minute.

  He dashed for the bike and spun it round the hole, heading up a side road, turning round and aligning himself with the planks. He did not want to go too fast; he needed the weight of the bike to push the fencing down that bit more and allow him in. But there would be a jump and a difficult landing on the other side. If he made it through.

  The sirens were getting louder. Blue lights were reflecting on the shop windows on the far side of the avenue.

  He opened the throttle and gently let out the clutch. He would have only one go at this.

  The bike ran forwards, hitting the plank with a thud. The fencing leaned in as Cámara began to shoot up the ramp. As he reached the top, he saw the first squad cars come racing down the avenue.

  With a last, tiny squeeze he jumped off the planks. The engine screamed as the tyres spun in mid-air. And he leaned forward as hard as he could, trying to prevent the bike from flipping back on itself. There was a moment of panic, when he barely knew whether he was upside down or the right way up. Would he land straight or had he overshot? Would the bike make it in one piece? Had the policemen seen him as he flew briefly into the air ahead of them before disappearing into the hole?

  He gritted his teeth. The bike seemed to pull him down, like a ballast. And with a squeal and crunch, first the back wheel and then the frame of the bike hit the staircase leading underground. He spun to the side for a second, before realising that he was still gripping the throttle. Releasing his hand, he slammed his left foot down and just stopped the bike from crashing to the ground as the front tyre keeled over and started pummelling the stairs, the bike falling and stumbling as it worked its way down into the central station area.