Blood Med

by Jason Webster

  Felicidad’s hand shook as she put the glass back on the table.

  ‘This is now a murder investigation. And real, easily identified murder. I’m not talking about the subtler, quieter murder of thousands by stealing money intended for their medicines, or to pay for their doctors. As far as I’m concerned, Señorita Galván, you are just as guilty as all the others I put away for stabbing their wives, or cutting up a rival drug dealer. You are a murderer and you are going to jail.’

  He looked down at the documents on her desk and then back to her.

  ‘For how long depends entirely on you.’

  There was a light knocking at the door and the secretary came in.

  ‘I’m going home,’ she said sulkily. ‘It’s almost midnight.’

  ‘Yes, go,’ Felicidad said, waving her away. ‘I’m so sorry, I . . . I should have said something before. Take . . . Why don’t you take tomorrow off. You’ve been working very hard.’

  The secretary’s face brightened a little.

  ‘Now go, please. Take a taxi and charge it to me.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  The secretary cast a questioning glance at Cámara and then closed the door. After a pause, Cámara spoke.

  ‘We’re alone?’

  ‘A guard is on duty through the night. He stays on the ground floor.’

  ‘Lonely work.’

  ‘Someone’s got to do it.’

  She smiled.

  ‘I’ve always been a night bird. The problem is that this job demands early starts as well, so I often stay here through till morning, pretending that I’ve been the first to arrive.’

  ‘Not much life outside work, then.’

  ‘No. Not much.’

  ‘Until Flores came along.’

  She jumped in her seat.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You were sleeping with him, weren’t you?’

  ‘How did you . . .? Did he tell you that?’

  ‘He didn’t have to. Those . . .’ He gestured around his neck. ‘Brown leather ties. I mean, come on.’

  Her hand shot up to her throat. The leather thong drooped listlessly down the front of her blouse.

  ‘I still haven’t taken it off,’ she said in a low voice, her eyes staring at the floor.

  ‘Did he end it?’ asked Cámara.

  ‘Last night,’ she said. ‘Rang me up, said he was sorry, but . . . Just a load of excuses.’

  ‘Were you in love with him?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘No. It was a diversion. Fun. A woman can’t get to where I have with things like love getting in the way.’

  She laughed.

  ‘Besides, he’s in love with Emilia, the mayoress. He only screws around when she’s no longer letting him into her bed. It happens every now and again. I think she does it with a few of her councillors – keeps them on their toes.’

  Her gaze became unfocused as she spoke.

  ‘We used these,’ she said, her hand stroking the tie. ‘His and hers. Mine to tie up his right hand and his to tie up his left. Then he’d get me to pretend I was Emilia, all dressed up and shouting at him how bad he’d been. He loved it. Although it didn’t do much for me, to be honest.’

  ‘Did Emilia know about the slush fund?’ Cámara asked.

  She looked up, caught off guard.

  ‘No. I mean, I don’t know. There’s nothing about her there, if that’s what you mean.’

  She nodded at the towers of documents.

  ‘Is that what this is about? Getting Emilia? Smashing the system?’

  She grinned.

  ‘Emilia’s too smart for that. Not Flores, but then you’ve already worked that out.’

  ‘And Maldonado?’

  She waved a hand.

  ‘Pah! Maldo is just a grubby messenger boy. He gets his little cut, like everyone. He was kept going, passing information about the police. But it’s more the thought that he’s currying favours, people who will help him up the ladder. He’s not really in it for the money. Although I did notice a gold Rolex on his wrist the last time I saw him.’

  Cámara smiled.

  ‘Did you really think someone so stupid and ostentatious could be involved at a higher level?’

  ‘If he was involved, why did he get Torres and me to investigate both the killings? He could at least have buried Oliva’s death for a while – it looked like a genuine suicide attempt at the beginning.’

  ‘That was a mistake,’ she said. ‘He’d already assigned the cases before Flores could get to him. Once he got the nod, however, he did what he could to slow everything down.’

  ‘So he tipped off the LOP,’ Cámara said. ‘When we went to their gym it looked like they’d left in a hurry. He must have told them.’

  ‘No,’ said Felicidad. ‘That wasn’t Maldo. That was me.’

  ‘You?’

  ‘You came here, remember? Fished me out of the conference room. You were getting close. I thought precautions should be made.’

  Cámara was silent.

  ‘Is that all right?’ Felicidad said. ‘As a confession? It makes me feel quite good. There’s something almost addictive about it.’

  ‘So you’ll give us the documents?’ Cámara asked. ‘As evidence?’

  Her mouth tightened and she turned away.

  ‘You can have them,’ she said at last. ‘You can have the lot.’

  ‘Tell me,’ Cámara said. ‘Why the LOP? I mean, OK, I understand they’re on the Right, like Flores. But they’re extremists, violent thugs.’

  ‘I’m not the person to ask.’

  ‘You’re a party member. You were running the slush fund.’

  ‘Managing it,’ she said. ‘Not making decisions about where the money should go.’

  ‘You knew everything that was going on.’

  She sighed.

  ‘They were useful,’ she said. ‘That was how Flores explained it to me. He used them – to keep tabs on other Far Right parties, to float political ideas sometimes. How voters reacted to Soler’s comments about Catalan Nationalism or a new wave of immigrants gave them a chance to test the waters. Then he could harden or soften the Town Hall’s own line on these matters depending.’

  ‘They did more, though. Much more.’

  ‘That’s how it began. Then Flores started using them for more direct action. They were told to make friends in the police – it wasn’t difficult, as far as I hear. Some of your colleagues are already quite politicised in that direction.’

  ‘I’ve noticed.’

  ‘But you’re right, they were doing more. Flores wanted them to keep an eye on certain people – political opponents, a few journalists. And the idea was to frighten them, perhaps.’

  ‘But then Amy Donahue and Diego Oliva got murdered.’

  She pressed a hand to her lips, as though suddenly aware that she was talking – talking too much.

  ‘And Diego had worked for you.’

  Still no answer.

  ‘Did you tell them about him? Did you mention that he might be a threat? That he knew about the slush fund?’

  Her eyes reddened and with the tiniest of motions she began to nod.

  ‘You told Flores, right? Warned him about Diego.’

  ‘I didn’t want him to be killed. I didn’t know they would do that. That they would follow him and kill him. And then the girl. The American. How was I supposed to know?’

  ‘But you mentioned him. He was off the leash, out of work, pissed off at how he’d been treated here and knew everything.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Why didn’t you buy him off?’

  ‘I tried. At first I tried to give him some money, sort him out,’ she said. ‘But too much time had passed. He was proud, said he’d never forgive me. I never really believed he’d spill everything, though. I mean, he still had a chance of getting a job at another bank one day. He wasn’t going to be out of work for ever. But if he went public with what he knew he would ruin everything. No one would ever hire him after
such a breach of trust.’

  Cámara laughed.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re all as fucking corrupt as each other,’ he said. ‘A man goes clean and suddenly no other bank would want to touch him. You’re despicable.’

  Felicidad closed her eyes.

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Yes, we are.’

  Cámara heard a noise outside, like a footstep, and stood up.

  Felicidad looked at him with a curious expression.

  ‘That guard,’ Cámara said in a low voice. ‘Which company did you say he worked for?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Felicidad said. ‘But now that you ask, I’m assuming the name Protegival means something to you.’

  The door was thrust open violently and before he could react Cámara was thrown to the floor. The guard reached for his wrists, trying to pin him to the ground, and smashed downwards with his head. Cámara managed to turn his face at the last minute and the point of the guard’s forehead hit his cheekbone.

  ‘Fucking keep still!’

  The guard’s head went back to take another strike. His weight was pressed down on Cámara, but only one knee had managed to immobilise Cámara’s left leg. With his right, Cámara jerked upwards and connected with the guard’s groin.

  A low moaning sound shot from the guard’s mouth and he rolled on to his side. Cámara went to grapple with him, but the guard had already unholstered his pistol and was waving it in his hand. Cámara crouched and shunted his head against the guard’s stomach as the gun went off. From the other side of the room came the sound of shattering glass: the bullet had hit one of the large windows looking out over the street.

  With his head still buried in the guard’s abdomen, Cámara reached up and put a finger in his attacker’s mouth, pulling it hard to the side and almost ripping the skin. The man went down, screaming. In an instant Cámara had pulled out his own weapon and trained it against his head.

  ‘It stops now,’ he said, panting. The guard was in agony, one hand pressed between his legs, the other nursing his face. Cámara reached round the back of the guard’s belt and unhooked the handcuffs, then flipped the man on to his front and secured his wrists.

  He stood up, still trying to catch his breath, and looked around. There was no sign of Felicidad.

  He raced to the open door and checked up and down the corridor, but she was nowhere in sight. Had she already made it downstairs?

  On the desk, the towers of documents were all there. She had not taken a single one.

  From the other side of the room, a cool breeze was beginning to blow in. Cámara looked up: the window had a much larger hole in it, not the neat circle where the bullet had just passed.

  He ran over and peered out. But he already knew.

  Felicidad’s body lay shattered and destroyed on the empty pavement below.

  He stepped back, his head reeling.

  On the railing, at the side of the window, hung the brown leather tie.

  FORTY-ONE

  SOME OF THE faces were familiar from the metro refuge. He smiled as he walked the length of the room, squeezing between two long trestle tables. The odd hand reached out in greeting, brushing his arms, patting him on the lower back; they had not seen him for days.

  ‘Hola, Max,’ grinned a three-year-old boy between mouthfuls of tortilla.

  ‘Hi, Ricky.’

  The buffet was laid out at the top table, where Berto was helping to pour drinks.

  ‘Hey, you’re back,’ he said, catching sight of Cámara. ‘The policeman.’

  ‘They told you?’

  ‘Well, it’s hardly a secret any more,’ Berto said, raising his voice above the sound of a dozen echoing conversations. ‘Not after what happened.’

  He sniggered.

  ‘You had me fooled,’ he said. ‘I would never have guessed.’

  Cámara shrugged.

  ‘There are policemen and policemen,’ he said.

  He looked across to where Daniel and Dídac were sitting close by, eating their lunch and watching protectively over the day’s intake of people.

  ‘Things working out?’ he asked.

  ‘Like a dream,’ said Berto. ‘Thanks again for putting me in touch with these guys. There’s a great feeling here. I think we’re going to do amazing things together.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’

  He shook Berto’s hand and took a couple of paces across the room. Daniel looked up and beckoned him to sit on a spare seat next to him.

  ‘You hungry?’ he said.

  ‘I’m OK.’

  ‘You should try some of this paella,’ said Dídac. ‘It’s delicious.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Cámara shook his head.

  ‘No appetite?’ Daniel said. ‘It’ll come back. Eventually. Give it time.’

  ‘I’m getting there.’

  ‘We’re all really sorry about Alicia,’ said Daniel. ‘Really sorry.’

  Cámara closed his eyes for a moment and nodded gently.

  ‘Thanks for everything you did.’

  ‘This place is good,’ Daniel said after a pause. ‘A bit small, but it’s fine. I’ve spotted a boarded-up shop a few doors down. If we need to expand we can liberate it from its current state of unemployment.’

  Dídac chuckled.

  ‘Direct action,’ Daniel said. ‘It’s what this is all about.’

  ‘Even robbing banks?’ Cámara asked. ‘And handing the money out to the poor?’

  Daniel stared into the distance.

  ‘No idea what you’re talking about,’ he said.

  ‘I miss the metro,’ said Dídac.

  ‘It was big and fun,’ Daniel said. ‘But nothing lasts for ever. You have to learn that.’

  Cámara smiled to himself. The way Daniel spoke to his son reminded him of how Hilario used to speak to him.

  The anarchist refuge in the metro station had to be abandoned after the story of the LOP broke. Until then no one had suspected that the tunnels were being used illegally. Soler’s ‘bunker’ had been shut down, but so had their own very different corner of the underground city as a result. Putting Daniel in touch with Berto had been Cámara’s attempt to help keep things going in a new form, however temporarily. And for the time being it appeared to be working: local restaurants were still offering uneaten food for the project, and more homeless and workless people were being fed as a result.

  ‘No empires,’ Cámara said.

  ‘No empires,’ Daniel smiled. He turned to Dídac. ‘Which means no parties.’

  Dídac frowned.

  ‘He wants to set up a new political party,’ Daniel explained to Cámara. ‘To help establish true democracy.’

  ‘Noble sentiment,’ Cámara said.

  ‘But it’s not what this kind of anarchism is about,’ said Daniel. ‘At least not my understanding of it. We do what we can, when we can, and then we move on. Traditional politics will always drag you down, no matter how good your intentions at the beginning. I’m sure Hilario would agree with me if he were here.’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Yes, I think he would.’

  ‘Look at what Max has achieved,’ Daniel continued, pointing to Cámara as he spoke to Dídac. ‘A Far Right party has been crippled, its leader banged up in jail. His security firm is now passing to new ownership, the corrupt bank which was paying him off is about to be nationalised, and the ruling party in the city is falling apart as we speak – all thanks to his investigation. That’s real activism. That’s anarchism at work for you. And he’s a policeman.’

  Cámara laughed.

  ‘OK,’ Dídac said. ‘I get it. Time for a revolution. I was at the latest demo last night. Felt like the whole of Valencia turned out. Tens of thousands. They closed the place down. Everyone showed up – the anti-repossession activists, teachers, doctors, nurses. Even civil servants working directly for the Town Hall. Most of them haven’t been paid in months. And now they know all about the slush fund and the millions that were siphoned off. They’re angry. T
he police went in hard – loads of people were arrested. But there was a real sense of change in the air.’

  ‘But this morning did you see any banks had been burned down?’ Daniel asked. ‘Or that protestors had taken over government buildings?’

  Dídac frowned.

  ‘Letting off steam, getting into fights with the riot police – that’s one thing. Demanding real change is another. And things have to get seriously bad – worse than now, even – for enough people to want that. I don’t know if it’s going to happen yet.’

  The three of them looked in silence at the hungry faces – almost a hundred homeless people chatting, eating and enjoying a moment’s pause and relief from the business of having to survive.

  ‘I wonder,’ said Cámara.

  FORTY-TWO

  CÁMARA AND TORRES sat at their usual bar in the Carmen. It was almost the end of the month and the weather was getting hotter. Soon they would no longer be able to sit outside, forced behind air-conditioned walls to escape the worst of the summer heat.

  Cámara had arrived on a borrowed motorbike. After pulling it out of the tunnel and back overground, the mechanic had said he thought he could fix the Kawasaki, but it would take a bit of time. Meanwhile, after a promise that the bill would be paid in cash, he was lending Cámara something to get by on – an old Honda. It was parked on the pavement a few metres away.

  Torres and Cámara sipped cool glasses of Mahou, silently watching the world go by. Students moved in packs carrying textbooks, grandparents pushed small children along in buggies, tourists – some in groups but most in pairs or on their own – sauntered about, wearing straw hats and sunglasses.

  ‘I remember when you never saw tourists here,’ Torres said. ‘Or the ones that did come were usually lost, thinking they were in Barcelona.’

  Cámara chuckled. It was true. Ten or fifteen years before there were hardly any foreigners in Valencia. Now thousands were coming to visit, and a few had decided to stay.

  ‘It seems so different from a week or so ago,’ he said. ‘No demonstrations, no riot police.’

  ‘You reckon that’s it?’

  ‘I don’t know. The King’s still hanging on by the looks of it – just. Perhaps if he actually died . . .’