‘¿Qué coño? What the fuck?’
There was a bewildered murmuring from the guests before a huddle of people burst through the doorway and into the bar. On their chests were emblazoned drawings of a bull with a red line painted through it, while two of them were holding a banner with the words ‘Blanco asesino’ painted in dark green letters which they struggled to unfurl in the cramped room. Without moving from his position at the bar, Cámara looked over and quickly counted: there were nine of them, with perhaps a straggler or two outside. Most were in their twenties, one or two slightly older. Almost all of them were wearing jeans, with walking boots or trainers, and brightly coloured shirts and jackets. No sign of any of them carrying a weapon.
Once inside, the demonstrators pulled out their whistles and started to blow, splitting the air with a tremendous sound, while someone banged a drum with a slow, stomping rhythm. Above the noise, a tinny voice echoed out from a loudhailer, the words angry and violent but incoherent in the racket. Cámara spotted the would-be spokesperson – a girl of about twenty-five, her hair in dreadlocks and pulled back in a loose bun.
Some of the guests had stood up and were gesticulating aggressively at the intruders. Ramírez, the bull breeder, sat where he was, his skin reddening. The owner of the bar was rooted to the spot, an expression of panic on his face. Cámara looked for Carmen Luna, but she seemed to have disappeared. Instead he found himself being watched by the short woman with the highlights in her hair. He felt sure she knew who he was, and her wry, knowing smile seemed to tell him that he was the only one there who could deal with the situation.
He placed his drink back on the bar and walked towards the intruders. They were now inching their way forwards with a growing group momentum, and there was a danger of imminent physical contact with some of the guests.
Cámara stepped in and quickly placed himself between the two opposing forces. The whistling intensified, as though to blast him out of the way, before finally subsiding as the intruders paused to take their breath. Cámara grabbed his chance.
‘Venga. Come on,’ he said, gesturing towards the door.
The girl with the loudhailer stood to the front and looked him up and down. She seemed curious: he didn’t fit here. The absence of an expensive watch on his wrist, his uncombed hair, the short sideburns framing his face, the stubble on his chin showing that he hadn’t been as careful as he might have been when shaving that morning. By the looks of it he should have been on their side.
‘Who are you?’ she asked.
‘It’s time to go,’ Cámara said. ‘You can carry on outside.’
From behind, Cámara could feel the eyes of the guests on him, wondering if he was capable of solving their little crisis. In front, the demonstrators decided it was time to increase the noise levels again, and the cacophony started afresh, the whistling piercing his ears like needles. Yet instinctively he could tell, as he watched them jumping and waving their arms, stamping their feet to the sound of the drum, that they had not come here seeking any more than this – a minor discomfort, a show of strength, despite their limited numbers. Their intention was to embarrass and annoy, not cause a fight or a riot.
He raised his voice.
‘I’m a policeman. I want you to leave.’
The girl gave him another quizzical look.
‘Policeman? So what are you doing here standing up for these murderers?’ She pointed at Ramírez and his son. ‘You should be locking them up.’
There was a surge in the group as she spoke, a lurching, unconscious step forwards. Cámara put out his arm and held them back. They felt his strength, like a rock. It would be difficult to get past this one.
‘I need you to leave,’ Cámara repeated, his voice lower this time. ‘Now.’
A shout came from the back, while two of them took up their whistles once again, but the girl with the dreadlocks remained silent, flaring her nostrils as she looked into Cámara’s eyes. Moments passed and neither moved, but then, with a slump of her shoulders, she sighed. The others began to read the signal and started backing slowly, very gradually, away.
‘Murderers! Murderers!’
A final cry of defiance, until there was just the girl left, and a young man standing beside her; he was taller than the others, with a slim, muscular build. He grinned mockingly at the people in the bar, then turned and walked out into the street, leaving the girl on her own. She cast a disgusted eye about the room, and turned to Cámara. Tilting her head up, she blew him a kiss, then spinning round she swept her arm out over one of the tables nearby, sending glasses and cutlery crashing to the floor, before running out to join the others.
Cámara felt a powerful reflex in his leg, a desire to lunge after her and pull her in. But he held back, his jaws tight, fists clenched. The stand-off was over. Peace, albeit of an uncertain kind, had been restored.
He felt a hand on his shoulder. Turning, he saw the barman holding out a glass of brandy for him.
‘You might want this,’ he said.
The owner of the bar sauntered over, all smiles now the crisis had been resolved.
‘We’re indebted to you, Chief Inspector.’ And he held out a cold damp hand to shake.
‘Tonight is not the night, but those sons-of-bitches need teaching a good lesson, if you ask me,’ the owner said.
Cámara returned to the main group, many pressing forwards to pat him on the back. He nodded and smiled, cursing that it would be more difficult now to leave unnoticed.
The woman with the highlighted hair was the first to break the newly found bonhomie.
‘I’ve just called Blanco on his mobile,’ she said. ‘He’s not answering. He should have been here by now.’
She looked over at Cámara, and this time he remembered who she was – Alicia Beneyto, a journalist on the local newspaper El Diario de Valencia.
‘I’m just wondering if he’s having difficulties getting here,’ she said. ‘Perhaps the demonstrators have put him off. Would it be a good idea to call for backup, Chief Inspector?’
All eyes were back on Cámara. He’d saved them once. Now it seemed he was expected to pull their missing guest of honour out of a hat as well.
Before he could say anything, the door from the street opened again and in stepped a Policía Local – a municipal policeman – his dayglo jacket flapping in the breeze just above the hilt of his revolver.
‘Chief Inspector Cámara?’ he called out.
Cámara walked over. The young policeman’s breath was shallow and cold.
‘Chief Inspector. There’s something you should see.’
Jorge Blanco’s naked body was slumped in the middle of the empty, unlit bullring. He was curled into a ball, his legs tucked underneath his body, and a pair of bright yellow and red banderilla darts hung from the centre of his back, their sharp fish-hook points ripping at his flesh as they flopped to the ground. Higher up, towards his shoulders, a red-handled matador’s sword had been thrust into his ribcage, still swaying as the upper half of the blade caught glimmers of the street lights outside. A Spanish national flag was tied around his neck like a noose and lay mingling with congealed dark black bloodstains in the sand.
Cámara felt an icy weight sink in his guts, and a fierce, electric buzz beginning to crawl up his spine. The Municipal who had brought him was coughing and hacking some yards behind, trying not to throw up. Outside in the street, cars streamed past and Fallas music blared, the city still unaware of the storm about to break over the cold corpse curled up at its heart.
Cámara’s phone bleeped. It was the duty officer back at the Jefatura.
‘The científicos are on their way,’ he told him.
‘Pardo?’ Cámara asked.
‘He’s been informed. You’re the nearest officer to the scene.’
There was a pause: no need to say it, but the duty officer felt compelled to spell it out.
‘It’s your murder, Cámara.’
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Copyright © 2013 by Jason Webster
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First published in Great Britain in 2013
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The Killing of El Niño Jesús Page 4