The Anarchist Detective (Max Cámara)

by Webster, Jason

  ‘Or what? You want to bust me? You think I’m dealing as well?’

  Cámara held up his hands.

  ‘It’s all right, it’s all right. Estrella, really, I’m not trying to frighten you. I just need some information. I don’t care what you’re doing. OK? Trust me. I don’t care, and I’m not going to say anything to anyone, all right? I just need to know some things.’

  ‘Christ, Max. If you weren’t police I’d fucking throw you out. Fucking cheek.’

  She turned back to the bar and rested her head on one hand, looking down at the floor.

  ‘Where do people go these days, to score?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘The same old places.’

  ‘And what are they selling these days?’

  Estrella gave him a look of disbelief.

  ‘Again, the same old thing.’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Like what?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘For fuck’s sake. Cocaine, hash, amphetamines, crystal . . . same as always. It’s a stable market, Max. No one’s pushing anything new. Kids are conservative these days. Just want what they’ve always had. Don’t want to experiment any more.’

  ‘What about the gangs? Who’s controlling? Who’s doing what?’

  ‘The Gypsies,’ she said, as though he were stupid. ‘Same as ever.’

  ‘No one else? No one new?’

  ‘The Colombians aren’t here, if that’s what you mean. They’re distributing to the Gypsies, probably. I don’t know. What are you asking me these things for? Shouldn’t you be talking to the narco squad? They’ll have all this.’

  ‘That’s it? No one else?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘I don’t know. People talk sometimes about Moroccans coming in. Or some Moroccan guy around. I haven’t seen him, so I can’t say. Don’t know what he’s doing here, or what he’s selling. It’s just been mentioned, that’s all.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Moroccan, you say.’

  ‘Yeah. Some name like Mohammed or Ahmed. But, I mean, they’re all called something like that, aren’t they?’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  ‘FUCK OFF. I’M not lending you another car.’

  Gerardo was not pleased to see Cámara’s face appearing at his door again. Sitting at his desk, finishing off some paperwork before closing the garage for the evening, he shook his head.

  ‘I can’t believe you. Seriously, Max. This is not on.’

  Cámara said nothing, leaning against the wall, a cigarette drooping from his lips.

  ‘You’re a fucking liability. You lost me a lot of money on that BMW. It was a beautiful car.’

  ‘Still looks pretty good to me.’

  Cámara glanced over to the other side of the workshop, where the BMW was parked up against the far corner.

  ‘Look, you don’t know anything about cars, right. That’s my department. And I’m telling you that at least a couple of grand have been lost thanks to your pissing about with it.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so.’

  ‘I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Are you the only person in the country who doesn’t have a favour to ask of a policeman?’

  Gerardo looked up from his desk.

  ‘Anything?’

  ‘Anything.’

  ‘No matter how big?’

  Cámara shrugged.

  ‘They say you only know your true friends when you show up at their door with a dead body on your hands,’ Gerardo said.

  ‘You planning on killing someone?’

  ‘Right now, the only person I’d kill is standing in front of me.’

  ‘Can you lend me a car first? We can sort out the bit about killing me and disposing of the body when I get back.’

  ‘If you get back. Looks like it was a close-run thing the last time.’

  ‘I made it, didn’t I?’

  ‘Just make sure this time that when they shoot you, you put yourself between the bullet and the bodywork, all right?’

  ‘So you will, then?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Lend me a car.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Come on, Gerardo.’

  ‘I haven’t got anything here you could have. I’m not lending you a client’s car. Not least because if they’re in here it means they’re broken. And I’m not lending you my car, for fuck’s sake. Not for where you’ve got in mind. Where are you going, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘Oh, forget it. If you’re going to be like that.’

  ‘Look, it’s a place not far away. But it’s dangerous.’

  ‘What? In Albacete? You talk as if this was Beirut, or something.’

  ‘Pozoblanco,’ Cámara said. ‘Heard of it?’

  ‘Pozoblanco? That commie village up the road?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘That’s where you got shot at?’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Bloody hell. I had no idea.’

  ‘So can you lend me a car or not? I have to go there tonight.’

  ‘No, I told you. What? Tonight? In the dark, sort of thing? A night raid? You sound like some kind of special forces bloke. Are you blacking up your face as well?’

  ‘I wasn’t. But now you mention it . . .’

  Gerardo shook his head, laughing.

  ‘That’s the thing. I could never tell – none of us could – whether you were joking or being serious.’

  ‘It’s too far to walk. I’m not going to catch the bus.’

  ‘Oh, that would be worth seeing – all kitted out for a commando raid and then catching the number sixteen to get to the target area.’

  Cámara laughed with him.

  ‘At least no one would expect it.’

  The laughter slowly died out, and they were both silent for a moment.

  ‘All right,’ Cámara said. ‘No car. But what about that?’

  He pointed to a motorbike leaning against the wall, partly covered in a greasy dark green tarpaulin.

  ‘That?’ Gerardo said incredulously.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘It’s a Montesa Impala.’

  ‘Does it work?’

  ‘Yes, it works, but that’s not the point. It’s over forty years old – it’s a collector’s item.’

  ‘Are those the keys there?’

  Cámara stepped across and picked up a keyring hanging from a nail above the desk.

  ‘Yes, but . . .’

  Cámara was already walking over to the motorbike, pulling off the cover to take a look.

  ‘This’ll do.’

  ‘Lord have fucking mercy.’

  Half a kilometre from Pozoblanco, he turned off the headlight and cut out the engine, coasting for as long as he could down the dark empty road until he came to the junction for the slip road down to the village. A slight slope helped him to roll down a little more until he reached the line of trees that started a hundred metres before the first houses.

  He got off the motorbike and pulled it over to the verge, leaning it down on the ground on its side. No one would see it – unless they were looking for it.

  He stepped to the edge of the village, remaining in the shadows beyond the footprint of the first lamp: it was just past three o’clock and the street was empty. From the map he’d worked out a way of getting around, avoiding the main square in case anyone was still about at that hour. He didn’t have long, however. Within about an hour the first risers would be getting up for the dawn collection of more saffron flowers.

  Colourful posters had been stuck up on the walls showing stick figures of children with smiling faces carrying balloons and riding a ferris wheel. Bold lettering at the top announced the annual end-of-harvest village fiesta for the following evening. Pozoblanco was getting ready to celebrate.

  The wind was now blowing quite hard, with sudden gusts. In the end, Gerardo had lent
Cámara an oil-stained padded leather jacket he used for riding the bike. They couldn’t find a helmet, so he had come bareheaded, his eyes watering as the cold bit into them.

  He took a side street, keeping close to the walls, walking quickly and steadily, his shoulders slightly hunched, trying, as much as he could, to reduce his presence, to make himself invisible. If someone saw him they would almost certainly see that he wasn’t from the village – people in places like that always know each other by sight at least.

  The warehouse was only a few streets away. Reaching into the jacket pockets he checked everything was there: a straightened paperclip and small screwdriver for picking locks, a hammer, a small wind-up torch, a folded-up paper bag, and an Albacete knife with a curved four-inch steel blade.

  Past the last group of houses. A quick check to see if anyone was around, and then he stepped out across the street towards the warehouse.

  Check the obvious first: the main door. You never know.

  But it was locked.

  He looked at the padlock – not the easiest kind to pick; it would take a few minutes.

  The wind almost pushed him along as he walked around to the side. The sound of the rushing air would at least help to disguise any noise he might inadvertently make, he thought, although he found it harder to concentrate, some primitive part of him keen to get out of the cold and into some kind of shelter.

  He checked for other possible means of entry: side doors, windows. But they were all as securely closed as the main entrance. Coming round to the front once again he was reaching for his lock-picking tools when he caught sight of a pile of ladders left under a shelter leaning against one of the houses on the other side of the road. He jogged over to have a look: they were wooden, proper old ladders with a wide base to give more stability. He looked round at the warehouse: one window above a door had been closed, but he felt sure he could get it open. Then he might be able to reach down and unlock the door from the inside.

  He lifted the top ladder up as carefully as he could, trying not to make a sound. He might not have bothered with a modern, narrow ladder in this wind, but with this one he was more confident.

  In a few strides he was back at the warehouse, where he leaned the ladder against the wall. He tested the first step – it was secure. Then he lifted himself up another three steps until he was level with the small window. It opened outwards, and as he suspected, it wasn’t locked. Wedging his screwdriver underneath it, he was able to loosen it enough until he could get his fingers into the gap, then he pulled it open.

  It made a creaking, cracking sound. Cámara stopped. The wind, he hoped, had muffled the noise. But going unnoticed by the sleeping villagers was one thing; being undetected by the dogs many of them would keep was another. So far, he’d been lucky getting here without disturbing any. But he had to be very careful.

  He listened for a moment: no barking.

  Pushing himself through the window up to his waist, he leaned down and felt around in the dark for the latch. It was a slide-bolt. Grabbing it with his fingers he gave it a jerk and it slid to the side. The door almost opened on its own thanks to the wind. He pulled himself out of the window, climbed back down, lay the ladder on the ground in case anyone saw it, and then stepped inside.

  His torch was little bigger than a cigarette lighter, but it cast a bright white light over what looked like a room adjacent to the main area of the warehouse. The room Faro Oscuro hadn’t shown them.

  He turned back to the door and closed it, trying to block out the noise of the wind outside. The bolt moved, but was now jammed for some reason and wouldn’t go all the way back in. It was enough to keep the door closed, but a harsh gust might blow it open again.

  In a slow, smooth motion, he shone the torch over the room to get a better look, and then stopped still. The wind was rushing outside, but set against it, punctuating the whooshing sound, was the staccato barking of a dog. It was hard to say how far away it was – perhaps two or three streets.

  He cursed: he would have to be very quick. With luck the dog would be ignored, but if someone saw the light from his torch . . .

  Glancing from side to side, he saw work tables set against two walls, while a third wall was covered almost to the top with hundreds of cardboard packing cases with ‘La Mancha Saffron’ written on them.

  Opening one, Cámara saw that it was filled with fifty or sixty small plastic containers, only slightly bigger than a large coin, with no more than two, perhaps three, pinches of saffron in each one.

  He took a couple and shoved them into his pockets.

  Then he walked over to one of the work tables. Empty plastic containers, like the ones in the boxes, were piled up at the side. Next to them was an open box of latex gloves – a used pair, with yellow-stained fingers, had been tossed to the side, one still on the table, the other having fallen to the floor.

  Three cardboard boxes were placed near the centre of the table – two much larger than the third. Next to them was a white plastic bowl. He opened each box. Inside each one was a mixture of what looked, to him, like saffron. He took a pinch from each and lifted it to smell – the first two made him curl up his nose and turn away. Only the third, of which there was a small amount, had a pleasant odour. He took a sample of each and placed them in the little bag he’d brought, wrapping each one in tissue paper first to keep it separate.

  A piece of paper next to the plastic bowl caught his eye – he lifted it up to read. It was a table, showing figures and percentages. And there was writing near the top, written in a script he didn’t immediately recognise. Was it Arabic? Persian? He placed it in his jacket.

  Instinctively he switched the torch off. A noise had come from inside the warehouse.

  He backed away, moving as silently as he could towards the door through which he’d come in. His right hand had already curled itself around the knife in his pocket and was pushing the blade out.

  With his left hand he reached behind, fumbling for the bolt, but couldn’t find it.

  The lights had been switched on inside the warehouse – a white-yellow glow was seeping through the gaps around the door leading into the side room where he was standing. Again he tried to feel for the metal bolt, not daring to turn his back on the intruder. He heard footsteps, a hand on the door, the clicking of a safety catch on a gun . . .

  He dived forwards in the dark just as a hand reached for the light switch. Curling himself tight, he rolled on one shoulder before the momentum brought him back on to the balls of his feet and he lunged up and straight, his fist pushing hard into the man’s groin. A high-pitched wail of clouded pain burst from the intruder’s mouth as he doubled up, strength leaving his body, and he fell to the floor. There was a clatter; an AK-47 semi-automatic rifle hit the ground, still gripped hard in his hand.

  Cámara threw himself down on the man, pinning him to the floor with his weight, trying to press his knee on the arm holding the weapon. But the man wriggled and fought back, just loosening Cámara free enough to swing the butt against his head and knock him to the side.

  Dazed, Cámara swung out a kicking leg as he fell; once the rifle was trained on him the fight would be over. There was no time to pause, to gauge then strike.

  His shin caught something and again there came a cry of pain. Cámara looked up and saw that he’d managed to snap the gun up into the man’s face, catching his nose, which was now beginning to bleed.

  The knife had been loose in his pocket; now he gripped it and lunged forwards, kicking the rifle away across the floor and pressing the blade against the man’s neck.

  ‘Hello, Reza.’

  Reza’s black eyes stared back at him.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ he said.

  There was a second’s pause as both men understood: each one knew exactly who the other really was.

  Reza’s body relaxed slightly as a half-smile formed. He licked his upper lip, catching the blood and drawing it into his mouth.

  ‘Were you looking for somethin
g?’

  Before Cámara could react, Reza spat the blood up into his face. In the second Cámara’s eyes closed Reza pushed him off and to the side. Cámara swiped with his knife, catching Reza’s lower leg as he made to run off.

  He called out in pain, but it was a superficial cut only; Reza was hurt, but not disabled. And he was making his way across the warehouse to where Cámara had kicked his gun.

  Cámara looked up: Reza had come in through the main entrance, and the door had now swung open in the wind and was banging against the wall. Between Reza and the rifle there was only a large container filled with saffron stigmas, plucked and ready to be packaged.

  With just a knife, though, he could do little. Once Reza picked the gun up again . . .

  The wind was picking up outside, blowing stronger and stronger.

  BANG, BANG, BANG went the door.

  A couple of saffron strands lifted into the air from the box at his side, swirling as the currents caught them. The side room, from where he’d come, was just a few metres away on his left.

  A shot rang out as he stood up and ran. The bullet ricocheted off the metal saffron container before burying itself in the wall.

  Cámara was in the side room, unhurt, Reza following close behind.

  The bolt came easily to his fingers this time. Easing it across, he felt the wind pushing hard against the door, trying eagerly to get in.

  There was a cracking sound as the door whipped open. Reza appeared in the doorway, lifting the AK-47 to take aim.

  Cámara just smiled.

  The wind sailed past him, through Reza and deep into the warehouse. In less than a second it had caught up the dry, feather-light saffron and was lifting it high into the air. More air currents began to scatter it about, but the wind was travelling mainly in one direction, and now carrying its hostage away with it, it began to blow out through the main door.

  The gun lowered in Reza’s hand as he understood. Then with a shriek he turned and ran back into the warehouse, dropping the rifle, his hands outstretched as he tried to catch a million swarming strands of saffron disappearing into the night sky.

  ‘No, no, no!’

  Cámara put away his knife and gripped his own saffron samples in his pocket.