The Anarchist Detective (Max Cámara)

by Webster, Jason

  It was time to disappear.

  TWENTY-SIX

  Friday 6th November

  HILARIO APPEARED TO have taken a turn for the worse, mumbling to himself over breakfast, occasionally throwing out a badly enunciated, irrelevant question and then not always waiting for the answer.

  ‘This policeman friend of yours.’

  ‘What about—?’

  ‘Is he married?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Wears a ring, does he?’

  Hilario lifted up his hand and wiggled his fingers.

  ‘Likes to wear a ring?’

  Cámara had to think for a moment.

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him with—’

  ‘But he does wear one, normally, right?’

  Hilario slurped his coffee, dark brown droplets catching on his grey stubble as the cup wobbled on his lips.

  ‘Probably,’ Cámara said. ‘The skin is lighter where the ring ought to be. Some policemen take it off – it’s safer than—’

  ‘Getting one yourself?’

  ‘A wedding ring?’

  ‘You and Alicia? Wedding bells? The Church does a nice service, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Have you been on the home-grown?’

  ‘Oh, I like that. You’re the one staggering around like a blind man and I’m the one who’s stoned out of his skull.’

  Cámara was sitting perfectly still at the table. He looked like a model of tranquillity.

  Did this happen before another attack, he wondered? Was Hilario minutes away from another blood clot lodging in his brain? What was left of it seemed to be pretty jumbled that morning.

  ‘Are you taking your pills?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like I was senile. Course I’m fucking taking them. It’s you needs your head examining. Have you called Alicia?’

  Cámara shrugged.

  ‘You should, you know, after what you’ve been through together. Getting shot at.’

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘She told me. Alicia told me. She rang me up, said what a nice time she’d had. Not getting shot at, obviously. I mean coming here, meeting me.’

  Cámara was silent.

  ‘You’re going to let that one slip away,’ Hilario said, ‘and you’ll never catch another like her. Not at your age. You’re turning into an old fart, you know. Bit of a gut developing down there.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Read your notes about the murders as well. Might use them for that novel I told you about.’

  ‘What novel?’

  There was a click down the corridor as the front door opened. Neither of them reacted, knowing full well that it would be Pilar arriving for work. Cámara glanced at the pile of dirty dishes from the night before, leaning in a tower by the sink.

  ‘Have some guests round last night?’ he asked as Pilar’s footsteps grew closer.

  Perhaps Hilario was merely hungover.

  ‘Where were you? Out prowling again? And what’s that motorbike doing in the front hall? That’s a Montesa Impala, that is. Collector’s item. What did you do? Steal it? I knew there’s hope for you yet.’

  ‘A friend lent it to me. Gerardo.’

  ‘Oh.’

  Hilario looked disappointed.

  Pilar had been standing in the doorway for a few moments now, expecting them to greet her. Eventually, without turning, Cámara said hello.

  ‘Hola.’

  There was no reply.

  ‘She’ll have lost her voice again,’ Hilario said. ‘It’s these strong winds.’

  Then in a dramatic whisper he added, ‘Her health’s not what it used to be.’

  ‘I came by,’ Pilar chirped in her high voice, ‘to say I won’t be coming any more.’

  Hilario fell silent. Cámara turned in his chair to look at her properly. And almost fell over when he caught sight of her.

  Pilar had been an integral part of the life in this flat since he’d arrived as a boy. Then still a relatively young woman, she’d always appeared older than she was, not least because she’d adopted traditional mourning black for her recently deceased husband – a railway worker who’d suffered a freak heart attack in his late twenties. And so Cámara had grown up with this woman always among them, a heavy, leaden presence making their lives easier by cleaning and cooking for them, but also bringing a weight to their lives. Not that it was always unwelcome – both he and Hilario could be overly mercurial at times. But while, as a teenager, he had often wished she would disappear – or at least not burst in on him at the most inopportune moments – the truth was he couldn’t envisage this world – Albacete, Hilario, his home – without her.

  Yet now what struck him most – almost like a physical force – was seeing what she was wearing. For the first time in his life – and in hers, it felt like – the uniform of black had gone, and instead she was wearing a bright floral-patterned dress of thick cotton with a woollen fuchsia cardigan thrown over her shoulders. What’s more, her thin, wrinkled lips had been painted scarlet, while black eyeliner framed her sunken, narrow-set eyes.

  ‘Pilar,’ Cámara said in surprise. ‘You look lovely.’

  ‘I’m going,’ Pilar repeated. ‘I want my wages for the month and then I’m leaving, and I’m not coming back. And if you don’t like it I’ll just go to the police and tell them about what you’ve got growing on the patio back there. Don’t think I don’t know. I should have gone years ago. It’s a disgrace, you being a policeman.’

  ‘Pilar, what’s happened? What’s the matter?’

  Hilario had got up and was rinsing his hands under the tap, not looking at his house helper.

  ‘I’m getting married,’ she announced.

  Cámara almost dropped his mug.

  ‘Well, that’s wonderful,’ he coughed. ‘Congratulations. Who’s the lucky man? Do we know him?’

  ‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘And I don’t ever want him to meet anyone from this house of sin.’

  ‘I see.’

  Hilario moved away from the sink and made to step out of the kitchen. Pilar was barring his way.

  ‘You’ll have to let me pass if you want me to get your money,’ he said.

  Pilar looked shocked, as though he’d insulted her, then finally stepped to the side to let him through. She watched him as he walked down the corridor. Cámara thought he could see tears welling up in her eyes.

  ‘Do you want to sit down?’

  She appeared not to have heard.

  ‘Pilar?’

  ‘No, I’m all right,’ she snapped, lifting a handkerchief to her face. She blew her nose like a trumpet, then sniffed.

  Cámara stood up as Hilario came back into the room with an envelope, which he gave to her without a word.

  She looked at him expectantly.

  ‘Was there anything else?’ Hilario asked.

  She raised the handkerchief to her face again.

  ‘Look, this is all very sudden,’ Cámara said. ‘Does it have to be immediate, like this? Couldn’t you stay on for a few days at least? Hilario’s not very well.’

  ‘Oh, he’s fine,’ she said. ‘Nothing wrong with him. Only in his soul. May God pity him. I gave up praying for him long ago.’

  There was a pause, as though she expected one of them to say something, but there was nothing to add.

  She uttered a disgusted ‘humph’ as she tossed her keys on to the kitchen table and turned to go.

  ‘¡Adiós!’ she said sharply. And she marched down the corridor.

  ‘Bye,’ Cámara said.

  The whole building shook as she slammed the front door shut behind her.

  Hilario poured himself some more coffee and sat back down at the table with something approaching a grin on his face. Cámara glanced at the pile of dishes again.

  ‘What did happen last night?’ he said. ‘You invited her to stay for dinner, didn’t you?’

  Hilario shrugged

  ‘I was feeling lonely.’

  ‘You’ve been smoking on yo
ur own again, you mean.’

  ‘No, certainly not. There was plenty of food, it didn’t look as though you were coming back any time soon, so I merely suggested she joined me.’

  ‘And you had a few drinks together?’

  ‘A few.’

  ‘And then what?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look, the woman who’s been looking after you since the beginning of time has very suddenly just stormed out on us. Something must have happened.’

  Cámara stopped, a look of horror on his face.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘You didn’t. I can’t believe it. You didn’t—’

  ‘She only had a couple of bites.’

  ‘You fed her marihuana cake!’

  ‘It came out very well this time. There’s some left. Do you want to try?’

  Cámara sat down next to his grandfather, the strength seeming to ebb from him.

  ‘I don’t believe it.’

  Hilario was chuckling.

  ‘How did she react?’

  The chuckling turned into laughter.

  ‘You’re still high, aren’t you. What happened? How did she react?’

  ‘She loved it,’ Hilario managed to splutter. ‘She asked for more.’

  ‘You said she only had a couple of bites.’

  ‘All right, a couple of slices, then.’

  ‘Pilar ate two slices of your marihuana cake! I’m amazed she could even stand this morning.’

  ‘Oh, she was full of beans last night. Really began to relax.’

  Cámara gave his grandfather a look. Hilario was in his mid-eighties; Pilar was in her late fifties.

  ‘Oh, no,’ he said. ‘Oh, no.’

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘No no no no no. You’re not telling me you—’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t,’ Hilario said. ‘I’ve got some scruples you know.’

  ‘So what, then?’

  ‘It was her. Started saying she was feeling hot, despite the window being open. And starts loosening her blouse, unbuttoning it, unfastening the belt round her skirt.’

  ‘No no no no no.’

  ‘And then she pounced.’

  ‘She pounced?’

  ‘Threw herself on me. Declared that she’d always loved and wanted me, and that it was so hard working all these years in the flat, hoping that one day I might take notice of her.’

  ‘Was it just marihuana you put in the cake?’

  ‘And that she never received so much as a kind word from me.’

  ‘Well, that’s true.’

  ‘And she had to have me.’

  Cámara looked at him.

  ‘So what did you do?’

  ‘I did what any man of honour would do.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘I called a taxi and sent her home.’

  ‘That’s not like you. Giving up a chance like that.’

  ‘We’re talking about Pilar, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Still, you are over eighty, you know. Might not get any more offers.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  Cámara paused, then sighed.

  ‘I just can’t believe she’s gone.’

  Yago’s phone was diverting to voicemail. Cámara left a message asking him to call back.

  Finding a used padded envelope, he placed the samples he’d picked up from the warehouse at Pozoblanco and put them inside. Then he cut out a sheet of paper, stuck it over the front with sticky tape, and wrote Maragall’s name and home address on it. On a second sheet he wrote where the samples had come from, and the date, and signed it. Placing the note inside the envelope as well, he stuck it closed with more tape and left it on the side. He’d go out later and get a stamp to send it.

  He didn’t mention Reza, or the million’s worth of saffron that had blown out of the warehouse, scattering over the fields. Reza was hurt, which meant he would probably stay at Pozoblanco until the very end of his visa. And that suited Cámara well. Reza had tried to kill him twice now, and was obviously involved in the saffron scam. But there was still nothing to link him definitively to Mirella’s murder. Only Estrella had talked of a Moroccan new on the drug scene. Was that Reza, posing as a Moroccan again? Had Reza fuelled Mirella’s drug habit? Then raped and killed her?

  After a shower, Hilario went for a lie-down on the bed.

  ‘All this excitement.’

  So Pilar was gone. It would take a while to get used to. But there was another question to think about now. Who would look after Hilario? Yes, he was an independent-minded and relatively fit eighty-four-year-old. But living on his own, with no one coming in to check up on him, help him with the housework?

  Perhaps they could find someone else. But no sooner had the thought formed itself than Cámara knew it could never happen. Who else could put up with Hilario in the way Pilar had? He could see a stream of women coming into the flat, none of them staying for more than a month, then leaving in a rage, before a new one could could be found and it started again.

  What could he do? Leave him on his own? Not really. Put him in a home? Forget it. Stay in Albacete himself to look after him? He’d rather die.

  A solution will present itself, he thought as he picked up the envelope and walked to the door.

  His phone gurgled at him as he went to open the door. It was Eduardo García, the historian.

  ‘Can you meet? This morning? It’s quite urgent.’

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  CÁMARA DROPPED OFF the samples for Maragall at the yellow postbox at the end of road and started walking towards the city centre. The winds of the night before hadn’t properly abated, and he looked up into the sky, half-expecting to see saffron stigmas floating in the air.

  He thought about giving Alicia a quick call, to see how she was, to tell her about Pilar, about Hilario, about the saffron scam, the FBI investigation and Reza Amini the Iranian pretending to be a Moroccan. There was material there for an article, more than enough, and he would have called her – he really would have – if it hadn’t been for the noise in the street. Just as he stepped out the city taxi drivers decided to stage a protest, driving in convoy through the streets, blaring their horns to demonstrate against a recent spate of attacks by late-night passengers. Beside him other pedestrians were walking with their hands over their ears against the noise, while police motorcycle escorts flashed blue lights in front and behind the taxi cavalcade, herding them along.

  ‘No more violence against taxi drivers!’

  ‘We have a right to make a living too!’

  If this were taking place in Valencia, Cámara thought, someone would be setting off some firecrackers about now as well, adding a few extra decibels to help get the point across.

  He smiled to himself. Valencia. He almost missed the place.

  And the phone stayed in his pocket, unused.

  Besides, the saffron thing had been a sideline, a diversion. What he was really interested in, what made him stay, apart from Hilario’s health, was the Mirella Faro case. And on that he’d made little progress. Should he try and talk to Inspector Jiménez? He wouldn’t react too well to another homicide policeman trying to barge in on his murder.

  Too many questions unanswered, too many unknowns. Tying things up, making the world neat again – he knew it was one of the urges that drove him, that made him a policeman. And it was a never-ending task: messiness, chaos, came at you again and again, like a barking dog in the night. And he’d pushed against that for as long as he could remember – tidying up, trying to clean and reorder, force things into place, unravel the knots, bring a semblance of meaning to a universe that forced the questions on you: Why her? Why him? Why us? Why me?

  But to ask ‘why’ implied a belief that some kind of ‘because’ existed in the first place. And he’d always needed that – he’d needed to believe in a reason, a cause, something he could point to, something he could blame, and hopefully fix.

  Yet was it any more than that? A need, an emotional need? It made so many things easier to cope with t
o believe in ‘something’ – even if it was just a target for his anger and frustration. From the first moment that he’d woken to the world, from the moment he’d discovered his sister’s rotting body on the rubbish tip, he’d needed to believe that something was responsible. First it was the murderer himself – but no one had ever been found guilty. Then it was his parents in some way, and their own rapid exit from life following Concha’s murder. Later it became a collection of people and ill-focused concepts: Hilario, Albacete, Destiny, the world itself. All of them potentially guilty and responsible for his mess, his fucked-up life.

  And so he’d gone about fixing it, mending what was broken: joining the police and working his way as quickly as possible to Homicidios. It was what he’d always wanted to do – where he was ‘destined’ to be.

  Then the murder cases came, and he started having some success – big investigations, his name even in the newspapers – although not always for the right reasons. But he was becoming a name at the Valencia Jefatura – he could tell by the number of enemies he seemed to develop of a sudden.

  It felt good for a while – he was fulfilling an ambition, he was doing what he’d dreamt of, what he was meant to be doing. And he thought of himself as a policeman – that that was his true identity, that he was realising himself in some profound way, although he wasn’t entirely sure what the phrase exactly meant. He brought healing to a torn, bleeding world. He couldn’t stop a murder taking place, but he could help clean up afterwards and perhaps – yes, definitely – in some cases prevent more killings taking place by arresting a murderer before he could reach his next victim.

  And he was kicking against whatever it was that brought pain and fear. The chaos. It was as if he believed in it like a force of nature – it was there, a kind of evil. It had touched his own life and it circled through the world, its fingers reaching out to cast blackened spells. It was his job to slow it down, to restrict and restrain it, to slap it round the face, to chain it down, to curtail it. Wasn’t that what he was doing every time he apprehended someone, every time he brought them in for questioning, interrogated them, brought charges, sent them to jail?

  They were individuals, yet somewhere in his mind they were merely actors, puppets of the destructive force he struggled against every day – the cause, the void.