A Body in Barcelona: Max Cámara 5

by Jason Webster

  It was his third week in Barcelona. A little over two weeks for the inquiry, and now this – the medal ceremony, delayed so that the men being investigated, and now cleared – could seal their positions as loved and respected members of the policing fraternity. No one had questioned their innocence.

  Except him.

  The protestor had been taking part in a small but violent demonstration two months before against Catalan moves towards independence. Corralled into the Plaça de Catalunya, the group had started breaking up paving stones to hurl at the riot squad closing in on them. Fights broke out as people tried to force their way through the cordon. Twenty-nine of them needed medical treatment, as well as five of the officers. But there was one mortality: Ignacio Rovira had died that night after being tackled to the ground and held by three members of the riot squad men. One of them had placed his knee across Rovira’s throat, crushing the trachea. Despite only being in his late twenties, Rovira had a heart condition, which did not help matters. By the time anyone realised something was wrong it was too late.

  There had been a scandal, as was to be expected. The protestors made certain that Ignacio was quickly turned into a martyr for the cause, and in death he became a social media sensation. A photo of his corpse-face being held in the black-gloved hands of a policeman went ‘viral’ and some supporters even had the image tattooed on their bodies. Newspaper columnists roared in condemnation, while government officials confirmed their faith in the forces of law and order.

  But the fact was that in the brief time since 2008 when they had fully taken over policing duties from the Policía Nacional and Guardia Civil, the Catalan regional police – the Mossos d’Esquadra – had already gained a reputation for brutality. Ignacio Rovira’s was not the first death that they were linked to. Two other men had died in custody over the previous years; a young woman had committed suicide after a highly questionable conviction for assault on a police officer; immigrants complained of torture and sexual abuse at the hands of the Mossos. And it went against the grain: Catalonia liked to view itself as a more liberal, wealthy and culturally advanced corner of the Iberian peninsula – all part of a self-identity that, engineered or not, considered itself separate from the rest of Spain, and increasingly so. That its police force should be universally despised for being violent, unfair and almost a law unto itself was a problem, not least because it carried powerful echoes from the time in recent memory when freedoms had been crushed.

  Something had to be done, and so the special commission was formed to investigate the officers implicated in Rovira’s death. For extra ‘transparency’, policemen and -women from across the country were invited to join. And the role of Valencia representative had fallen to Chief Inspector Max Cámara.

  Nominally, they all came from different organisations. But they were still police, creating emotional, if invisible, bonds with the men under investigation. If they had joined forces to catch criminals, the team would barely have functioned – each member withholding as much information as possible from the others while trying to shine as the best detective. Yet there was no competition involved where clearing accused colleagues was concerned. One day any one of them might find themselves in the dock, in which case being known for closing ranks would come in useful.

  He had not meant to break the bonhomie of their little group – eight senior officers from both the Policía Nacional, like himself, and the Guardia Civil, along with two members from the Mossos and a representative from the Ertzaintza – the Basque regional police. He knew that, at times, he had an urge to play the child in the crowd, like a nervous tic, pointing out the emperor’s nakedness, and did his best to bring it under control. It was just that he did think there was evidence that undue force had been used against Rovira. Christ, the guy had died while being arrested – was that not doubt enough? And was placing a knee on a person’s throat acceptable as a restraining technique?

  Even raising the question had caused friction.

  In the end, when the votes were cast, he had the impression that someone somewhere was quite pleased that one abstaining voice could be recorded. The outcome had never been questioned – Rovira’s medical history, detailing the delicacy of his heart, had given them all the cover they required – but at least there could be no accusations of a whitewash. Perhaps that was why he had been asked to join in the first place.

  He had stayed for the medal ceremony out of a sense of duty. Nothing urgent called him back to Valencia and he needed to show that he accepted the commission’s decision. As a senior police officer, he was giving the three Mossos officers a blessing of sorts by appearing at their official re-baptism. No one was speaking to him, but at least he was making it clear that no bad blood would be coming from his side.

  The ostracism was subtle in most cases: the Guardia Civil officers kept mostly to themselves in any case, and the medal ceremony only seemed to strengthen their more formal, military style of behaviour. The two Mossos members of the commission were the most petty, however, doing everything they could to avoid having to greet him or shake his hand, standing to the side and pointing him out to their colleagues: He’s the one, the traitor, the unbeliever.

  Fuck them. Besides, his ticket for the evening train nestled in his inside jacket pocket and his case was waiting for him at reception. Soon, in a couple of moments, he would be gone, heading away from Barcelona and back to Valencia. He had not seen Alicia at all in those three weeks. He missed her; longed for her.

  He drained his glass of cava and looked for a ledge – or a plant pot, anything – where he could dispose of it before leaving. He would have to slip past the small army of wine-waiters and security men before he could get out.

  It was time to head home, time to leave the politics, the tensions, the clashing disharmonies, behind.

  ‘I wanted to catch you,’ said a voice behind him. ‘Before you managed to sneak away.’

  He turned and saw a smiling face, a man with a short grey beard wearing a light corduroy jacket, hair slightly long and ruffled – at least for a politician.

  ‘It’s Chief Inspector Max Cámara, am I right? I did want to meet you in person.’

  He found himself smiling back as the Catalan interior minister shook his hand with a firm yet delicate grip.

  ‘Josep Segundo Pont,’ the politician introduced himself. ‘I won’t keep you for a moment.’

  THREE

  SEGUNDO PONT PLACED his fingertips on Cámara’s elbow and led him a few paces to the side of the chamber. The Mossos had hired the Palau de la Música for the medal ceremony – a grand art nouveau structure in the centre of Barcelona more used to hosting Plácido Domingo or Montserrat Caballé than policemen. But the venue ensured good press coverage for the event, as evidenced by the photographers mingling among the uniforms. Besides, the previous – and now disgraced – Catalan government had been involved in a corruption scandal associated with the building: using it now to celebrate the work of humble civil servants was a way for the new, left-wing, pro-separatist authorities to make a statement.

  ‘I do have a train to catch,’ Cámara said.

  Segundo Pont squeezed his arm affectionately.

  ‘Of course.’

  Like most in the two-month-old Catalan government, Segundo Pont did not wear a tie, leaving his collar open. It appeared to be the dress code for this younger generation – a suit or a jacket to show that they were serious, but with a touch of informality to say that they were ‘ordinary’ too. Cámara thought that there was something affected about it, but despite his desire to get away, he was curious about the man, freshly arrived in office. He sensed a still-beating human heart inside Segundo Pont; there was a gentleness about his large, brown eyes. Cámara had the feeling that he was in the presence of a man not afraid of his own emotions – or of those of others.

  ‘I simply wanted to thank you for all your work over the past weeks,’ Segundo Pont said; his Catalan accent was noticeable, but mild. ‘I know it hasn’t been easy.’


  Cámara raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Easy?’

  ‘Look,’ Segundo Pont said, gripping Cámara’s arm even tighter, ‘I don’t want to make you uncomfortable. What’s happened has happened. And all this –’ he glanced around the reception room ‘–is about drawing a line under things and moving on, as I’m sure you’re aware.’

  Cámara did not move. What did the man want? In spite of Segundo Pont’s rather direct and informal manner, Cámara began to suspect that this was a test. Were his reactions being gauged?

  ‘No one,’ Segundo Pont continued, ‘is going to pull the wool over your eyes. That much has been made clear. You’re your own man. People appreciate that. They find it scary as well, which is why they avoid you.’

  ‘What …?’

  ‘I’ve been watching. Everything. It’s a habit of mine. But don’t take it amiss. Everyone here respects you. You stood your ground. And that’s what’s important.’

  Cámara focused all his senses, trying to read the politician and his possible intentions, but there was something impenetrable about him, as though he were partly hidden behind a wall.

  ‘What did you want to happen?’ Cámara asked. ‘Did you really think the outcome was in doubt?’

  Segundo Pont frowned.

  ‘We respect the commission’s decision without reservations,’ he said. ‘Which can only be right. But that’s not the point. We wanted the best police officers on board for this. It had to be transparent. The situation at the moment, as you know, is delicate. Things are moving very fast in Catalonia right now. We just want to ensure they go in the right direction. There is a possibility – very faint, but a possibility – of social collapse if things go wrong.’

  He nodded, as though to confirm what he had just said.

  ‘This commission,’ he continued, ‘and your part in it, are a fundamental step in safeguarding the reputation of the forces of law and order right now. I can’t overstate that, and I wanted to thank you, in the name of the Catalan people, for your role in this.’

  It was only now that Segundo Pont released his grip on Cámara’s arm. That look in his eye – the caring, considerate expression – had been replaced by something more like concern. Even fear.

  ‘Thank you,’ Cámara said, with the slightest hesitation. The truth was that the politician’s words were more alarmist than anything he had expected to hear.

  ‘What do you mean that things are moving fast?’ he asked.

  A nervous smile quivered on Segundo Pont’s lips.

  ‘Powerful forces have been unleashed,’ he said. ‘You’re aware of that. The previous government’s failures led many to think that a key moment in Catalonia’s history had passed. But a Pandora’s box has been opened, and certain events now seem inevitable. The elections were a watershed. The former leaders were mere opportunists – ideological separatists are now in power. This time the opportunity won’t be missed.’

  ‘Full independence,’ Cámara said. ‘You think it’s achievable? After everything?’

  Segundo Pont smiled, but said nothing.

  ‘I haven’t said anything,’ Segundo Pont whispered, reading the comprehension in Cámara’s eyes.

  ‘I get it.’

  ‘It’s been a pleasure finally meeting you, Chief Inspector.’

  ‘Hold on a minute.’ This time Cámara grabbed the politician’s arm. ‘You said you wanted the best for this commission.’

  ‘Of course.’ Segundo Pont tilted his head slightly to the side.

  ‘So we were hand-picked,’ Cámara said. ‘You got the team that you wanted. This was set up from the start.’

  Segundo Pont held out his hands, as though in prayer.

  ‘I can assure you there was no political interference in the commission. Please, we’re not like that. The whole thing had to be transparent, as I say, or it wouldn’t have worked.’

  ‘You couldn’t have left something so important to chance,’ said Cámara. ‘You yourself admit it. You wouldn’t have allowed this to work on its own, possibly giving the wrong result.’

  Segundo Pont shook his head.

  ‘Is this justice?’ Cámara asked. ‘Does this get us anywhere? Does this help Rovira’s family in any way? Their boy is dead, and all that’s happened—’

  ‘Chief Inspector, please,’ Segundo Pont interrupted him. ‘It’s not at all as you’re imagining. Besides, it’s getting late. Are you sure you’re going to catch your train?’

  Cámara checked the time from a gilt clock hanging on the wall. He had less than fifteen minutes to get to the Sants railway station, on the other side of the city.

  ‘You knew I wouldn’t go along just to fit in. There was a case to answer. You needed my abstention – that’s what your transparency really boils down to.’

  He turned to leave.

  ‘Max.’ Segundo Pont leaned forward and held him by the shoulder. ‘Please, I want us to part as friends. I want to regard you as my friend – and a friend, a real friend, of Catalonia.’

  Cámara looked at him – the human warmth, the use of his first name. Was this man different, or just like the rest?

  ‘Which Catalonia do you mean?’ he said.

  ‘Don’t think you’ve gone unnoticed,’ Segundo Pont said with a smile. ‘Your name is often mentioned.’

  Cámara made to step away. A row of taxis was waiting just outside the main doors. He could still make it. Just.

  ‘People are watching you, Max.’

  Cámara was already crossing the room.

  ‘We’ll be in touch,’ he heard Segundo Pont say. ‘This country needs men like you now.’

  His hands shook as he got into the back of the taxi.

  FOUR

  THE FLAT FELT different.

  ‘Alicia?’ Her house keys were not in the bowl by the door: he was alone. He had texted her from the train to say he would be back that night, but with the signal coming and going as he sped southwards it was impossible to say if the message had reached her.

  He carried his bag through to the bedroom and set it down on the floor. The bed was unmade, sheets thrown back and tangled. The window was partly open and the smell of car fumes wafted in with the voices of prostitutes and punters negotiating pre-coital deals in the street below.

  Pulling out his clothes, he carried them to the washing machine on the covered balcony behind the kitchen. Breadcrumbs lay scattered on the floor; a stick of bread had been cut into and lay in pieces on the table. He leaned over and felt into it: a day, perhaps two days, old.

  The washing machine clicked as he turned it on and he stepped back inside. Again, he had the sense that something had changed. Everything appeared to be normal, and yet the feeling was different, like a new smell.

  He continued to move around, reconnecting with his home, as though greeting every room – and whatever spirits might be living in each one.

  His grandfather’s old bedroom was empty save for the bed, a chair and the wardrobe. There had been surprisingly little to throw out when Hilario died, as though he had been preparing for death, shedding himself of as much as he could before leaving them. Cámara had heard that it took months or even years to sort out the personal effects and paperwork of the deceased, but it was clear that his grandfather had done everything that he could beforehand, even going so far as to close his own bank account. The money he had – not much, just a few hundred euros – was all in cash, kept in a little tin box next to his shoes in the wardrobe. He had been thinking ahead, anxious to be as little burden as possible once he was no longer with them.

  Selfless to the last – and yet there had been a cajoling, nagging side to Hilario as well. Perhaps the single most important thing that he taught Cámara was the need never to stop improving. Perfection meant atrophy, and atrophy meant death, so you had to keep refining. Which meant that everything from Cámara’s schoolwork as a boy to his police work as a man – and even trivial things such as how he opened a can of soup or tied his shoelaces – came under scrut
iny. Life could never be about comfort.

  For this reason, Hilario rarely missed a chance to berate his grandson about being a detective. On the surface it was because Hilario was an anarchist and could not tolerate his only living relative being an active member of the forces of law and order. But Cámara realised years before that it was more complicated than that – that the jibing and sarcastic remarks had an effect, nudging and pushing him to improve at his job. It was not police work per se that Hilario minded, it was the intention behind it. Police officers who genuinely worked for the betterment of people and society were to be applauded. Those whose real goal was the strengthening of State power were to be opposed. The problem, for Hilario as for Cámara, was that the organisation of the police itself – with its uniforms and command structures – often led good-natured policemen and -women from the first category to the second. It took great strength of character to remain true to the initial ideal of the work while wading every day into the mud of bureaucracy, power and politics.

  Cámara had spent many years with his grandfather – Hilario had taken him in and brought him up after Cámara became orphaned – and much of Hilario’s behaviour and way of thinking had now become second nature. In the five months since his death Cámara had often spoken with him, hearing his voice in his mind. The conversations helped him through the choppy, unpredictable seas of mourning. It was more substantial than an accumulated memory of the man: Hilario was still alive in some sense that he had yet to comprehend.

  And yet, despite being physically dead, the old bastard still had the ability to annoy him. In his will he had left everything – the flat in Albacete and a few small items – to Alicia. This did not bother Cámara. In fact, he had laughed when he found out: it made perfect sense, bringing him closer to her in some counter-intuitive way, making her part of the Cámara family – or what was left of it. The one legacy that Hilario had passed on to his grandson was a sheet of paper with an essay, written in small, slightly shaky handwriting, on how to make the best paella. He had titled it, rather pompously Cámara thought, The Paella Manifesto – a distillation of over seventy years’ rice cooking. It contained everything that Cámara was supposed to know about making the Valencian dish, something which, deep down, Cámara liked to think he already made a good job of. Hilario’s notes were not general pointers, however, but specifically directed at him: