Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  She pulled out a white handkerchief from the pocket of her apron and wiped her nose.

  ‘I’m very sorry,’ said Cámara. ‘It must be a difficult time.’

  ‘He was such a kind man.’ Vicenta sat down at the tiny table, staring into space. Cámara eased himself down into the other chair. On the hob, the coffee pot began to hiss as the water heated. Over the sound came another, almost identical, yet more like a whine. Cámara turned and looked down: there on the floor, curled on top of an old, grubby cushion, was a little white-and-grey Shih Tzu dog, staring up at him with dark, mournful eyes.

  ‘You’re going to miss him, aren’t you, Blanquita,’ said Vicenta. ‘I think she knows. Dogs are clever animals. Wouldn’t be surprised if the grief kills her. They’re not the strongest dogs, these little things.’

  Cámara leaned down to pat the animal on the head; it nuzzled the bridge of its nose against his finger, happy to accept his affection, then dropped its head back down on to the cushion.

  ‘She was José Luis’s dog?’ he asked.

  Vicenta nodded.

  ‘Probably not the only one round here wondering what’s going to happen now,’ she said.

  The coffee pot gargled. She got up, poured a small amount of thick dark liquid into a single cup and brought it over to the table.

  ‘Sugar?’ she said.

  Cámara held up a hand.

  ‘That’s perfect.’ He had barely eaten any breakfast that morning and his stomach was already starting to growl for something. He sipped at the coffee: it was bitter and scorching hot.

  ‘Have you heard anything?’ he asked. ‘About the future of the place? Paco said anything?’

  ‘That Paco,’ Vicenta mumbled. ‘It’s certainly not going to survive if he’s thinking of taking it over.’

  Cámara waited.

  ‘We’ve been here since the beginning,’ she continued. ‘My husband and me. Ever since José Luis took it on. That was twenty-seven years ago. I’ve seen some things going on here, not all of them to my liking, but I never thought it would end like this, with poor old José Luis taken away from us so suddenly.’

  She pulled out her handkerchief again, dabbing at her eyes.

  ‘It was his birthday yesterday. Turned sixty. Abi was preparing a surprise party, get all their friends round. Then this. It’s such a shame.’

  ‘Were they happy together, José Luis and Abi?’ asked Cámara.

  She looked up.

  ‘So you know, do you?’ she said.

  ‘That … they were a couple?’

  ‘It’s not right, of course,’ she said. ‘Not as nature intended. But I wasn’t going to judge. Not for me to say what people can and can’t do. There are plenty of others who do that if they want.’

  ‘And José Luis …?’ he said.

  ‘There were others in the past. I remember some of them. But Abi’s been around the longest. Eleven years. They loved each other, I suppose, in the way that two men can. Had their ups and downs, but stayed together. I think José Luis was genuinely fond of him. Wouldn’t have let him stay so long otherwise, don’t you think?’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Did you notice any tension between them recently?’

  ‘No more than the usual bickering between couples. My husband and I could easily give them a run for their money on that score.’

  ‘Do you remember what happened yesterday?’

  She sighed deeply. Cámara was concerned not to upset her. Such liberal attitudes among her generation were not common, but not unheard of. He thought of his own grandfather, Hilario. Compared to the old anarchist fiend, Vicenta was a hardened conservative, yet she had come to terms in her own way with whatever went on at Sunset, none of which, he was sure, had formed the backdrop to her own youth. Yet for every finger-wagging killjoy in Spain he sensed there was at least one old character like Vicenta, perhaps unable to understand the ways of those younger than herself, yet reluctant to pass judgement either.

  ‘Abi was out at the time,’ she said. ‘Although I only found out later. His phone was on the ledge by the front door. He’s never usually separated from it. Then I heard him come back – he’d been down to the village. Getting some things for the party, I suppose. He asked me where José Luis was. I didn’t know. Then Paco said something about that Enrique, that he’d called, or something. No one did anything for a while – I got on with my chores. We thought José Luis would just come back when he’d finished.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Cámara.

  ‘Abi got worried, said José Luis was taking too long, that he wanted to start the party. He went up to the Chain.’

  ‘The Chain?’

  ‘It’s up on the track, where Enrique’s land starts. You know, one of those chains across a track to keep people out.’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Anyway, that’s when …’

  She wiped her nose again.

  ‘That’s where he found him?’

  She nodded, half-covering her face.

  Cámara paused, waiting for a chance to ask more questions. Down on the floor, the dog gave a whimper and flicked its eyes. From outside on the patio came the sound of heavy footsteps, clomping over the paving stones.

  ‘Me cago en la puta madre,’ said a growly voice. Fucking hell.

  Vicenta looked up, a worried expression on her face.

  ‘Fucking stupid …’ continued the voice, getting closer.

  Vicenta stood up, casting an anxious look in Cámara’s direction.

  The footsteps entered the scullery and the light from the door was suddenly blotted out by the shape of an elderly man.

  ‘Fucking—’

  ‘Cariño,’ said Vicenta loudly, cutting him off midstream. ‘This man is from the police.’

  She nodded towards Cámara, who stood up from his chair.

  ‘He’s come to ask questions about José Luis.’

  FOURTEEN

  Carlos admired the ordinary appearance of the CNI building. The vast majority of people rushing past along the motorway probably didn’t know what it was or the nature of the work carried out there – just another office block on the outskirts of the capital. Unvetted civilians were not allowed to enter, of course, yet had they done so they would have seen little to make them think that they weren’t at the headquarters of a large company. The national flag flew from a mast by the main entrance, lawns and gardens – of the type that pay lip service to the natural world but in reality feel far removed from it – curled around its outer perimeter, while a piece of modern, self-aggrandising sculpture had been placed outside reception expressing messages of power. Inside there was a degree of security, but even this was becoming increasingly normal in the commercial world as businesses as well as government institutions became targets for various kinds of attack. Armed guards might be privately hired or part of the actual staff, but they were almost invisible in the modern world through their ubiquity.

  Once past the main entrance, the air of normality continued: corridors stretched in various directions leading to a handful of ground-floor offices, a canteen, a comms room, the archive and library. Lifts or stairs offered access to the four upper floors, where various departments had their own fiefdoms with – in inevitable fashion – the larger and higher-up spaces reserved for the more superior officers. The director’s office was at the centre of the structure with easy access to all other limbs of the organisation, like a plump heart pulsing at its core. Carlos had been inside it only once, just over a year before, when he had been promoted. The director had congratulated him on his position, shaken his hand and stressed the importance of the task he had been given.

  All quite ordinary, all quite unremarkable. What set the place apart from the rest of the world was something intangible, something quite subtle – it was the feeling in the building. The usual emotions of office life were present: petty rivalries, daily grind, a sense of excitement at times, high levels of stress, even financial worries and moments of release at t
he successful achievement of a goal. Ambition, frustration and status-play were as much a part of the experience within the CNI as anywhere else. What set it apart was meaning. Companies might convince themselves that they were changing the world and making it a better place by developing and distributing their products – in fact, entering into the spirit of such a fiction was sine qua non for almost all their employees. But in the end a piece of software or a cuddly toy or a new chemical compound had a limited effect on people’s lives. It might be useful, enjoyable or even increase their safety to some degree, but it did not radically alter their world, despite the claims of their respective marketing departments. At the CNI, however, such language was superfluous. Everyone within the organisation knew at a deep level, that the entire security of the nation rested in their hands. And even if they received scant thanks from the public it mattered little to them because the certainty of their own usefulness and necessity outweighed any desire to be loved or appreciated beyond the narrow confines of their own world.

  Carlos had made the usual greetings to his colleagues, making certain to nod and acknowledge each one as he walked it through the open-plan section towards his own office at the side. There he took off his jacket, hung it on the hook behind the door, placed his case on his desk and sat down in his chair. For a moment he did nothing, allowing his eyes to unfocus and drift while he savoured this instant – the brief sensation of having resolved a problem. He had learned to enjoy them as much as possible – they were less common than he would have liked yet were the sweetener in what could at times be a bitter occupation. Drawing on them, like some reservoir of life force, gave him energy to carry on, gave him the meaning that this job, above all others, could offer.

  He allowed himself no more than a couple of seconds to register the sensation, breathing it in, before a slight dizziness reminded him that he was in need of more coffee.

  Some hours later, still at his desk, his internal phone rang. He picked up the receiver.

  ‘I need you in here immediately.’

  The voice was deep, treacly and uncompromising.

  Carlos got obediently out of his chair and made for his door, setting off down the corridor for the larger office at the far end.

  Beyond idiots, useful idiots and the enemy, Carlos had a fourth category for people, special and rare. It was: superiors. Superiors were there to be obeyed. Without obedience the entire structure would fall apart. And it was to his immediate superior’s office that he now made his way.

  Fernando was a large man – fat, if not quite obese in Carlos’s opinion. His chin was rarely clean-shaven and despite wearing the regulatory suit and tie, his top button was always undone, revealing the greying hairs from the top of his chest, which sprouted like weeds pushing through cracks in the pavement. A male secretary was tasked with providing a regular supply of caffeine and sugar to his desk in the form of a stream of cafés solos and cakes of one form or another, usually madalenas, but occasionally doughnuts or even brownies, depending on what Fernando’s latest cravings were for. Carlos had nothing but admiration for Fernando – what others might have condemned as a slovenly appearance, a certain candidacy for type 2 diabetes and a chemical addiction to stimulants, Carlos viewed as an act of great selflessness and sacrifice in the name of the fatherland. Fernando, in his mind, placed the security of the nation above all other things, even his own health. He would almost certainly die one day at this very desk, struck by a heart attack or seizure as he worked for the safety of his fellow countrymen and their values. No one could ask for more.

  ‘¿Señor?’ he said as he walked into the office. Fernando noted his arrival, drained the cup of coffee in his hand and swept the crumbs from the top of his desk.

  ‘I’ve just had a call,’ said Fernando. ‘From Palma.’

  Carlos’s senses became more acute at the mention of the name.

  ‘We’ve got a situation,’ continued Fernando.

  ‘A leak?’ asked Carlos.

  ‘Not clear. But a journalist – a woman – has been asking questions.’

  ‘Do we know who she is?’

  ‘I’ve got her particulars here.’ Fernando held out a piece of paper with details scribbled in his small, light handwriting. Carlos took it and gave it a quick glance.

  ‘I’ll investigate her immediately,’ he said.

  ‘Do that,’ said Fernando with some emphasis.

  ‘You think …?’ Carlos began.

  ‘She mentioned Clavijo,’ said Fernando. Then, as though to confirm the information, he looked Carlos in the eye and nodded.

  Carlos returned his gaze, the full importance not lost on him.

  ‘I understand. I’ll make it top priority.’

  ‘Find out exactly what she knows,’ said Fernando. ‘And how she knows. For the time being the Minister doesn’t need to know anything about this, not until we’re clear on what the situation is.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then we’ll assess things and make a decision,’ Fernando answered testily.

  Carlos nodded and made to leave.

  ‘The Suiza,’ Fernando called to him in a low voice. Carlos stopped mid-step.

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘You’ve had some trouble recently, correct?’

  ‘It’s been taken care of,’ said Carlos.

  ‘Are they fully operational?’

  Carlos paused, choosing his words.

  ‘Rest assured, sir, the Suiza will be able to undertake any task presented to it.’

  Fernando appeared satisfied.

  ‘The green light may come at any moment,’ he said.

  Carlos nodded.

  ‘We’ll be ready.’

  FIFTEEN

  Vicente stepped across to pour himself a glass of water at the sink, avoiding Cámara’s gaze. Cámara guessed him to be in his late seventies, around the same age as his wife. He had the dark, well-used skin of someone who had spent most of his life working outside: there was a black mark near the bridge of his nose that looked like some kind of tumour, while the top of one of his ears had clearly been operated on, sliced straight at the top, perhaps where another growth had been removed. Cámara was aware of thick, giant-like arms with paw-like hands, incongruous against his ordinary-sized frame and curiously small and round head. His hair was thinning, but still covered most of his head, and was a natural brown, with only the slightest wisps of grey scattered at the sides and back. His neck had deep folds in the skin like trenches on a war-scarred terrain, while the lines about his mouth spoke more of a scowling frown than the laughter that his wife’s face promised. He would be a straightforward man, Cámara imagined. Crabby and bad-tempered, perhaps, but a man who saw things in simple terms: good or bad, acceptable or unacceptable.

  Vicenta shuffled towards him, trying to help him with his glass of water, but he shrugged her off.

  ‘I’ve been telling the policeman here about what happened yesterday,’ she said. ‘About José Luis.’

  Cámara stood up.

  ‘Chief Inspector Cámara,’ he said.

  The man took his hand.

  ‘Vicente Felici,’ he said. ‘You’ve already met my wife.’

  Cámara nodded.

  ‘Policía Nacional?’ Vicente asked. ‘We don’t usually see your lot round here. Guardia Civil show up sometimes. Must be important if they’ve sent a chief inspector.’

  Cámara forced a smile.

  ‘You suspect foul play, or something?’

  ‘Do you?’ asked Cámara.

  Vicente paused.

  ‘It looked straightforward enough,’ he said at last. ‘Assume it was a heart attack. He was a big man, José Luis. Not the healthiest sort.’

  He stepped away from the sink and sat in the chair recently vacated by Vicenta. Cámara returned to his seat across the little table.

  ‘But now you’re here,’ Vicente said. ‘You must have your reasons for coming.’

  ‘Someone called us yesterday saying José Luis’s death was no acci
dent,’ said Cámara. ‘That it was deliberate.’

  From the sink, Vicenta put a hand to her mouth. Vicente nodded that he understood.

  ‘Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to harm José Luis?’ continued Cámara.

  Vicente thought.

  ‘Close this place down? Yes, almost anyone round here in the sierra would like that. Don’t approve of what goes on.’

  He shook his head.

  ‘But kill him? I don’t know. Can’t see it.’

  ‘What about Enrique?’

  Vicente took a deep breath, chest rising, a frown burrowed on his face.

  ‘I’ve known Enrique almost all my life,’ he said. ‘We were at school together. He’s got set ideas, didn’t get on with José Luis …’

  Cámara waited.

  ‘He’s been on his own,’ said Vicente. ‘Wife died about two years back. They had a son but Enrique doesn’t speak to him. He moved to Barcelona years ago. It’s just him with his dog. He’s got a few almond trees to keep him busy, but …’ He shrugged.

  ‘What’s the business about the Chain?’ asked Cámara.

  ‘Uff!’ Vicente threw his hands in the air. ‘Been going on for ages.’

  ‘What’s the story?’

  Vicente shook his head.

  ‘The problem round here,’ he said, ‘is that the boundaries between people’s land aren’t always clear. Or at least they’re clear in locals’ minds – we’ve grown up with them, know exactly which rock or tree marks the beginning of one man’s land and the end of another. But people from the city have different ideas, want it all marked out. Then there’s the differences between the Land Registry and the Tax Office’s Registry – they don’t always say the same thing. One might give you double the amount of land of the other. And the two registries hate each other and won’t talk to each other, so …’

  He frowned.

  ‘So there’s a dispute with Enrique over who owns what?’ Cámara prodded.