Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  He thought briefly about María now – the María of his imagination, conjured into existence by the flick of his wand – as he looked down at the file on his desk. Most of the time he was content to do this kind of thing on screen, but for important and urgent cases he preferred to revert to hard copies. The woman in this photograph was a far cry from his ‘wife’: her hair was on the short side and had highlights of more than one colour; she wore a tight-fitting, low-cut T-shirt which revealed a small but clearly visible amount of cleavage; one of her ears had clearly been pierced more than once with two unmatching earrings hanging from it; and the glint in her eye spoke of wilfulness, an independent mind, rebellion.

  Carlos read through the file on her, detailing her place and date of birth, her education, university degree, how she had become a journalist soon after, working eventually for a local newspaper in Valencia, then in Madrid, before falling off the radar in the past few years having been fired from her job during the cutbacks. Yet he had enough to go on: a clear image of her and her name. Alicia Beneyto.

  He paused. Something about the woman had been nagging in the back of his mind since picking up the file. The fact that she was a journalist? They could be troublesome at times, but not always. No, it was something else …

  He turned over the page and glanced at her address. He knew that street: central Valencia, not far from Barón de Cárcel. It was a bit run-down and sleazy: an area where prostitutes and drug dealers congregated. But what was it about the address itself that rang a bell?

  His eyes glanced down the page. Someone else lived at the same address, Alicia’s partner, no doubt, her lover, as there was no record of her having remarried after her divorce.

  And his eyes rested on a name he had not expected to see – certainly not today, perhaps not ever again. The name of a chief inspector in the Policía Nacional, a man he had worked with in the past, a former useful idiot who had been successfully placed back into the category of mere idiot – which undoubtedly he was.

  Except that now, with Alicia’s file on his desk, Carlos was forced to think again. There was only one other group.

  He looked up from the file and turned to the photograph of María. And with a smooth and well-practised shift of thought, he slotted two new names into his third classification: Alicia Beneyto. And Max Cámara.

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘I’d like to see the Chain,’ said Cámara.

  ‘I’ll take you up there after lunch,’ answered Vicente.

  Cámara checked his phone: no signal, still, but the time showed it was almost two. There was no sign of any clock in the kitchen and neither Vicente nor his wife wore a watch, yet they seemed to know by instinct that it was time for the midday meal.

  The kitchen was filled now with the smell from the bubbling pan over the fire, meaty and rich and creamy. Vicenta had thrown in some chunks of carrot and leek, as well as several handfuls of rice, but the base of the dish appeared to be something that she had been cooking for some time before, perhaps since earlier that morning.

  ‘You eat boar?’ asked Vicente. Cámara nodded.

  ‘Don’t hunt myself,’ said Vicente. ‘But some of the locals pass on a few pieces most years towards the end of the season. Keeps well in the freezer.’

  Cámara was amazed that they were in possession of such a modern piece of equipment. There was certainly no sign of one in the tiny kitchen.

  ‘Thing about boar,’ Vicente continued, ‘is you have to soak it in wine for a long time, then cook it for several hours. Otherwise it’s too tough to chew.’

  He nodded towards the pan.

  ‘My wife started this last night.’

  ‘And you put rice in it?’ said Cámara. ‘I’ve never seen that before.’

  ‘Makes a nice wet rice dish,’ said Vicenta, turning with a smile. An arròs caldos. ‘My mother used to make it like this.’

  ‘Mountain recipe,’ said Vicente. ‘You won’t find many people down in Valencia eating this.’

  He took another sip of the acid wine.

  ‘Or so well.’

  Cámara raised his glass, smiled, and forced down another mouthful. Almost immediately, Vicente was offering him some more.

  ‘Thought policemen weren’t supposed to drink on duty,’ he said. ‘That’s what they’re always saying on the television.’

  ‘There are certain perks to being a chief inspector,’ said Cámara.

  Lunch was placed on the table in front of them, large bowls of steaming boar stew with floating grains of rice. Cámara spotted shredded green stalks and recognised another ingredient that he had smelt earlier: fresh garlic. His mouth watered.

  Vicente stood up, went to the back of the room, pulled out a folding chair and placed it at the table. Then he sat in it himself, freeing the chair he had been sitting in before for Vicenta. Once the three bowls were served, and more wine poured, they began, using large pewter spoons to eat with.

  Any doubts that Vicenta’s food might be as challenging as Vicente’s wine were dispelled with the first mouthful. It was rich and flavoursome, with a thick texture like velvet. The rice was cooked through yet still firm, and had absorbed the earthiness of the boar, while the wine that the meat had been marinating in gave a neat kick to the back of the throat.

  ‘Delicious,’ he said almost involuntarily. Vicenta smiled. He wished Alicia could be there to share it with him. He almost wanted to thank Rita for putting him on this case: any demotion, he reasoned, was worth this moment.

  They ate in silence for a while, but the policeman in Cámara was eventually reawakened and he tried to start a conversation again.

  ‘I suppose people in the village will have heard about José Luis by now,’ he said.

  Vicente shrugged.

  ‘There won’t be many sad faces down there.’

  ‘You’d think Father Ricardo might make an appearance at least,’ said Vicenta.

  ‘That maricón?’

  ‘He’s not a poof,’ said his wife.

  ‘He’s a fucking priest. What else is he going to be?’

  Vicenta pulled a face, shrugging her husband’s comments away.

  ‘Father Ricardo is the village priest?’ said Cámara.

  ‘You’d think he might show up,’ said Vicenta. ‘Pass on his condolences.’

  ‘Do you—?’ Cámara began.

  ‘My wife believes in all that superstitious shit,’ said Vicente with a mouthful of stew.

  ‘I haven’t been to church for years,’ she hit back.

  ‘Still believe in it, though.’

  ‘What kind of a man is Father Ricardo?’ asked Cámara. There were moments when it felt like being with a couple of bickering children.

  ‘Been here for years,’ said Vicenta. ‘Used to be a chaplain in the armed services, I think, then he came—’

  ‘He’s the last person who’d come with condolences,’ Vicente butted in. ‘Hates this place even more than the rest of them. Probably organising a celebratory mass as we speak. Might pack out the church for once.’

  ‘Vicente!’ his wife hissed.

  ‘It’s true, woman,’ he said. ‘Tell me I’m wrong.’

  Vicenta was silent.

  ‘He won’t be coming. And neither will any of them. They’ll be praying this place closes down.’

  Cámara lapped up the last of his stew, pushing his spoon hard against the bottom of the bowl.

  ‘Is there anything specific about Sunset that people in the village don’t like?’ he said.

  ‘Stuff goes on here,’ said Vicente. ‘But mostly it’s kids having fun. They’ve got a right to enjoy themselves. We’re not around for very long, so you might as well get some pleasure out of life while you can, that’s what I say.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Vicenta. ‘But even still.’

  ‘I’m not saying I approve of everything that goes on here. Not my thing, that’s for sure. It’s their life, though, and they can do what they want. Of course, people start talking rubbish, talking about rituals an
d dark magic—’

  ‘Satanism,’ Vicenta butted in.

  ‘It’s all nonsense.’ Vicente waved a hand dismissively. ‘People talk, want to make it sound worse than it is. It’s that Father Ricardo, I’m telling you. Spreading false rumours. Even Enrique started to believe it.’

  ‘Enrique?’ asked Cámara.

  ‘The priest is about the only person Enrique has any contact with. But he preys on the feeble-minded, trying to scare them into believing his nonsense. He’s the Satanist, that one. If there’s anyone round here trying to pervert people’s minds, it’s him.’

  ‘Paco doesn’t mind him,’ said Vicenta.

  ‘Paco?’

  ‘I’ve seen him going to church.’

  ‘Don’t talk rubbish, woman!’

  Vicenta bit her lip and got up to clear away the plates.

  ‘Only thing Paco cares about is money.’

  Vicente reached for a plate of oranges from the side and placed it in the middle, cutting into the skin of one as he peeled it with expert skill.

  ‘Help yourself,’ he said, passing Cámara a knife with a cracked plastic handle. ‘They’re the last of the season, but all right for eating.’

  After peeling his own, Cámara munched on the sweet, juicy fruit. It was the perfect way to wash down the stew. And cleanse his mouth of the taste of the wine.

  Vicenta was pouring coffee when they heard the sound of a car arriving. The couple exchanged a glance and a nod.

  ‘That’ll be Abi,’ said Vicenta.

  Cámara drank his coffee quickly, trying not to burn his mouth. Vicenta busied herself with clearing the table. Her husband sat motionless.

  When Vicenta stepped out of the kitchen, Cámara followed her. A dark blue Audi was pulling into the back courtyard, wheezing with the sound of the air conditioning. The engine cut out and the door opened. Vicenta rushed over, tears beginning to flow once more down her cheeks. Cámara watched as she bustled around the door. Out stepped a slim man in his mid-forties with short black hair, dressed in a white shirt and tan-coloured trousers. His eyes were red and puffy, and he smiled down affectionately at Vicenta as she stepped forward to kiss him on the cheeks. As she did so, something in him appeared to break, and his shoulders slumped, the simple kiss of welcome turning into a prolonged embrace of sadness and tears. The man’s shoulders heaved as he sobbed, Vicenta crying with him and placing a hand with maternal affection on the back of his neck.

  After a pause, the man gathered himself, pulling away, his face wet. Vicenta said something to him in a low voice. He turned to look at Cámara, and Vicenta continued, explaining. Cámara saw green eyes glance at him. The man made to approach him, as though wishing to shake his hand, but Vicenta turned him away, leading him towards the entrance of one of the stable buildings on the far side of the courtyard. There, she opened the door and ushered him in. Cámara caught sight of him breaking down into more powerful sobs as the door was closed behind them.

  Cámara now realised that Vicente had been standing in the doorway to the scullery, watching everything. He stepped forwards, closed the car door and turned to Cámara.

  ‘I think Abi’s going to need a bit of time,’ he said.

  ‘Come.’ He motioned with his head. ‘I’ll show you where everything happened.’

  NINETEEN

  They walked past the stables, along a path that cut through the undergrowth and headed up into the pine forest at the back. It felt cool in the shade. Cámara’s feet crunched on pine cones as he followed in Vicente’s wake. Tiny brown birds with red tails fluttered silently like arrows from tree to tree in front of them, feeling threatened and seeking safety. At one moment Cámara thought he caught sight of a thrush perched on a branch some metres away, but it flew off before he could get a better look. Behind them, the nightclub quickly faded from view.

  They pressed on; the climb got a little steeper. Vicente walked with a sprightliness incongruous with his age, skipping up the path like an athlete. Cámara lagged behind, more used to the dead flatness of the city, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead.

  A hissing, whistling sound came from somewhere to their left. Cámara stopped; Vicente pushed on as though nothing had happened.

  ‘What was that?’ Cámara said.

  The sound came again: not quite human, but almost. A sharp cutting sound of harsh breath.

  Vicente tilted his head.

  ‘Ibex,’ he said simply, pointing through the trees.

  Cámara stared. It took him a few moments, but eventually, partially obscured by the pines, he made out the form of a large creature with lyre-like horns arching up from its head. It was staring down at them with a mixture of anger and trepidation. Then it lifted its chin and proceeded to make the whistling sound they had heard earlier.

  ‘There’s a herd of them living round here,’ said Vicente. ‘About forty of them.’

  ‘How lovely.’

  Vicente tutted.

  ‘Bloody nuisance. Eat everything. Shrubs, leaves, the lot. Haven’t been able to plant anything for years what with them roaming about.’

  ‘They must keep the hunters happy,’ Cámara hazarded.

  ‘Hah! Bloody protected species,’ said Vicente. ‘Not allowed to shoot them. Bloody ecologists slapped a protection order on them. Now they walk around like kings of the mountain. And there are more of them every year.’

  ‘They can’t be shot?’

  ‘Not unless you pay thousands for the privilege. Got to get a special permit. Only one or two killed every year. They take out some of the older ones, that’s all. Useless for eating.’

  He turned and pushed on up the hill. Cámara looked back through the trees: the ibex had vanished.

  For the final section of the climb, rough steps had been cut into the rock, like a rustic staircase. They were narrow and worn and covered with loose stones, making the walk almost harder, not easier. Cámara wondered about stepping off and going up the side, but prickly bushes barred his way.

  ‘If anything killed José Luis,’ said Vicente, ‘it was probably just coming up here. Put strain on his heart. As I say—’

  ‘Yes,’ interrupted Cámara. ‘He wasn’t a healthy man.’

  He was beginning to wonder if Vicente and Paco were right, that this was simply an accidental, or natural, death. Plenty of people might have had motives for disliking, even hating, José Luis. But enough to murder him?

  Yet there was the anonymous phone call to explain. His own need for this to be a murder fed on that one fact like a bat sucking the last dregs of juice from a rotten piece of fruit. Only when he could say categorically that this was not a murder would he let it go.

  After the climb, the path flattened out a little, the trees thinning and letting in more light. Ahead, Vicente stopped dead in his tracks. Head down, watching his step, Cámara only saw at the last minute and pulled back. Vicente thrust an arm out to block his way. Cámara waited, confused, then Vicente beckoned him forwards. He pointed at the ground a few metres ahead, where a shaft of sunlight was burning into the ground. And there, at its centre, perfectly coiled like a piece of rope, was a snake.

  ‘Viper,’ said Vicente in a soft voice.

  Cámara stared down in fascination at the grey-brown form, with the darker, diamond-shaped pattern stretching down its back. It was small, perhaps the size of a side plate, and its eyes were closed.

  ‘Sleeping,’ said Vicente. ‘But they can lash out.’

  Cámara felt a light but uncontrollable trembling in his knees as though some primitive memory in him had been awakened.

  ‘What do we do?’ he asked.

  Vicente cast an eye about.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Pass me that stick.’

  Cámara gingerly reached down behind him and picked up a crooked pine branch from the ground. It had a fork at one end. Vicente took it from him wordlessly and inched towards the snake. Then, with a swift, sharp motion, he hooked it into the fork and tossed it low and fast towards the undergrowth at the side o
f the path. The snake uncoiled as it flew, hitting the side of a tree before falling to the ground. Then it quickly slithered away, disappearing from view under the rocks.

  ‘There,’ said Vicente, tossing the stick away. He grinned back at Cámara and started walking again. Cámara’s legs still wobbled. He looked across to where the snake had vanished and carried on behind Vicente. This landscape felt anything but friendly.

  A few metres further on they came to a boulder with a small white cross painted on it.

  ‘This is where Enrique’s land begins,’ said Vicente.

  Beyond the boulder was a dirt track. To one side it wound down the hillside, presumably heading towards the village. To the other, it pushed through more pine trees to what looked like a stone farmhouse not far on the other side.

  ‘That’s where Enrique lives.’

  ‘Will he be in?’ asked Cámara.

  Vicente frowned.

  ‘His dog’s not barking. If he was there, we’d hear the dog.’

  ‘So you can drive here as well,’ said Cámara, indicating the track.

  ‘It’s quicker to walk from José Luis’s place,’ explained Vicente. ‘Long way by car. You have to go round the mountain.’

  Cámara nodded, walking up on to the track itself. A few metres further on he could see where it split in two: to the right it veered off to Enrique’s farmhouse; to the left it carried on straight. And there, draped across from one steel pole to another, was a chain. Cámara pointed.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Vicente. ‘Enrique put it up.’

  ‘And further along there’s the Molino?’

  Vicente nodded.

  Cámara could understand why José Luis might have wanted to exploit this for the clubbers at Sunset. This little spot was delightful enough as it was, with clean, invigorating mountain air and the heady scent of pine. If there was a place to swim just further on in some secret fold in the mountainside it could be quite an attraction. But equally he could understand why anyone would want to protect it, keep the hordes away.