Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  He had been through enough shit to lose any romantic notions about policing. In fact, it took him less than two hours on his first day of proper employment to realise that police work was laborious and largely tedious. But he had stuck it out because of the occasional moments that made everything worth it. That, and the luck of spending a lot of his career with Chief Inspector Cámara. Their partnership had come under strain at times, and faced attempts to break it up, but they had somehow managed to stick together, becoming the object of a certain amount of envy among colleagues who recognised the bond between the two men. Yet now, as he stared at the glowing pixels, Torres wondered whether this was finally it, whether his time with Cámara had really come to an end. A simple order from the top and their working relationship had been snuffed out like a cockroach crushed by an angry shoe.

  It was his second day in Narcotics, but the frostiness of his new colleagues was still in evidence. Torres had arrived early that morning – a demonstration from his side at least that he was prepared to make a go of it. And so he sat at his computer bringing himself up to speed on past cases, investigations that were on-going, trying to get a sense of how the unit operated. All he could see so far was a fucking shambles. No clear sense of direction, total chaos. And he thought Cámara was disorganised.

  His mobile rang and for a second he was distracted from the screen.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Torres,’ said a voice. ‘It’s Alicia.’

  ‘Hombre, Alicia.’ Torres smiled, half-guessing the reason for her call. ‘What’s up?’

  He had spoken on the phone with Alicia before – occasionally the three of them socialised. But there was only going to be one reason why she would be ringing this early in the morning.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ he said. ‘He’s gone missing.’

  ‘I can’t reach him,’ said Alicia. Torres thought he detected something in her voice. Not quite fear, but nervousness, perhaps.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘I haven’t spoken to him since yesterday morning,’ said Alicia. ‘Has something happened?’

  ‘Oh,’ said Torres. He sucked his teeth. ‘So you haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘We’ve been shut down. No more Special Crimes Unit.’

  Alicia drew a breath.

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Torres. ‘That was kind of our reaction as well. Totally out of the blue.’

  ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘It’s this new commissioner, Rita Hernández.’

  ‘Max mentioned her.’

  ‘Well, no surprise there. She’s had it in for him since she arrived. She’s, er, how shall I put it? Not like us.’

  Alicia sniggered drily.

  ‘I get it. But what was the reason?’

  ‘I don’t know what she told him. She got us in separately. But it’s something to do with centralising all investigations into Islamic extremists.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re shutting down all the Policía Nacional and Guardia Civil investigations. Now there’s a dedicated unit in Madrid. Bloody stupid if you ask me. All the legwork we’ve put in, and all our local knowledge and contacts – Bang! All up in smoke.’

  ‘Sounds mad,’ said Alicia.

  ‘Oh I’m sure it’s even madder than that. Things usually are. We’ll be hearing about Operation Covadonga at some point in the future – probably when the whole thing blows up in their faces and we get parachuted back in to clear up the mess.’

  ‘Operation what?’

  ‘Covadonga,’ said Torres. ‘The papers were on Hernández’s desk. I spotted them while she ranted on about … well, about Cámara, really. About why she was closing us down. Christ, you’d think he ran over her dog or something.’

  ‘So where are the two of you now?’

  Torres sighed.

  ‘There’s no us any more,’ he said. ‘She made certain of that. We’ve been split up, made to sit at opposite ends of the class.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake.’

  ‘I’m in Narcotics and your other half is back in Homicidios.’

  ‘Homicidios?’

  ‘And not in charge of it either. Laura Martín is still very much in control. So he’s just had to slot back in, become a foot soldier. For someone of his rank and experience it’s ridiculous. But that’s Rita for you. She’s putting the thumbscrews on him, trying to force him to resign. That’s what she really wants – to get him out of the Jefatura.’

  Like many taciturn people, once he finally got started Torres could talk at considerable length.

  ‘So do you know where he is,’ Alicia butted in. ‘Max?’

  ‘He’s almost certainly up in the sierra,’ said Torres. ‘Some routine case. You know the guy who owns Sunset?’

  ‘The disco?’

  ‘Found dead. Cámara’s on it. I suspect he’s still up there. The phone signal won’t be great. But don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be in touch soon. If I hear from him first I’ll tell him to ring.’

  ‘OK,’ said Alicia. ‘Thanks. Tell him I’m in Madrid. Something’s come up.’

  ‘Sure, will do. Anything interesting?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Alicia, ‘Possibly. Although quite what and how big …’

  She paused.

  ‘Listen,’ she said. ‘You know that tiny island off the coast of Mallorca?’

  ‘Cabrera?’

  ‘Just wondering if that’s flashed up anywhere, appeared on your radar.’

  Torres thought for a second, then shook his head.

  ‘No. Why?’

  ‘And a couple of code words,’ continued Alicia. ‘Abravanel mean anything to you?’

  ‘Sounds Arabic,’ said Torres. ‘Or Jewish. But no, means nothing.’

  ‘Clavijo?’

  Torres chuckled.

  ‘Only from school. That sends me back.’

  ‘From school?’ asked Alicia.

  ‘Battle of Clavijo,’ said Torres. ‘Didn’t you do it? Some battle in the Middle Ages when Santiago miraculously appeared and slayed all the Moors. Or something like that.’

  ‘It’s ringing a faint bell.’

  ‘All that Reconquista stuff. When Spain was cleared of the Infidel and turned into a pure Catholic nation, the sword and shield of the one true faith. Come to think of it, Covadonga was some other battle against the Moors during that time.’

  ‘Must have been asleep during that lesson.’

  ‘Ah! See what you were missing?’

  ‘Clearly. But, Paco …’ Alicia lowered her voice. ‘If you do hear anything, can you let me know? Perhaps ask around?’

  ‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Torres said. ‘I’m being mostly ignored at the moment, but there are a couple sniffing me out, trying to work out what I’m about. If the opportunity arises …’

  ‘Brilliant, thanks.’

  ‘You watch yourself,’ said Torres.

  ‘Oh, I’m fine,’ said Alicia. ‘Absolutely fine.’

  THIRTY-FOUR

  Jimmy’s battered old Seat managed to make it over to the village without – miraculously, Cámara thought – breaking down. The front wheels had a definite wobble, and every time they went over one of the dozens of potholes along the mountain road he thought the axle might snap. That was not to mention the lack of functioning seat belts, the passenger door that had to be fastened with a piece of elastic, and the cloud of blue smoke billowing out from the exhaust pipe.

  ‘Here,’ Jimmy said when they reached the main square of the village. He reached across to the glove compartment and pulled out a small Browning handgun. ‘It’s yours if you want it.’

  Cámara hesitated. He was used to being armed; guns could be useful. Yet despite his admiration for and gratitude to Jimmy, he couldn’t take a weapon from him.

  ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I’ll be all right.’

  ‘Watch yourself, Mr Policeman,’ said Jimmy. ‘This may look like a sleepy mounta
in village, but there’s more going on here than meets the eye.’

  Cámara nodded and got out. Jimmy tied the door closed again with the elastic and set off, leaving Cámara coughing in his wake.

  He was in a small square with a public fountain in one corner and an arcade of what looked like Gothic arches along the opposite side. Various shops and municipal offices took up the ground floors of most of the buildings, some of which dated from the late nineteenth century, others built more recently in shiny brown brick.

  Cámara walked to the side of the square, found a quiet spot in the shade and took his phone out. After a couple of seconds it registered a signal; he sighed with a mixture of relief and trepidation.

  The first message to reach him – a text – came from Dario Quintero at the Forensic Medicine Centre. It had been sent late the night before.

  – Call me.

  Cámara pressed the buttons and soon heard the phone ringing at the other end with a steady, hissing beep. No answer came and he thought it was going to go through to voicemail when there was a click and he heard a voice.

  ‘¿Si?’

  ‘It’s Cámara.’

  ‘At last,’ said Quintero. ‘I texted you last night.’

  ‘I’m out of the city. Didn’t have a signal,’ said Cámara.

  ‘Listen,’ said Quintero. ‘I’m just about to start another autopsy. Can I call you back?’

  ‘You mean you’ve already worked on José Luis?’

  ‘Of course, last night. That’s why I texted you.’

  ‘I thought—’

  ‘A slot came up,’ Quintero explained. ‘And I thought, as a favour—’

  ‘What did you find?’ Cámara interrupted. ‘And thanks.’

  ‘Well, look, quickly,’ Quintero said. ‘Because I really have to go.’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Well,’ Quintero began. ‘José Luis died of a heart attack.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I mean, that’s what killed him eventually.’

  ‘Eventually?’

  ‘The man was anaphylactic.’

  ‘Anaphy-what?’

  ‘He was allergic to Hymenoptera.’

  ‘Which is?’

  ‘The venom in bee stings.’

  Cámara drew a breath.

  ‘So the bees did kill him,’ he said.

  ‘In a manner of speaking,’ answered Quintero. ‘Firstly I established that those were indeed bees’ stings that we saw on his skin. There were seven of them, which ordinarily wouldn’t kill anyone, certainly not a grown man of his age. But once we took a proper look at him the telltale signs were there.’

  Quintero appeared to forget momentarily that he had another autopsy to perform, detailing the manner of José Luis’s death with a professional enthusiasm.

  ‘The throat and tongue tend to swell up in such cases, leading to shortness of breath, the bronchial muscles go into spasm and, as was the case with our friend, a cardiac arrest is eventually caused by a spasm in the coronary artery.’

  Ever respectful to the bodies under his knife, Quintero had clearly enjoyed this one. Cámara doubted if he had seen many cases like it before.

  ‘So it was all there once we got inside: an empty heart – virtually no blood inside it – caused by the reduced venous return from vasodilation …’

  Cámara’s mind began to wander as Quintero trailed out a string of words that held no meaning for him: laryngeal oedema, eosinophilia, myocardial hypoperfusion …

  ‘Which is how,’ Quintero concluded, ‘we can say that the bee stings were the prime cause of death.’

  ‘One thing,’ said Cámara. ‘You’re certain it was the bees. Couldn’t have been some other venom. Say from a viper.’

  ‘A viper?’ Quintero was surprised. ‘No, we found traces of Hymenoptera in the blood. Very definitely the bees.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Cámara. ‘I’m simply wondering …’ he continued.

  ‘You’re wondering if this rules it out being a murder,’ Quintero finished his sentence for him.

  ‘Yes, I suppose I am.’

  ‘I thought you would. Which is why I ran some other tests.’

  ‘Other tests?’ said Cámara.

  ‘The bees clearly killed José Luis,’ explained Quintero. ‘But is there any way that the bees might have been drawn to him and induced to attack?’

  The idea sounded insane. Cámara had had the same thought the day before, when he had accused Enrique, yet had dismissed it almost immediately.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘Is there?’

  ‘Bees are sensitive creatures,’ said Quintero. ‘Particularly to smell. I’ve known them to become quite aggressive if they don’t like the way someone smells.’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Very much so. Certain scents on a mammal, for example, can trigger an attack response in them. Makes them feel threatened so they respond aggressively. I remember taking a walk in the country once with my wife when she was heavily pregnant with our first son. When we passed a beehive, they flew out at her and attacked. Didn’t bother with me at all.’

  Cámara shook his head, trying to understand.

  ‘Quintero,’ he said. ‘Please don’t tell me José Luis was also pregnant.’

  He was breaking a taboo. Quintero always worked with a total and iron-held respect for the dead. Jokes about them were strictly off-limits. There was a pause; Cámara waited, then a rhythmic wheezing started from the other end of the line. With a sense of relief, he realised that Quintero was laughing.

  ‘Pregnant,’ he coughed at last. ‘Well he was certainly big enough. Ha, ha.

  ‘No seriously,’ he added. ‘And I really do have to go now. I ran some tests, trying to see if there was anything about José Luis which might have attracted the bees.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I found pheromones on his skin – a greater quantity than you might expect. And I’m not sure because I’d have to do some more work on the samples. But there’s a faint chance that they’re artificial ones, not ones produced by his own physiology.’

  ‘And pheromones might have caused the bees to react in the way they did?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘They could be a trigger.’

  ‘How could the pheromones have got on to his skin?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t answer,’ Quintero said. ‘Now I really must go.’

  The line went dead. Cámara checked the time: it had just gone ten o’clock. For a moment, when Jimmy dropped him off, he had wondered about heading back to Valencia. Now he knew he had to stay.

  His phone had beeped in his ear a few times during the conversation with Quintero as it registered other missed calls and messages.

  Don’t worry, began the first one on his voicemail, sent late the previous evening: it was Torres. I’ve had a word with the police union. They can start proceedings now if they want. Well, I think we can take that as read. She is going to start proceedings, but there’s an automatic period of grace – and I bet she hasn’t bothered to read this. But there’s six months before she can actually kick you out, and during that time you have all kinds of opportunities to defend yourself, prove that the allegations are groundless. So I reckon you’re covered. Of course, the simplest thing would be to do as she asks, but I’m just letting you know. Thought it might be useful.

  Cámara stared at the phone with incomprehension. Then he saw that there were two previous calls from Torres. He listened to the one sent immediately before.

  Well I can only assume there’s no signal wherever you are, he said. That’s the obvious explanation. But you-know-who doesn’t see it that way. And this is all about you undermining her authority and not showing due respect, blah, blah, blah. So, just to let you know, in case you manage to hear this, the shit has hit the fan quite definitively. So, if you do hear this, you might want to have a think about calling in. If you get a chance. Just a simple report, tell Laura where you are, what you’re up to. That kind of thing. I know it’s not y
our style but, well, it might help smooth things over a bit. If it’s not already too late.

  Cámara sighed. Office politics. It felt like a very long time had passed since he was last in the Jefatura, yet it was only the previous morning. How easy it had been to forget it all for a while, become immersed in the simple act of detection.

  He pressed the screen and listened to Torres’s first message of the previous day, sent some time before lunch.

  Right, he began. I’ve had a quick look at what’s available on José Luis.

  Cámara let out an involuntary sigh of relief.

  Sixty years old, that’s confirmed. Nice way to spend your birthday. Born in Sueca. Father was in the Air Force, but died when José Luis was young. Brought up by his mother. Did all right at school and it looks like for a while he wanted to follow in Daddy’s footsteps – signed up for the Air Force when he was 18. Did two years’ training in Seville, wanted to become a pilot. But then he left suddenly. Didn’t complete and dropped out. The papers don’t explain why, but I’ve done a bit of digging around, found a contact in the Air Force Ministry. Anyway, turns out that poor old José Luis had an allergy to bee stings. Got some complicated Latin name. But that’s why the Air Force wouldn’t take him. Ran some standard tests and when they discovered that, bang, he was out. Anyway, he drifts around for a bit after that, was in Madrid for a few years, then came back to Valencia and got into the nightclub scene. Then he bought Sunset and the rest you probably know. That’s it for now. I’ll call again if I get anything else.

  Cámara pondered for a moment. There was one more message to listen to. He didn’t have to check who it was from.

  Chief Inspector Cámara, Commissioner Hernández began. You are a disgrace to the Policía Nacional. Even by your own standards, not reporting in …

  Cámara rolled his eyes and pressed the delete button, not waiting to hear the rest.

  He had police work to do.

  THIRTY-FIVE

  ‘The situation has become more serious, sir.’