Fatal Sunset

by Jason Webster

  ‘What?’

  His secretary entered.

  ‘Something I think you should see, sir,’ she said, nodding in the direction of the computer on his desk.

  ‘Just come in from Valencia.’

  Carlos nodded for her to leave. He placed his pen down and pressed a button on his keyboard to bring the screen back to life. After a couple of clicks of his mouse, he started reading a report sent in from the Valencia Police Jefatura.

  The breath caught in his throat as he read the name mentioned in the first line.

  ‘Cámara,’ he said in a whisper. ‘What have you been up to?’

  He checked the date and time at the top. It was from that very morning, sent only ten minutes before. It had been drafted by Commissioner Rita Hernández herself and sent straight through to his special account. Good girl, he thought to himself with a smile. Trying to make it up to teacher. You might yet become a very useful idiot.

  As he read on, thoughts about resigning dissolved like salt in boiling water.

  There had been a murder, somewhere in the sierra not far from Valencia. A nightclub owner. A routine case: Chief Inspector Cámara had been sent up on his own to investigate.

  But as part of his investigations, Cámara had uncovered something else: a drug operation in the area of the nightclub involving a couple of Romanian immigrants, men who were working in conjunction with the local priest, one Father Ricardo Benavent.

  Carlos knew that name and he read on with increasing discomfort. The two Romanians – Dorin and Bogdan – were now in Guardia Civil custody along with the priest. Their case was due to be passed on imminently to the judicial authorities.

  Rita Hernández ended the report with a final comment: she explained her haste in getting the news to Carlos. For this was, she said, not only a case involving a respected member of the Church, but she had learned through Father Bartolomeo at the Cathedral that Father Ricardo was no ordinary priest. He was, in fact, a member of the same special organisation that he himself belonged to, the Brothers of Cáceres. And it was imperative that he be delivered from his Calvario with immediate effect.

  Carlos read the last line twice. Useful, yes, very useful. Yet still an idiot. Rita Hernández knew that the Brothers of Cáceres existed, knew now that they were a group of churchmen linked to the more secretive corners of government, perhaps even guessed that they played a key role in the smooth functioning of the State. Yet she did not know what they did, beyond giving confession to believers with sensitive information in their hands. Did not know that they were a key element in the whole success of Operación Navas, and more specifically in the very sensitive and highly illegal financial side of it, Operación Abravanel.

  Yet through her ignorance she had stumbled on something of great importance. Losing Alicia Beneyto was one security problem. That her partner, Max Cámara, should unwittingly have broken up a large segment of Operación Abravanel – threatening exposure of the Brotherhood in so doing – was very different, adding multiple layers of greater complexity and threat.

  Carlos’s eyes darted between the report flickering on his screen and the dull matt ink of the letter lying on his desktop. Just as he appeared set on one course, something new had appeared before him.

  What to do?

  His phone buzzed. Automatically, his hand went down to pick it up.

  ‘We’ve located her.’

  It took Carlos a second to register what he’d been told.

  ‘You’ve located …?’

  ‘The Beneyto woman,’ said the voice.

  Carlos cleared his throat.

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Back in Valencia.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At the flat. No order had come through to stop watching it. We’ve just heard from our operative on the ground.’

  ‘How long has she been there?’

  ‘Can’t say. Perhaps she came back late last night.’

  ‘She must have caught a bus,’ said Carlos. ‘Or got a lift on one of those bloody car-sharing websites. Her name would have flashed up if she’d caught a train.’

  ‘How do you want us to proceed, sir?’

  Carlos thought for a moment. There was still a chance.

  ‘Wait for me there,’ he said. ‘I’m coming to Valencia, taking charge of this personally.’

  ‘And if she leaves?’

  Carlos pursed his lips.

  ‘Green light,’ he said.

  The line went dead.

  Carlos picked up the letter, carefully tore it into four pieces and dropped it in the litter bin. Then he stared back at the screen and Rita Hernández’s report. There was a detail mentioned there, one which he could use to his advantage. Useful idiots came in all kinds of shapes and sizes.

  It was time to bring a new one into the fold.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Torres came out of the shop, leaving Ileana and Cosmina behind.

  ‘Shots heard up at Sunset,’ explained Cámara.

  ‘My vehicle’s back at the station,’ said Rodríguez. ‘I’ll get it right away.’

  Cámara hesitated.

  ‘Torres and I will make our own way,’ he said. ‘Meet us there.’

  Rodríguez jogged off with an uncomprehending shake of the head.

  ‘Can you take us?’ Cámara asked Enrique.

  Behind the thick eyebrows Cámara thought he could detect a glimmer of excitement; the scar down the side of Enrique’s face twitched.

  ‘All right.’

  Enrique had an old Citroen C15 van. Cámara sat in the passenger seat, with Torres in the back. After a sudden jerk forwards as the clutch was released, they set off, heading up the hill and out of the village with a cloud of diesel smoke billowing behind.

  ‘You got any weapons in here, Enrique?’ Cámara asked.

  The old man drove in silence.

  ‘Any handguns?’

  ‘Never use handguns,’ Enrique mumbled. ‘Got the Remington in the back.’

  ‘I’ll be needing it.’

  Cámara took the pistol out from his belt and passed it to his colleague.

  The road wound up the mountainside until they came to the sign pointing right and the tarmac gave way to a dirt track.

  ‘Take it slowly.’

  Enrique raised his foot slightly off the accelerator.

  ‘At the first sign of any trouble, turn around and get out of here as fast as you can.’

  They turned the last corner and the main white-and-yellow building of Sunset came into view. Cámara’s motorbike was still parked where he had left it, but there was no sign of any other vehicle.

  ‘Stop here,’ Cámara said.

  Enrique pulled up in the shade of the pine forest at the edge of the large parking area.

  ‘I want you to turn the van around and leave the engine on,’ said Cámara. ‘I’ll get the rifle out of the boot myself. Stay here and be ready to drive away if need be.’

  Enrique shrugged.

  ‘Not quite sure what the point of bringing me all the way up here was,’ he grumbled like an upset child. But Cámara had already picked up the Remington, and he and Torres were approaching the main building.

  The front door was ajar. After quickly looking around, Cámara motioned to Torres that they should go inside. They tiptoed forward; Torres covered while Cámara pushed the door fully open and darted inside.

  He swept the rifle around, pointing in the gloom towards the cloakroom, the entrance to the toilets, the stairway. Nothing. Some other sense told him that no one was there. Still, when Torres entered they continued in the same fashion, each one covering the other as they worked their way into the heart of the building. The main discotheque area was deserted. Torres checked behind the bar and signalled it was clear. Cámara watched closely in the mirrors on the walls for any sign of movement, but none came.

  He caught Torres’s attention and glanced up the stairs. The two men made their way silently to the bottom then started to creep up. It was impossible, howev
er, to do so without making a noise and the stairs creaked with their weight. Torres rolled his eyes. Cámara took a deep breath, sucked in his lips and started to run: if anyone was up there they would already have heard them. Better to charge up like a bull than make a slow announcement of their arrival. The thing was, he was getting old for this kind of thing, and his strength wasn’t quite what it had been.

  Torres caught him up at the top of the stairs. Cámara was panting, staring down the corridor at the row of changing rooms and offices. They exchanged a glance: they would have to check each one.

  The changing rooms were empty: nothing had changed about them since Cámara had come up here two days before. The room for the bar staff was the same except for a few missing bottles from a crate of Coke at the top of the stack nearest the door. A footprint in the dusty floor signalled that someone had been in there within the last few hours but gave no further clue.

  The two offices were at the end. Cámara held his breath as he prodded open the door to Paco’s with his fingertips. Torres sped inside.

  The place smelt of stale cigarette smoke. It was virtually bare, with a desk, a chair and a sofa at one side. A whiteboard on one wall was covered in notes written in different coloured inks.

  ‘Engagements for the disco,’ murmured Torres under his breath, peering at it. ‘Shifts, delivery times … routine stuff.’

  Cámara tried the drawers of the desk: they were locked.

  Cámara gestured for them to leave and try José Luis’s office across the passageway. They burst in, Torres leading the way.

  ‘Oh,’ he said.

  Cámara came up behind.

  Papers were lying all over the floor – files, documents, receipts – tossed and scattered.

  ‘Burglars?’ said Torres.

  ‘Maybe. News will have spread that the place is in semi shut-down.’

  But as he spoke, Cámara’s instinct disagreed; there was something about the tilt of the Dolly Parton photo on the wall. He stepped across the carpet of printed sheets and looked behind the desk: the door to the little safe was hanging open, more papers dangling out on the verge of falling to the floor. He put a hand inside and pulled out what was left.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Torres.

  Cámara shrugged.

  ‘If there was anything of value in here,’ he said, ‘it’s gone.’

  ‘Why else have a safe? Cash?’

  ‘Probably. There would have been enough of the stuff swimming around this place.’

  Cámara put the papers back.

  ‘Come with me,’ he said.

  Back outside the main door, Cámara could see Enrique still sitting in the van. He turned to go the other way, beckoning Torres to follow.

  They passed around the side of the building and out to the corner of the back patio. To their right stood the door leading up to José Luis’s apartments. Cámara pulled the handle down and stepped through. The air felt colder inside the stairwell. He skipped up the steps two at a time, Torres following in his wake.

  José Luis’s apartments had not only been ransacked, like the office, they had been deliberately and methodically destroyed. The shelves lay at odd angles where they had been hauled to the floor, piling on top of one another and splintered at the point of impact. The white television lay in pieces, a tangle of plastic, wiring and electronic circuits looking as though someone had beaten it to death. The sofas had been attacked, their covers split and torn with a knife, a plethora of foam and cotton fibres heaped in piles where their innards had been removed and tossed away. Around them, every ornament, every object, every piece of furnishing had been smashed or assaulted. The simple toys that had been on proud display in the cabinet were scattered in all directions, most of them crushed or damaged. The bed had been targeted with specific aggression: the sheets pulled off and ripped into shreds, mattress stabbed and disembowelled with startling viciousness, each pillow split open and its feathers showered around the room. Cámara thought he detected a sharp, sickening smell: a damp patch at the centre of what was left of the mattress looked very like evidence that someone had pissed there.

  ‘What the fuck,’ said Torres.

  Cámara stepped across and kicked the mattress back on to the bed to reveal the drawers underneath. They were both partially open. José Luis’s gun had vanished, while his store of drugs had also been raided.

  Torres looked inside the bathroom, then came out, shaking his head.

  ‘Place is deserted,’ he said. ‘No one here.’

  ‘It’s not so much what’s here as what’s missing,’ said Cámara.

  ‘What did you …’ But Torres’s voice stopped as they both heard the sound of a car pulling up outside. Torres made to move. After casting a last look at the scene of destruction, Cámara followed.

  Rodríguez had arrived in a 4x4 with a fellow Guardia Civil officer, the man who had spoken to Cámara that morning in the station.

  ‘Méndez,’ Rodríguez introduced him. They had parked their car right outside the front door. In the back, just getting out, was Azcárraga.

  ‘I’m not happy about having civilians here,’ said Rodríguez, indicating Enrique’s van still sitting at the edge of the pine trees. The engine had been turned off. Cámara looked: there was no sign of Enrique.

  ‘I’ve got something,’ said Azcárraga enthusiastically before Cámara could say anything.

  ‘What is it?’

  He stepped forward

  ‘The phone records from the public phone at Los Arcos. Judge Jurado came up trumps again, then Méndez and I used the Guardia Civil system to access the Telefónica files.’

  His eyes widened.

  ‘Tell you what, their system’s much faster than ours,’ he said in a low, impressed voice.

  ‘What did you find?’

  ‘Call made exactly when you thought it had been – just before twelve three days ago. Pretty easy match as there are hardly any calls made on it.’

  ‘Who was it to?’

  Azcárraga handed him a piece of paper.

  ‘This number,’ he said.

  It was a simple row of digits: a landline, but it could have belonged to anyone in the Valencia area.

  ‘Got the ID for the number as well,’ said Azcárraga proudly.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘It belongs here,’ he said. ‘To Sunset. Whoever called from the bar that day was trying to get through here.’

  ‘How long was the call?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘Very short. About ten or fifteen—’

  His words were drowned by the shrill sound of a scream. They all turned as one.

  ‘It’s coming from round the back,’ said Cámara.

  He pointed to Rodríguez and Méndez.

  ‘You two go that way. We’ll go round the other side.’

  He nodded quickly to Azcárraga.

  ‘And you stay here.’

  The Guardia Civil men had already drawn their weapons and were scuttling round the corner of the main building. Cámara and Torres took off the other way. As they came round into the patio, the scream came again, descending into horrified sobs.

  ‘The kitchen,’ said Cámara, indicating the small scullery building.

  They ran over as the Guardia Civil officers appeared from the other way. Cámara and Torres were in first.

  Enrique was standing in the centre of the room holding his hands up near his head. He seemed to be petrified, body stiff and rigid but for the pumping of his chest as he breathed in deeply and let out a deafening wail of grief.

  On the floor, less than a step away from him, lay two dead bodies.

  Vicente had been shot twice in the face, one bullet hole below his left eye, the other below his brow, neat perforations in his skin. He was slumped at the side of the inglenook, one arm crossing his chest, the other lying out across the hearth. The wall behind him was streaked with blood and brain matter from the impact. The second bullet had been fired when he was already down, a definitive coup de grace to make sure he
was dead. A pool of thick dark blood had formed around his body, pouring out of the shattered mess that was the back of his skull.

  Beside him, on the other side of the hearth, lay his wife. Vicenta’s face was turned away, her body slumped on its side, lying in an uncomfortable heap on top of two saucepans that had fallen with her. Her head was propped up at an odd angle by the wall, and there, just behind her ear, was the very clear sight of a bullet hole with black scattered burn marks circling it. The shot that had killed her had been fired from behind at close range, perhaps without her even realising.

  ‘He must have shot her first,’ Cámara said in an almost inaudible whisper.

  Part of his mind was already wondering: the dog – where was it? Then he spotted a motionless heap of white-and-grey fur nestling under Vicenta’s shoulder. Even Blanquita hadn’t been spared.

  He held the rifle in one hand and reached out to Enrique with the other. Turning him as gently as he could, he led him away and back into the sharp sunlight of the patio, sitting him down on a step underneath a window. Enrique looked out vacantly in a state of complete shock.

  This man, thought Cámara, has never killed anyone. Could never kill anyone. Animals, perhaps, but humans very definitely not.

  Torres came out, followed by the Guardia Civil men.

  ‘I need you to put a call out,’ Cámara said to Rodríguez. ‘Full description of both the man and his car, a blue Audi.’

  Rodríguez nodded.

  ‘Wanted for murder,’ said Cámara. ‘Abdelatif Cortbi. Also known as Abi. He’s armed and almost certainly under the influence of narcotics.’

  FIFTY-FOUR

  Rodríguez spoke briefly to Enrique before the old man drove away.

  ‘I’ll be in touch,’ he said sympathetically through the window. Enrique nodded sorrowfully.

  The van meandered down the dirt track. Rodríguez went to his own vehicle to pick up the radio. Cámara was about to speak to him when he caught sight of another car coming their way. Enrique slowed down to let it pass, glancing without recognition at the driver, then carried on. Cámara stood and stared at the approaching vehicle, a small, silver Ford. It looked clean and almost new. He had the feeling it was hired.