A Death in Valencia

by Jason Webster

‘Propaganda,’ the man called.

  ‘Just delivering junk mail,’ Cámara explained.

  ‘It’s like we’re having to talk in secret,’ Susana said. ‘In case anyone overhears. I’m thinking of putting up one of those anti-Pope banners on my balcony. They’re spending millions of public money on this, but I certainly didn’t invite him.’

  ‘He’s not scheduled to come round this part of town. Not with the metro works.’

  Susana rolled her eyes. For over a year life in their normally quiet street had been disrupted by the extension of the number 2 metro line: the road had been torn up and traffic diverted. Pneumatic drills hammered incessantly at the tarmac during the day, while lorries wheeled tonnes of sodden earth away through the night, keeping the local people awake with the rumbling of engines and their high-pitched safety wail when they reversed. Sleeping in summer with the windows closed was impossible, so there was nothing to filter out the racket. Complaints had been made to Valconsa, the construction company carrying out the work for the Town Hall, but the noise never abated.

  ‘They’ll only show him the pretty bits,’ Susana said.

  Tomás had grown bored of sitting in his mother’s arms by now, and was exploring the top of her chest with his hands and mouth in search of sustenance.

  ‘I’d better take him inside and give him a feed,’ she said, pushing the buggy and her bags through the open door with her foot. ‘He’s getting hungry.’

  ‘OK. Just give me a shout if you need anything.’

  Cámara walked up the next flight of stairs to his own flat, and unlocked the door. In the silence he could hear Susana cooing to Tomás from the floor below. These buildings had been put up on the cheap in the decades after the Civil War, when sound insulation had only been for the wealthier parts of the city. Here you were forced into a very intimate cohabitation with your neighbours, whether you liked them or not.

  In the tiny kitchen he found a two-day-old piece of bread, cut it in half lengthways and placed it face down in a small dry frying pan. The familiar smell, like burnt chicken feathers, rose up when he lit the gas with an old cigarette lighter, catching the hairs on his fingers as the blue flame whooshed into life. He waited until smoke began to waft up from the bread, then flicked it on to the marble counter, cutting a piece of Manchego cheese to place on top, with a leathery slice of jamón serrano, showing the beginnings of a greenish sheen, to finish off his impromptu toasted sandwich. Grabbing a can of Mahou beer from the fridge, he sat down on the sofa and started to eat.

  A cheap print of Klimt’s The Kiss hung on the opposite wall, and he found himself concentrating on it as he chewed, the bright gold, the power of the man’s embracing shoulders, the pale skin of the woman’s arm and face. He forced his eyes to stare at it, to absorb its details, willing away the visions of Roures’s rotting corpse shuddering though his mind, and the sound of the baby in the flat below. It had meant something to him once, this print, when the woman who had given it to him was still a presence in his life, and ideas of having a little Tomás of their own scuttling around their feet had been a shared hope, however briefly.

  He put the unfinished sandwich down on the sofa beside him and stood up. He wasn’t hungry. He should go out, have a drink. Or something. Vicent, the guy who ran the bar on the corner, was friendly enough. At least to exchange a few words with, chat about the news. Sometimes Cámara relied on him to find out what was going on in the world–or in the city anyway. Commissioner Pardo could never quite forgive Cámara for his aversion to newspapers.

  His hand reached down to the bookcase where he kept his special wooden box. Just a small one, he thought to himself. Take the edge off. No point going anywhere given the way I am right now.

  His fingers found the paper, the crispy leaves and spare cigarette, and began their work, breaking, rubbing, moulding and rolling, before lifting the joint up to his tongue so he could lick it tight. It had been a few days since the last one. He deserved this. Needed it.

  The smoke bit into his lungs as he reached for another chair and slumped down. The sandwich looked back at him from the sofa across the room. It would stay there for a couple more days until the sight of its desiccating form would finally force him to throw it in the bin. Why didn’t he reach out now and dispose of it? Later. It would mean getting up, and getting up required energy, something he seemed to be lacking recently.

  He shifted his chair round and looked back up at the print on the wall. A kiss. Memories told him he had kissed like that, that moments of merging with someone else had once formed part of his life, but it was intellectual knowledge only, like opening a drawer in high summer and finding woollen winter clothes, struggling to remember what it felt like to put them on.

  His eyes twitched to one side as he spotted something out of place. A line running almost vertically up the wall on the far side of the print. Taking another drag on the joint, he hauled himself up to have a look. The light from the lamp wasn’t very bright, but as he ran his fingers over the mottled plaster he could feel the crack. Had it been there before? He couldn’t remember. It might have been there for a while, perhaps even since he moved in. But the fact that it had caught his attention now made him doubt that. The building was rotting from the ground up. Only a couple of weeks before, workmen had had to come round to connect them to the main sewerage system. It turned out all the waste had been seeping into the ground for years. Which was why there was so much damp. Susana downstairs had complained of it a couple of times: the paint job they’d given the flat just before Tomás was born had barely lasted six months before it started peeling off. They’d only found out the truth thanks to the work on the metro line. Digging down five or six metres in such watery earth had brought a few surprises, setting back the construction timetable by months.

  And now this. A crack running up his wall. He’d keep an eye on it. Perhaps even measure it just to be sure. But later. Tomorrow perhaps.

  The joint had gone out and he reached over for the lighter, falling back into his chair. The tiredness seemed to have got worse in the past few days. Was it the Roures case? They hadn’t come up with much since he’d gone missing, and now the body had finally floated to the surface; he’d get confirmation from the forensic doctor in the morning, but he was certain that Roures had been violently attacked.

  But it wasn’t that, not the sense of making little progress. Something else? In the past just the mystery itself, the need to repair–in however messy a fashion–the tear in the fabric that each murder signified for him gave him the drive to carry on. Now he seemed to be losing that. Why? He asked himself every day. And though he felt he should know the answer, expecting it to be as close to him as the pulse in his throat, he could never say.

  As it often did in these moments, the phone on the table seemed to signal to him. And as ever he ran Alicia’s Madrid phone number through his mind, the one he had thought about calling so many evenings. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually memorised a number: they were all stored inside mobile phones these days. And the truth was he hadn’t really made an effort to learn it. At least not consciously. But it had stuck, almost from the moment he had seen it in an email months back.

  Call me some time.

  And he never had.

  He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear, then pushed down with his fingers. He could hear the phone at the other end singing out. Once. Twice…There was a click as it was picked up.

  ‘¿Sí?’ came a gruff voice.

  Not Madrid tonight. Not Madrid ever.

  An Albacete number. The only other one he knew by heart.

  Three

  ‘You usually wait at least a month.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘You were here only a fortnight ago. You usually wait at least a month since your last visit before calling.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘On your own?’

  ‘Yes. Well, of course. Would I be ringing you if I weren’t?’

  ‘Tha
t’s the point, then.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re on your own. Calling me.’

  Cámara was silent for a moment.

  ‘All right. Take your point. What am I doing calling my grandfather at eleven at night when I should be out with someone else.’

  ‘I didn’t say you should be out with them. You could be in the sack. Probably should be in the sack. But you need someone else to talk to. I’m not going to be around for ever.’

  Cámara frowned. Hilario had never been one for talking about his own death, despite his advanced years.

  ‘Well, I’ve called you now. It’s a bit late to go out and pick someone up.’

  ‘Eleven o’clock? In Valencia? It’s a bit early, I’d say.’

  ‘The city’s changing. Not so much of a fiesta atmosphere these days. At least on a Sunday night.’

  ‘Or you’re changing, more like. Getting old before your time. Don’t expect me to come to your funeral.’

  ‘Hey, why are you talking about death all of a sudden? I’m the one who has to deal with dead people.’

  ‘Oh, like that, is it? If you’re feeling sorry for yourself it’s probably because you’ve got a new one on your hands. Well, I didn’t tell you to be a policeman, remember? Your decision. Sullied the name of Cámara for ever.’

  ‘Give it a rest.’

  ‘So who is it this time?’

  ‘Remember that paella place in El Cabanyal? I took you there once.’

  ‘La Mar. Best paella I ever had. And I’ve had a few.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it’s the guy who ran it.’

  ‘Pep Roures?’

  ‘You remember his name?’

  ‘I wasn’t going to forget a genius like him. Red hair, well fed but tough looking.’

  ‘That’s him.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Went missing a week ago.’

  ‘The place is under threat, isn’t it? La Mar, I mean. One of the places the Town Hall wants to tear down for this redevelopment plan of theirs.’

  ‘Looks like it.’

  ‘One less person in their way, then. I take it you’ve found the body now.’

  ‘Came floating up on to the Malvarrosa beach.’

  ‘Wish I’d been there myself.’

  ‘It wasn’t pretty.’

  ‘Wasn’t thinking about your corpse. More the other kinds of bodies lying on the beach at this time of year.’

  ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake.’

  ‘Calm down. I’m only kidding. You think you’re the only person who’s ever dealt with dead people? Some have had it far worse, but they still come through smiling.’

  Cámara gritted his teeth and sighed.

  ‘You’re out of sorts,’ Hilario said. ‘Have been for a while.’

  ‘I know. And before you ask, no, it’s not woman trouble. I don’t know. Perhaps it’s the job. I don’t know if I should…’ He paused.

  ‘Pack it in?’

  It was as if he could see Hilario grinning at the other end of the line. Hadn’t this been what his grandfather had always wanted? For Cámara to admit that becoming a policeman was a mistake? He should cut links with the State and rejoin the anarchist fold of his family. Or at least what was left of it.

  ‘Maybe.’

  He expected laughter, perhaps even a cheer. Instead, there was silence.

  ‘How long have you been a policeman?’ Hilario said eventually.

  ‘Since I finished my law degree. Almost twenty years. You know this,’ he added.

  ‘So after twenty years you think you might just give it up.’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m wondering.’

  ‘What would Pep Roures think?’

  ‘What are you talking about? Pep Roures is dead.’

  ‘Pep Roures was a good man. You could tell by eating his food. No one can cook like that and not be a decent person. You ate at his restaurant.’

  ‘Hardly every day.’

  ‘You’re talking like a child. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and sort this out. Do it for Pep Roures. Do it for the man who made the best paellas in all of Valencia. You owe it to him. You owe it to all of us. Whoever murdered him needs to be found. That’s your job. That’s what you do.’

  Cámara rubbed his fist over his forehead.

  ‘All right.’

  ‘I can tell you what Pep Roures himself would be saying right now. Hecha la paella…’

  ‘…Buena o mala, hay que comella,’ Cámara finished the proverb for him. Once the paella’s made, whether it’s good or bad, it’s got to be eaten.

  ‘That’s right. You listen to your grandfather.’

  Monday 6th July

  The streets in El Cabanyal and the neighbouring Canyamelar district ran parallel to the sea. Once a fishermen’s settlement, separate and distinct from the city set on the River Turia a couple of miles further inland, it had been swallowed up by an expanding Valencia during the nineteenth century, and the traditional thatched barraca huts had given way to colourful Art Nouveau and eclectic town houses with brightly tiled facades. A few unsightly tower blocks had been placed among these in more recent decades, but the area maintained a strong, village-like identity. It was the only barrio in Valencia to celebrate Holy Week in traditional Spanish style–with long parades complete with worshippers in conical hats and face masks–while no one in the area supported Valencia Football Club, preferring the less successful Levante U.D., which had started life there.

  Since the conflict had begun over the Town Hall’s redevelopment plan almost a decade earlier, however, decline had set in. Buildings that were due to be bulldozed fell empty, litter filled the streets. And then the drug dealers had arrived. But the remaining residents hung on, struggling to maintain the traditional culture of the area in the face of official neglect by opening bars, restaurants, theatres, even their own homes on occasion when the rest of the city was invited to visit this unique neighbourhood, and understand what exactly was under threat. Would they really allow these historic structures to be flattened to make way for more characterless apartment blocks, like the tens of thousands that grew like fungi up and down the coastline?

  Inspector Paco Torres was already at the Montblanc bar on the Calle de la Reina when Cámara arrived, smoke sifting into his thick black beard as he read through his notebook. After Roures’s body had been found, Cámara had arranged to meet his usual partner there to spend the morning having a look around. Knowing they had a dead body on their hands might change not only their own perspective of a district they had visited regularly over the past few days, but the perspective of those they talked to as well.

  ‘Coffee’s on its way,’ Torres said as Cámara sat down on a shiny metal chair opposite him. From here they both had a view out over the street, and the traffic coming in and out from the nearby port area.

  ‘Oh, and these,’ Torres added, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a packet of Ducados cigarettes. ‘You’ve never got any cash on you these days,’ he explained. ‘Saves you having to cadge one of mine.’

  Cámara tore the plastic off the top, ripped open the packet and pulled out a perfect white tube of tightly packed black tobacco. Before he could find his own, Torres had pulled out his lighter and ignited it in front of Cámara’s face.

  ‘So how did shooting go?’ Torres asked.

  A couple of months earlier some pen-pusher in the Ministry in Madrid had decided that all ranks up to and including chief inspector would have obligatory firing practice once a week. Guns had never been one of Cámara’s passions; he preferred to use his own hands, feet, elbows, knees and head as more reliable weapons. But somewhere inside him he knew that having a better working knowledge of his standard-issue Star 28 PK pistol–the one he’d been given back at the national police academy in Ávila–was going to be necessary.

  ‘All to do with having the right stance and a high, hard grip on the handle, they tell me,’ he said with a shrug. ‘Best way to shoot straight.’

  ‘Shoot
ing straight is simple, but not easy,’ Torres said with a grin, repeating the gun-handling trainer’s oft-repeated motto.

  ‘Yes,’ Cámara mumbled. ‘I’m still trying to work that one out.’

  They smoked in silence for a moment.

  ‘Call came through,’ Torres said eventually. ‘Another restaurant in the area’s had a break-in. One of the ones down near the beach. No violence as far as we can tell. Just looking for cash.’

  ‘Did they find any?’

  ‘Just a few hundred euros. Took some of the booze as well.’

  ‘All right,’ Cámara said. ‘We’ll check it out later. But first,’ he added as the barman placed their cafés con leche on the table in front of them, ‘let’s run through what we’ve already got on Roures. Today is Monday the sixth of July. Roures was reported missing on…’

  ‘Monday the twenty-ninth of June,’ Torres filled in.

  ‘But we think the murder may have taken place on the Sunday, probably in the early hours.’

  ‘It’s not a bad assumption. Dumping the body at sea under the cover of darkness.’

  ‘The sun rises at around six thirty at this time of year, so we’re looking at some time before around five thirty. Six at the very latest if you want some degree of darkness.’

  ‘Alarm was raised by kitchen assistant Santiago del Pozo,’ Torres continued, checking his notes. ‘Arrived just after ten thirty on Monday morning. Door open, no sign of forced entry, and no sign of Roures. Called him on his mobile, but no answer. Very unusual for Roures. Waited just under an hour before calling the police.’

  ‘During which time…?’

  ‘During which time he says he carried out his usual preparatory tasks in the kitchen. While waiting to see if Roures showed up.’

  Torres stubbed out his cigarette and took a sip of coffee.

  ‘Keep going,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Del Pozo is thirty-three years old and has been at La Mar for four and a half years. Left work at one o’clock on Sunday morning. The restaurant didn’t open on a Sunday, so it was his day off. Spent it mostly in bed with his girlfriend, according to his statement. Went out to see a film Sunday night, then back home, before coming to work on the Monday.’