A Death in Valencia

by Jason Webster

  Torres opened a wooden door leading to a steep flight of stairs. They walked up and came out into Roures’s first-floor flat. There was one bedroom, a small living room, bathroom and tiny kitchen. From the living-room window you could just make out the sea down a side street, palm trees swaying gently in the nascent breeze.

  If the decor downstairs was minimal, almost functional, here it simply didn’t exist at all. A grubby sofa had been pushed against one wall, and there was a table and chair by the window, with a couple of newspapers folded and placed in a corner. Above the sofa a cork board hung from a bent nail hammered into the brickwork, with a few cuttings about El Cabanyal, Sí, and the Town Hall’s development plan. The bedroom was a mess; the bathroom and kitchen had nothing but the basic furniture. A small bookcase contained barely a dozen titles. Cámara leaned down, picking up a couple of works on the history of El Cabanyal, as well as one or two studies on ‘the art of eating’, and the role of paella in Valencian culture.

  The bed was unmade. On the other side stood a small cabinet. Cámara squeezed his way round and opened the drawers to find a box of tissues, some painkillers, pills for high blood pressure, and the remote control for the small TV resting on a chair at the foot of the bed.

  ‘Something about this place reminds me of flats I lived in when I was younger,’ he said as he sifted through the shirts and trousers in the wardrobe.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Torres called through from the living room.

  Cámara walked back to join him, staring out of the window at the tram that had just pulled up outside.

  ‘It’s a place to sleep, get washed–the basics, like student digs or something.’

  He looked over at the sofa, its cushions set and rounded like stones.

  ‘No one’s sat on that thing for years, by the looks of it.’

  He turned to leave.

  ‘There’s nothing here. No sign of life.’

  Five

  They walked out of the restaurant and crossed the road to a dusty abandoned building on the other side. Torres leaned on a wooden gate until it gave way, and they passed through. The roof had mostly gone, except for one corner where it offered partial protection from the elements.

  ‘Del Pozo told us this was where Roures kept his dinghy,’ Torres said.

  A pair of oars was leaning up against one of the walls. Cámara knelt down and started rummaging through some old orange boxes full of palangre fishing lines, spare hooks and extra cord for repairs. A fishing rod in pieces was lying on top of some shelves, with a heavy layer of fine dust covering it.

  ‘Perhaps he started out doing ordinary line fishing from the shore,’ he said.

  ‘You’re allowed to start at dusk,’ Torres said. ‘So as not to get in the way of swimmers and sunbathers. Two rods per fisherman.’

  ‘You know a lot about it.’

  ‘My dad taught me. Used to do quite a bit when I was a teenager. Before I got married.’

  A strong, rotting smell was coming from one corner of the den. Cámara hesitantly approached a blue icebox perched on the edge of a worktable.

  ‘Whatever it is, it’s in here.’

  He lifted the lid and almost stumbled backwards as the putrid stench overwhelmed him.

  ‘That’ll be the calamari,’ Torres laughed. ‘For the bait.’

  ‘Let’s get out of here.’ Cámara’s eyes were streaming as he tried not to retch. ‘I’ve seen enough.’

  Instinctively they turned down the side street and walked in the direction of the beach, each one imagining the route Roures would have taken every night as he dragged his dinghy out to the sea for a spot of illegal fishing. Crossing an empty boulevard, they passed under the shade of the palms and out on to the sand. A cluster of traditional wooden fishing boats was parked there, painted in white, blue, green and red.

  ‘I can get the owners’ names from the marine authority,’ Torres said in answer to Cámara’s silent question. ‘I’m not sure if they keep them there as a kind of tourist attraction as well.’

  He took out a notebook and jotted down the licence numbers.

  Wordlessly, they walked the rest of the width of the beach until they came to the shore, tiptoeing their way past a score of bodies. The sea had more life to it today, and children were playing in the waves while couples stood further out where the water covered their waists, draping glistening arms around each other and kissing as the sea rocked them to and fro.

  ‘A small rubber dinghy isn’t that heavy, but still, it’s quite a way to drag it out each night.’

  ‘Roures was a strong man,’ Cámara said. ‘Or at least he gave that impression.’

  ‘And I suppose that if I wanted to attack him, out here would be my choice.’

  Cámara asked him to continue.

  ‘As far away as possible from the street lights, no bars or restaurants near this section of the beach, some amount of noise from the sea to cover the sound of any struggle, and he’s already brought the boat out here so you can dump the body inside, row it out, throw it overboard and then come back ashore.’

  Cámara looked down at his feet, at the crushed white shells and damp brown sand. A dog being chased by a little boy ran past them, splashing their faces with salt water as it skipped in the foamy wavelets.

  Torres was right: this place, now full of joy, of fun and life, was almost certainly the scene of Roures’s murder.

  They walked back into the heart of El Cabanyal along the Calle de la Reina. This was traditionally the wealthiest street in the neighbourhood, wider and with trees along the pavement, but the houses were still built in the El Cabanyal style, with carved wooden double-front doors designed to let the cooling sea breezes flow through in summer.

  Passing a baker’s shop, Cámara heard someone calling after him.

  ‘Max!’

  He turned to find a stubbly, friendly face beaming at him.

  ‘Enrique.’

  The two men embraced.

  ‘¿Cómo estás, chaval?’ How’re you doing, kid?

  Enrique slapped Cámara on the shoulders with powerful, bear-like arms, then saw Torres standing nearby.

  ‘What? Working?’ he asked.

  ‘The Roures case,’ Cámara said. ‘This is Inspector Torres.’

  ‘Paco,’ Torres said, and stretched out a hand to shake.

  ‘Enrique is a flamenco singer,’ Cámara explained. ‘He lives in the area.’

  ‘Just in the next street,’ Enrique grinned. ‘Buying some bread for lunch. Do you want to come? Maite’s roasting some fresh John Dory.’

  ‘Love to,’ Cámara said. ‘But we’ve got to keep going.’

  ‘Suit yourself. Sad business, the Roures thing.’

  ‘Did you know him?’ Torres asked.

  ‘We all knew him. Everyone in the barrio. He was a local institution. You’d see him at the market. Or at El Cabanyal, Sí meetings. We used to chat sometimes. He did the food for a fund-raising gig I did here once. Nice enough guy. Why the hell anyone’d want to do him in is beyond me.’

  Despite his having lived in Valencia for almost thirty years, there was still a slight Andalusian lilt in the way Enrique spoke, a mark of his native Seville that he was proud of never losing.

  Cámara made to move.

  ‘Sure I can’t tempt you for lunch? You’re welcome to come along as well, Paco.’

  ‘Really, we can’t,’ Cámara said. Strangely, he felt uncomfortable being with Torres in this purely social situation: the sudden use of first names clashed with the surname-mateyness of the police.

  ‘All right,’ Enrique said. ‘But don’t forget, Max. It’s Carlos’s baptism next Saturday. And you’re the godfather.’

  He turned to Torres.

  ‘You know, sometimes I think I’m the only friend he’s got.’

  The headquarters of El Cabanyal, Sí were set further away from the beach on the Calle Escalante in an old two-storey building with graffiti-sprayed death threats on the front door.

  ‘We don�
��t bother trying to scrub them off any more,’ Mikel Roig said when Cámara nodded at them. ‘The Municipales are working for the Town Hall, so why would they bother trying to catch whoever’s responsible?’

  The house was run-down and drab in comparison to the brightly tiled facades of some of the neighbouring buildings, decked out in maritime shades of blue, green and turquoise. The sun reflected from their shiny glaze and Cámara found himself squinting against the glare. An elderly woman on a floor above was rolling out a wooden shutter over the edge of her cast-iron balcony, keeping the direct light out while leaving the glass doors behind open in preparation for the cooler sea breezes of the afternoon. Above her head, the face of a sea god peered out from a mosaic design below the eaves of her roof.

  Mikel Roig was the spokesman for the pressure group. Torres leaned over and shook his hand.

  ‘We talked on the phone,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not here all the time,’ Roig explained. ‘I have a job at the university library. But now in the summer months I can come down more often.’

  He was a slightly built man, with a closely shaved dome-like head and a broad straight nose like an ox.

  They went inside, seeking shelter from the sun, but the heat was even more intense. Cámara could feel sweat bulging from the back of his head and streaming through the hairs at the top of his shoulders.

  ‘It’s all we’ve got,’ Roig said apologetically. ‘We can’t afford anywhere better. We’re just a neighbourhood organisation, getting by on people’s goodwill, mostly. Someone had this place in the family and wasn’t using it, so they lent it to us. But we can’t afford to do it up or anything. That’s not what we’re about, anyway. So we freeze in winter and fry in summer. As you can see. Here, have some water.’

  He passed over a plastic bottle and Cámara took a gulp.

  ‘That Valconsa lot, they’re pretty well set up, though. You should see their place.’

  ‘The construction company?’ Torres asked.

  ‘They’re spearheading the whole project here for pulling houses down and extending Blasco Ibáñez Avenue through to the sea. You know, Emilia’s big plan.’

  ‘Yes, we’ve heard about what the mayoress is trying to do here,’ Cámara said.

  ‘It’s some sort of personal thing with her,’ Roig went on, happy, it seemed, to have someone to talk about the cause with. ‘Wants to put her stamp on the city, and this old working-class district is getting in her way. I reckon she sees it like some kind of wall that she has to break down so she can link the city centre with the beach.’

  Cámara took another gulp from the bottle, sensing the water as it trickled down his gullet and into his stomach, then passed it over to Torres.

  ‘Then there’s Cuevas, the head of Valconsa.’

  ‘You mean José Manuel Cuevas,’ Torres said.

  ‘Yeah. This is just one big business opportunity for him. A chance to build some cheap apartment blocks and make even more millions. With all the right kickbacks to the politicians along the way, obviously.’

  ‘Are you making a formal accusation?’ Torres said.

  ‘Nah. Come on. But you know how these things work.’

  ‘That’s not why we’re here.’

  ‘Yeah, all right.’

  Roig looked away.

  Cámara got up and went to the door to check the street outside while Torres leaned his chair in towards Roig’s desk to glance over the leaflets and campaign material. An old man in a vest and a straw hat was walking his Alsatian dog at the edge of the pavement, staying as close as he could to the sliver of shade.

  Roig got up and stood next to Cámara, greeting the man with the dog.

  ‘I’ve got to take him to the vet,’ the man said, pointing to his pet. ‘He’s got a sore behind his ear. Hasn’t been himself since we moved.’

  ‘I’m sure he’ll be all right,’ Roig said. ‘Ánimo.’ Keep your chin up.

  ‘It gets harder to say that as you get older,’ the man mumbled, and he allowed himself to be dragged along by the dog.

  ‘Jaume,’ Roig explained to Cámara. ‘Just got out of hospital. The whole stress thing of losing his home. They pulled it down last winter. He couldn’t hold out in the end.’

  He leaned over and opened a window on the other side of the doorway.

  ‘Here,’ he said. ‘We might get a bit of breeze.’

  ‘Tell me about Pep Roures, about his involvement with you,’ Cámara said.

  ‘One of our most valued members,’ Roig said. ‘Big loss. We’re all gutted. Can’t see Valconsa and the Town Hall being too upset, though.’

  ‘How much time did he put into the organisation?’

  ‘A lot. Attended all the weekly meetings,’ Roig said. ‘Let us use the restaurant for cultural events a couple of times. We put on concerts, art exhibitions, that kind of thing, to help raise awareness about what’s going on here.’

  ‘So everyone would have known about Roures being part of this.’

  ‘He was one of the last people holding out–and one of the most visible,’ Roig said. ‘Lots of others here have been tempted to sell, or have made signals to Valconsa that they might sell. Not Roures. And what with most people in the city knowing his restaurant, he was a bit of an annoyance, if you see what I mean. We’re just a residents’ group trying to do what we can, but Roures counted for something.’

  ‘There must be rivalries, tensions among the residents here.’

  ‘We’re not trying to cause any problems. We just want to save—’

  ‘But still,’ Cámara interrupted him. ‘Not everyone’s against the Town Hall plan. I’ve seen some banners around in favour of it.’

  ‘Yeah, they’re new. Emilia’s paying for those,’ Roig said. ‘Look, of course something like this can get people upset. It’s obvious. Arguments, people not talking to each other.’

  ‘Was Roures involved in any of it?’

  Roig hesitated.

  ‘I didn’t see or hear any of this myself. I don’t want to give you dodgy info.’

  ‘It’s all right. Go on. Even if it’s just a rumour, it might give us a lead.’

  Roig crossed his arms.

  ‘People said Roures was having problems with one of the fishermen who had a house down near La Mar. Sold up a few months ago. Apparently he was annoyed that Roures was campaigning against the Town Hall plan, and was threatening to report him for his midnight fishing. Wasn’t entirely legal, or something. I don’t know the details, but I heard it was getting a bit heated.’

  ‘Do you know the name of this fisherman?’

  ‘Ramón. Everyone called him that. Don’t know his surname.’

  ‘Do you know where we might find him?’

  ‘Ask around. He’s usually knocking about somewhere.’

  Torres joined them at the door, holding a clutch of El Cabanyal, Sí pamphlets.

  ‘I’ll take these,’ he said. Roig nodded.

  ‘Thank you,’ Cámara said. ‘Call us if you hear anything more.’

  Cámara hadn’t seen Dario Quintero for over a year, since they’d worked on the Jorge Blanco case together. The médico forense was staring down at some papers in reception as Cámara stubbed his cigarette out on the ground outside and walked through the doors of the Instituto de Medicina Legal.

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Quintero said, looking up with a smile half-buried in his full grey beard. ‘Always a pleasure.’

  ‘Likewise, doctor.’

  ‘I imagine you’ve come to visit el pobre Roures?’

  Despite being able to poke, probe and cut bodies open with clinical efficiency, Quintero always treated the dead with an old-fashioned decency while they were in his care.

  ‘I’m afraid this city won’t be quite the same without him,’ Quintero said as they pushed through a swing door and headed to the deposit. ‘Or at least from a culinary standpoint.’

  ‘I take it you were a regular.’

  ‘Oh, perhaps not a regular. But like so many I’d been to La Mar
e enough times to know you couldn’t find a better paella.’

  Cámara smiled at Quintero’s use of the restaurant’s unofficial name.

  ‘Not even La Pepica, with its photos of Hemingway on the walls, could improve on what Señor Roures was capable of doing,’ Quintero added.

  If there was anywhere as famous as La Mar for rice dishes by the sea, it was La Pepica, a large, almost warehouse-like establishment on the beach, where Papa often ate with his matador friends after a bullfight. But where La Pepica reeked of power and the Valencian establishment, there was something more intimate, counter-cultural, and more authentically ‘El Cabanyal’ about La Mar.

  They entered the deposit. Quintero walked to a locker but hesitated before opening.

  ‘We may all have appreciated his art,’ he said, ‘but we’re not dealing with another famous murder victim here. Not another Blanco. Señor Roures was a pez pequeño–a little fish. He didn’t have contacts or power. Which is why, I suppose, they were bent on pulling his house down, along with all the other buildings lined up for demolition. But it wouldn’t have been under threat if he’d had strings to pull. That’s the way things work in this city.’

  He raised his eyebrows as if to ask whether Cámara was ready to see the body, and then pulled out the bench.

  The decomposition had been halted temporarily, and the body had been cleaned up, but he was still a long way away from appearing like the chef whose paellas they had so enjoyed.

  ‘I heard you were the one who brought him ashore,’ Quintero said. Without looking up, Cámara gave a nod.

  ‘You know, he drowned in the end.’

  Cámara gave a look of surprise

  ‘But you were right–he was attacked. From behind,’ Quintero went on. ‘Look.’

  Walking round to his side of the body, Cámara leaned in and saw the wounds in Roures’s upper waist.

  ‘Three stab wounds,’ said Quintero. ‘The first two caught on the floating rib, but the third one went in. That would have stunned him. But the renal artery is intact. Often it’s cut in attacks of this kind, and the victim bleeds to death in a matter of seconds. But not Roures.’