She leaned over to the breakfast tray and poured him a thick, black café solo. His eyes strayed over the skin of her waist, exposed from under her T-shirt as she stretched out across his legs.
‘You pretty much collapsed when you got inside,’ she said, handing him the cup. ‘I was hardly going to put you on the sofa. But I wasn’t going to sleep there myself, either.’
Cámara took a sip–it was bitter and burnt, as it always had been.
‘So, er, where’s what’s-his-name?’
‘Esteban? Oh, he’s away. On business. In Paris.’
‘Are you two still…’
‘Business partners? Yes, that’s all going fine, thanks.’
‘And what about bed partners?’
She looked him hard in the eye.
‘I think your toast will be getting cold.’
He tried eating, but nothing would go down.
Torres was pouring brandy into a plastic cup for him almost before his backside hit the seat.
‘I know you’re not into that Yankee I-love-my-job crap, but even I’m amazed to see you here.’
Cámara drank it down in one, closed his eyes, then placed the cup back down on the desk, with a nod for Torres to pour some more.
‘I’m as good here as anywhere else.’
‘You want to go out for a smoke? You should take it easy.’
‘I’ve done little more than smoke since yesterday. My lungs need a break.’
‘As you wish. You know, if you need somewhere to stay we can always put you up at our place.’
Cámara had seen Torres’s home once–a cramped, low-ceilinged flat in the Mislata district, just off the Madrid road heading out of the city. One of the blocks that had been put up in the seventies, with sliding aluminium windows and no balcony. There was barely room there for him, his wife and their little boy, let alone a guest.
‘I’m fine. Thanks. Appreciate it.’
Torres sat down opposite him, rubbing his hand through his beard.
‘The Town Hall should probably be fixing something up for you.’
‘They put people up in the school last night. But that can’t last long.’
‘The landlady?’
Torres had heard plenty of Cámara’s stories about his landlady, about how the tight old widow refused ever to carry out any improvements on the building, about how her husband had won the block of flats years back in a game of poker and added it to his property portfolio. The chances were, Cámara thought, that some of her other flats were empty, and she could put him and the other neighbours up somewhere–probably even for free, if they pressed her hard enough. But the thought of having to deal with her, just the grubbiness of having to ask her for charity, no matter what her responsibility was in the collapse of the building, made him queasy. He’d lost a large part of himself the previous day.
‘Something will come up,’ he said.
Last night it already had. He’d left Almudena’s without clearing up on what basis exactly he’d spent the night there with her. Or if she was expecting him again that night.
‘And I’m really sorry about your neighbour,’ Torres said, looking down. ‘The woman and her little baby. They, er, mentioned it on the TV.’
‘Yeah,’ Cámara said. ‘So am I.’
He finished off his second cup of brandy, and reached forward for the hip flask they kept in their shared office as an emergency supply. It had been Cámara’s turn to refill it, though, and there was barely a drop left.
‘I can go out and get some more,’ Torres said. ‘You look like you need it.’
‘I’m all right,’ Cámara said, raising a hand. ‘Thanks. I’ll pick something up myself later on.’
He crinkled the plastic cup in between his fingers, his gaze unfocused.
‘They’ll be wrangling over the responsibility now,’ he said, gritting his teeth. ‘The Town Hall trying to claim it was nothing to do with them. The landlady saying it was all their fault. She’s well connected–it won’t be easy to lay it on her.’
He threw his head back and sighed.
‘What I’m wondering is if there’s a case for manslaughter here.’
Torres gave a low whistle.
‘The building was falling apart. I saw some cracks in the wall myself, but…’
He covered his face with his hands.
‘You couldn’t have done anything,’ Torres said. ‘You couldn’t have saved her. The building could have come down at any time. Just because you didn’t mention some cracks in the wall? How long do you think it would have taken the Town Hall to send the inspectors round?’
‘They’re building the bloody new metro line right outside. They must have been on the alert.’
Torres pursed his lips.
‘Come on. You know they don’t work like that. That’s far too proactive for this lot. Wait for the disaster to happen and then blame it on someone else–that’s how they operate. You know that. Trying to fix things before they occur takes up far too much time. And money.’
‘A young woman and her baby died.’
‘I know. It’s the kind of thing we deal with every week.’
Cámara shot him a look.
‘I’m not trying to say it’s not horrible, that it’s not awful and disgusting,’ Torres said. ‘But who’s your manslaughterer here? Your landlady? She’ll just say the Town Hall failed in their responsibility to inspect all buildings over fifty years old. And then they’re building the metro line–well, that’s not her fault, either.
‘Then who? The Town Hall? They’ll say that they did carry out inspections, that their technicians did all they had to do, but it’s not their fault if the cracks were invisible, or in flats they couldn’t get inside because no one was at home when they called. They’ll have records of all their visits, and everything they saw. And it will prove that they did the minimum, and that they can’t be held responsible either.’
Cámara tapped his fingertips together as Torres continued.
‘So where do you go from there? The original builders? That place went up, when? In the fifties?’
‘About that.’
‘Right, well, you try and find the architect now. Might be difficult to press charges. Know what I mean?’
Cámara was shaking his head.
‘What I’m trying to say is that this is a political case. Yes, a woman and her little son have died. That’s the human side of it. But we both know that that will soon be drowned out by the sound of politicos and civil servants scrabbling to save themselves while they’re busy putting the boot into their opponents. The opposition are already using this to make waves. Emilia’s even appeared to make a statement about how everyone’s homes are safe, and there’s nothing to worry about.’
Silently, Cámara wondered if Mayoress Emilia Delgado, or her ill-dressed sidekick Javier Flores, knew that he lived at the now collapsed block of flats. The three of them had a history from the Blanco case the previous year, when the murder of Spain’s leading matador in the Valencia bullring coincided with a Town Hall plan to outlaw los toros within the city limits. The bulls and bullfighters were still there, and Emilia and Flores were still in power, but that was largely in spite of Cámara’s successful conclusion of the investigation, not because of it. If Emilia and Flores had a list of their favourite policemen, Cámara wasn’t on it.
‘There’ll be an official inquiry, the Valencian High Tribunal will get involved, it will drag on for years, and meanwhile memories will begin to fade, until finally there’ll be a decision absolving everyone except a couple of minor officials who’d already been blacklisted for some misdemeanour, and the whole thing will be forgotten.’
Cámara stretched out his hands, as though trying to grab Torres by the neck.
‘I can’t just give in like that.’
‘It’s not about giving in. It’s about staying alive. You know what I’m saying is true. You’d just get yourself in a mess, with no justice for your neighbour or anyone in the end.’
‘You’d never get the case in the first place,’ Torres said. ‘You’re compromised by the whole thing–you lived there. Just forget it. Forget it.’
‘Si buscas la venganza, prepara dos tumbas–una de ellas será tuya.’
Cámara nodded. If you seek revenge, prepare two graves–one of them will be yours.
He let his head drop.
‘Come on,’ Torres said. ‘Let’s go out. It’s nearly lunchtime. You need some food inside you, a glass of wine. It’ll do you good.’
‘What have you been working on?’ Cámara asked as they headed out into the corridor.
‘Roures,’ Torres said. ‘Got the breakdown of calls on his mobile.’
‘And?’
‘Mostly to his suppliers. A couple to the office of El Cabanyal, Sí. One to the department of Urbanismo at the Town Hall. Probably to complain about something to do with the development plan.’
‘Anything else?’
‘Haven’t had a chance to find Ramón the fisherman yet, but the tests from the break-in at the other bar came in. No link.’
The doors at the end of the corridor flew open before they could reach them.
‘I’ve just heard something utterly fucking stupid!’
Commissioner Pardo’s tie was pulled to one side, and sweat-patch stains were visible under his arms–a side effect of the underwhelming air conditioning inside the Jefatura building.
‘Some idiot just told me that Chief Inspector Cámara was here. That he’d reported for work. “Fuck off,” I said. “The bastard’s house just fell down. He’s not going to come in on a day like this. Hasn’t even got anywhere to fucking sleep.” “Oh, no,” my informant insisted. “He’s here all right.” So I thought I’d better come and have a look for myself. And you know what? It looks as though the cunt was right. ’Cause here you are standing right in fucking front of me.’
‘Morning, Commissioner,’ Cámara said.
‘Fuck off!’ Pardo shouted. ‘Now. That’s a fucking order. You can’t be here. Go where you have to go, sort your life out, get shagged, do whatever you have to do. But don’t come in here. You’re on compassionate fucking leave.’
He pushed his way back through the swinging doors.
‘You’ve got twenty-four hours.’
They’d opened up the street again to traffic, and a stream of cars was rolling past, pausing so the occupants could glance up at the sight of the ‘tragedy’ that filled the news. A row of skips lined the pavement, filled with rubble and personal effects. An effort was being made, at least, to salvage something, but peering in he saw nothing but smashed household items, bits of broken wood from chairs and table legs, smashed crockery, clothes covered so thickly in brick dust you could hardly see what colour they were. It was all of the past now, all gone, finished. Yet still he’d found himself walking here to take another look, as though part of him was still struggling to absorb what had happened, that his body no longer slept, ate, shat or washed in the parcel of space that had once been his, there, about seven or eight metres up from where he was now standing. Now it was just a gap, emptiness. Was there any memory there of his emotions and experiences? If he were to float up and occupy the space that had been his home, would he feel anything, any echo?
A horn blew, loud and long. He turned to see a truck inching its way down the street, annoyed at the cars setting off too slowly from the traffic light ahead. From the shape of it, and the name of the company on the side, he could see it was coming to pick up one of the skips and take it away. Already the lives of those who had lived here had become rubbish to be dumped in some hole in the ground.
From the other direction he heard a voice calling his name. It was Vicent, from the bar. They shook hands and stood in silence for a moment, staring at the rubble.
‘They’ll be burying Susana and Tomás in a few hours’ time,’ Vicent said at last. ‘We had a whip-round at the bar, sending some flowers.’
Cámara pulled out his packet of Ducados and gave one to Vicent.
‘Put your name on it as well,’ Vicent said.
‘Thanks.’
Instinctively, Cámara reached into his pocket to feel for some money.
‘No, come on,’ Vicent said, putting his hand on his arm to stop him. ‘You’ve got enough to be thinking about.’
They turned away from the destroyed block of flats and started strolling down towards the bar. Some of the neighbours walking past greeted Cámara with sad, sympathetic smiles.
‘There’s a meeting this evening at ten o’clock,’ Vicent said. ‘Local residents–to talk about the situation. There’s a couple of lawyers involved. Trying to nail down who’s responsible for all this, and what they’re going to do about the other buildings here. I mean, if it can happen to one, it could happen to some of the others. Probably even more likely now–structural damage. Not just from the metro work, but from the collapse of your place. Must have weakened the buildings next door.’
Cámara nodded silently as they walked along, stepping to one side every now and again to let people pass along the narrow, uneven pavement.
‘And then there’s the problem with the sewerage–not connecting the street up properly,’ Vicent went on. ‘The paper says the construction company got paid for the job years back, but never actually did it. So we’ve all been floating on our own shit for years. That’s got to have something to do with it. Places rotting from the bottom up. Someone’s got to take the blame for that. They’ve stopped the metro work for the time being, but they’ll be wanting to start again as soon as possible. Working through the night again. All those vibrations can’t be good. We won’t know what’s keeping us from sleeping–the noise from the machinery or wondering if we’ll wake up with a ton of masonry on our heads.’
They stopped at the corner, hovering around the door to the bar. A television crew had arrived, with a handful of men in light summer suits. At the centre of the group stood a woman with a heavily made-up leathery face, her hair shaped into a black bouffant, and oversized shoulder pads in her lime green jacket. Emilia Delgado, the mayoress herself, had come to inspect.
‘Looks like the cavalry’s arrived,’ Vicent said. ‘Oh, and they’ve announced the Pope is swinging round when he’s here–to bless the rubble.’
‘Thoughtful of him.’
Cámara scanned the faces, looking for Javier Flores, Emilia’s right-hand man. He was usually easy to spot, with his clashing dress sense, but he seemed to be absent. Cámara gave a sigh of relief; he could do without Flores’s sneering grin on a day like this.
‘That’s the new one,’ Vicent said, nodding at the group of journalists and politicians.
Cámara saw that the TV crew was focusing on a second politician hovering next to Emilia as the group looked for the best place to do a piece to camera. The man’s dress style was clearly one up from Flores; he’d opted for a well-cut grey suit with a black tie. He was tall and well built, and although he was a few years older than Cámara, perhaps close to fifty, his face was smooth and shiny, as though he’d just shaved. He was looking down at Emilia over a crooked nose with slightly dreamy, glassy eyes. Emilia appeared to be briefing him for the interview he was about to give the local TV station, Canal 9.
‘New one?’ Cámara asked.
‘New councillor in charge of building projects,’ Vicent explained. ‘Mezquita. Only been in the job for a couple of months. And now he’s got to wriggle his way out of this mess. But there’s something non-stick about him. Can’t see it making him sweat too much.’
‘What happened to his predecessor?’
‘You really don’t follow the news, do you?’ Vicent said, rubbing the grey stubble on his cheek. ‘García Ramos. Big scandal. The guy was fucking the wife of the Valencia goalkeeper. I tell you–they can steal as much as they like, this lot, and no one bats an eyelid. But start messing with the wife of a football player and you’re finished. No matter how powerful
your friends are.’
Mezquita had started the interview by this point, and they could hear him talking in a slow but assured fashion about all the measures they were taking to ensure nothing like this ever happened again, and that every effort was being made to rehouse those who had lost their homes.
‘Will there be any legal action taken over what has happened?’ the interviewer asked tamely.
‘An inquest will be held in due course and in the proper way,’ Mezquita purred.
Cámara’s eyes wandered back to Emilia: she rarely gave interviews herself, preferring her team of men to do them for her. It was all part of an image she liked to project of herself as a sort of high priestess overseeing the affairs of the city–an icon or a goddess. All the more reason why the former cabaret singer had never got married.
Emilia caught sight of the two of them watching her from the other side of the street, and gave them a professional smile. Then she did a double take: there was something familiar about one of them. Yes, it was Cámara, the policeman who had caused them so much trouble with the Blanco case.
The smile dropped as she turned away. Cámara shrugged and ducked into the bar. Vicent followed after him, walked over to the beer tap and started pouring them a couple of cañas.
‘Salud,’ he said as he raised his glass.
‘Cheers.’
Eight
The offices of the department of Urbanismo were about to close for lunch by the time he arrived, wondering about finding someone who could fill him in on rehousing possibilities, and whether he could make a claim for compensation. Eventually, after queuing twice for the wrong desk, he was hurriedly told that they were aware of the problem and were working on a solution for the remaining residents of his former block of flats. They took his name and mobile phone number, and promised to call when they had news. But in the meantime, if he had friends or family who could put him up…
Back outside the heat was sticky and intense. He’d have to get some new clothes; all he had was what he was standing in, and his shirt was feeling stale and limp.
His phone rang: it was Almudena.
A Death in Valencia Page 6