Blood Med

by Jason Webster

  ‘Did you touch the body?’ Cámara asked. No more ‘Amy’. No more present tense. No more pretending.

  The husband looked down at his dark, painted fingers. The blood had dried. No longer crimson but already browning and flaking off in places where he had touched his face or rubbed himself dry. He had not thought to wash his hands, to clean away the stains.

  He looked up at them, wordless.

  The smell would stay with him for ever.

  FIVE

  ‘I WAS IN Malaga, at the murder squad. It was one of the first cases after I arrived. The guy was a truck driver. A Gypsy. He used to leave early every morning and do deliveries around the city and then come home. Sometimes for lunch, sometimes not, but he was always back home by about eight in the evening. So one night he has a row with his wife, she says she’s going to leave him. I mean, you know what I’m saying – it must be very serious to make a Gypsy woman threaten to leave her husband. They don’t do that. Later we found out he’d been beating her something rotten. Anyway, she threatens to leave, he bangs her around, same as usual. Then the next day he sets off for work as though nothing had happened, doing his rounds. But around mid-morning he comes back home, parks the truck a few blocks away so no one would see it, strolls back home and murders the wife. Viciously, I mean, with a knife. Slashes her face, her hands, her genitals . . . It was horrific, like an abattoir or something. Then he has a shower, washes himself off, puts on a clean shirt and goes back to the truck and carries on with the deliveries, dumping the knife and bloodstained clothes in a rubbish container on the other side of the city. At midday he has lunch with his mates, absolutely fine. And meanwhile his wife is lying dead back on the living-room floor. Then at eight o’clock he goes back home, like normal, and “discovers” his wife’s murder. We get called in and he’s sitting there wailing, shocked, bewildered. The whole thing. Some were convinced, but I just knew. He comes up with some story about finding her there, he’s distraught, screams for help, calls the police. Him, mind, not a neighbour or anyone. He had the presence of mind to make the call himself. And he tells us some story about a cousin in Colombia who he owed money to and how he’d threatened to hurt his family . . . We took him in, and he carried on with it. There wasn’t much we could do. If anyone had seen him coming back home earlier in the day, no one was saying. I mean, no Gypsy’s going to come running to us. But, you know how it is, sometimes you get lucky. One of the rubbish collectors heard something rattling in one of the containers that night. Sounded strange, so he pokes around and finds the knife, and then the guy’s bloody clothes. Fishes them out and they’re on our desk the next day. The científicos run them through the DNA testing and it’s all his and his wife’s, the blood. Straightforward after that. He got sent down. Protesting his innocence all the way, of course. And none of the neighbours or anyone ever came forward, even when it was clear it was him. It was the DNA alone. But, you know? They teach us these things – that the person who calls in a murder is often the murderer; that when a woman is killed, nine times out of ten it’s her husband, or boyfriend, or ex-boyfriend or whatever. And we like to think that it can’t be straightforward, that it’s got to be more complicated. But the statistics don’t lie. You know I’m right. I’ve seen it a hundred times and so have you. We’ll haul him in and he’ll be singing like a canary before the end of the day. You know the type – wealthy guy, steady job, nice flat. Give him five minutes in the cells and he’ll be screaming to make a confession.’

  They were standing on the pavement outside the flat. A couple of members of the Policía Local had turned up and were maintaining a cordon, keeping people away as the ambulance backed up towards the entrance. The men from La Pepa – whose job it was to take corpses away – were about to drive Amy’s body to the forensic medicine department at the law courts. The ritual of the duty judge and court officials arriving to approve the procedure was complete and they could start thinking about the next steps. A few metres away a squad car was waiting. Laura would be taking Ruiz Costa to the Jefatura in it. Cámara was already unlocking his helmet.

  ‘Do you bet?’ Laura asked him as he straddled the motorbike.

  Her timing was crass, if not uncommon. Dark humour, silly competitive games – these were the methods that some used to combat the stress.

  ‘Go on,’ he said.

  ‘You’re not convinced.’

  ‘I keep an open mind.’

  ‘You don’t think a nice man like him could do something so horrible.’

  He pulled on his helmet and strapped it tight under his chin, firing the bike into life.

  ‘Have it your way,’ Laura said. ‘But I’m telling you now, I’ll have a confession before the Old Man finally pegs it.’

  Ah yes, he thought as he sped back up the Gran Vía. The King. For a moment he had almost forgotten about it all.

  While Laura Martín focused on her ‘one shot’ approach to the case, Cámara decided to do some background work. It was something he normally did with Torres – his colleague was faster on the keyboard than he was and they could bounce ideas off each other as they delved into the information available to them on Webpol, the police intranet. Now, though, he would have to do it on his own.

  Some of his colleagues had already finished for the day. Hangers-on were still glued to the screen. The reporters had changed but after pausing to watch for a second he saw that the situation was the same as before. He was craving a drink, and with an instinctive motion his right hand dropped to open a drawer in his desk where he and Torres sometimes kept their secret supply. But instead of a bottle of brandy, all he found was a forgotten apple from some hurried snack.

  Taking a bite, he walked over to the television and switched it off, to the sound of disappointed groans.

  ‘I need your attention,’ he said, swallowing.

  He only required a few minutes. Albelda was the oldest and had been there for so long he was almost a mascot figure for the squad. With high blood pressure, thick grey hair and a full, almost Gallic moustache, he had made it to fifty-five without rising higher than inspector, but his alcoholism never affected his ability to respond well in an emergency. Cámara told him to find as many officers as he needed and to talk to anyone they could find in the area around Amy’s flat – neighbours, passers-by, whoever. They should start with the block of flats itself, then widen out to the rest of the street, both sides.

  ‘Done,’ Albelda grunted.

  ‘We need to know what time the husband came home,’ Cámara said. ‘Eye witnesses. Positive ID. And get in touch with a plastic surgeon called Dr Olmedo Pérez. His office is somewhere near the station. Can he confirm that Ruiz Costa visited him this morning?’

  The other two, Castro and Lozano, were younger, but keen. Tall, with short black hair, Lozano had a permanent recently shaved look underlined by using too much cologne. He was ambitious and struggled to impress. Castro had recently arrived, having finished officer training only six months earlier. She was short and muscular, wore a stud in her nose and tied her brown hair in a ponytail, stretching it tight over her scalp. There was a goodness in her expression, but any innocence still remaining when she arrived had now been shocked out of her. He had heard rumours that she and Lozano were sleeping together. No point splitting them up, Cámara thought. At least not yet.

  ‘Coordinate with Albelda,’ he told them. ‘Go back to the flat and search it thoroughly. The científicos will be close to finishing. We need the weapon. If they haven’t found it, you will. Got it? Tear the place apart if you have to, search the surrounding areas. If the guy’s a travelling salesman he must have a car. Talk to Chief Inspector Martín. She’ll be here soon. If so, get the keys and check it out. And make sure you tell the científicos as well – they’ll need to take a look.’

  He clapped his hands – time to start moving. Seconds later he was alone in the office.

  The gun. It had been troubling him.

  ‘We just haven’t found it yet,’ Laura had said. Perhaps.
But how could you fire five shots into the back of a person’s head without arousing suspicions? Normally half the neighbourhood would have heard. There would have been at least one call through to the incident room about the strange noise. Even in Valencia, where firecrackers were so common it often sounded as if a gunfight was taking place in the next street. But inside someone’s flat? So why no calls? Albelda might be able to dig up something, but why had none of the neighbours come forward while he and Laura were still there?

  Unless . . . Surely not. It made no sense.

  Laura did not make an appearance until early evening.

  ‘He’s downstairs,’ she said. ‘In the cells.’

  ‘Has he confessed yet?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘He will.’

  She walked over to the television and switched it on, as though needing a moment’s distraction from the investigation. A nun from Madrid was outlining details of the special vigil she and her sisters were holding as they prayed for divine intervention, calling on everyone in the country to join them in prayer. As she spoke, images of thousands of reporters and well-wishers near the hospital entrance filled the screen, cutting with scenes from the King’s life: his early years in exile; arriving in Spain to be mentored by Franco; his coronation in 1975 and his famous television appearance during the coup attempt in 1981.

  Laura sat down, her back straight.

  ‘He’s not dead yet,’ Cámara said. ‘Your bet’s still valid.’

  ‘Funny,’ she said. ‘It feels so important and yet at the same time . . .’

  ‘You might be interested to hear what I’ve found.’

  She turned.

  ‘What?’

  ‘It’s what I haven’t found, rather,’ Cámara corrected himself. He tossed over a couple of printouts to her.

  ‘No criminal record. No history of abuse. No court orders to keep Ruiz Costa away from Amy, or anyone else in the past.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Which doesn’t prove anything, as we know. But—’

  ‘Yes, I hear you,’ Laura interrupted. ‘But . . . thanks. That was probably more my side of things.’

  ‘This is interesting, though.’

  She raised an eyebrow.

  ‘He’s registered as having lived at the flat since he was a child.’

  She leaned in.

  ‘Both his parents are dead,’ Cámara continued. ‘Father – also called Alfredo – when he was twenty-three. His mother, Clementina, only last December.’

  ‘The flat,’ Laura said.

  ‘Inherited. The family home. He stayed put and took it over when his parents died.’

  ‘Explains how he could afford such a big place.’ She paused. ‘So he married Amy a year ago and then a few months later the mother dies.’

  ‘You think it’s relevant?’

  Laura wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Mummy’s boy, inherited wealth. New foreign wife on the scene. They were probably having problems, Amy and Alfredo. Stopped sleeping together, rows. Perhaps he was seeing someone else. Perhaps she was.’

  ‘That’s a rapid collapse in the marriage – just over a year.’

  ‘She was shot five times – at least five times – in the back of the head,’ Laura said. ‘That’s not . . . You don’t do that if you just want to kill someone. One shot or two. Perhaps to the back of the head if you’re a professional. But five? And the sexual element? Her underwear pulled down like that?’

  She got up and walked to the window.

  ‘I’m telling you it’s Malaga all over again.’

  She dropped her head and sighed.

  ‘It’s always Malaga.’

  SIX

  THE BAR WHERE they usually met had closed a couple of weeks before, its metal shutters firmly and definitively shut, like the eyes of a dead man. Now it was another reminder of happier, more prosperous times, an additional scar on the streetscape of a wounded, flailing city.

  Instead of finding an alternative near the Jefatura itself, however, they decided to frequent somewhere further away: a small, hole-in-the-wall pub in the Carmen district. There was less chance of bumping into other police there.

  They had no set agreement, simply an understanding that come the evening, and the end of their working day – assuming they were on normal shifts – they would each make their independent way there and wait to see if the other could come round and have a drink.

  Torres was first that day. Cámara found him sitting at a small table outside, with a half-drunk bottle of red wine in front of him and a small pile of cigarette butts growing underneath his chair. Cámara patted him on the shoulder, ordered a bottle of Mahou beer for himself, and sat down.

  ‘Bad one?’

  Torres grunted by way of affirmation.

  The eerie silence of earlier in the day had given way to a different mood. In the absence of an official communiqué from Madrid rumours were beginning to fly. Many were assuming the King was already dead and that the announcement was being delayed out of fears for national security. The streets had been practically deserted but now people were coming out of their homes and circling the city centre to give expression to their emotion. Anger, fear, a sense of impending loss, elation in some cases – all these feelings were palpable as a crowd began to gather in the Plaza de la Reina not a hundred metres from where they were sitting.

  ‘Like a swarm of bees that’s about to lose its queen,’ Cámara said. ‘People don’t know who they are any more.’

  Torres took a gulp of wine.

  ‘They’re just bored.’

  Cámara took out his packet of Ducados, lit one and then poured his beer into the glass as the smoke rose and danced in the orange-pink street lights above. Torres must know, he thought. Maldonado would have informed him of the situation as well.

  ‘I can see placards,’ he said. ‘It must be some kind of organised demonstration. Did you catch a glimpse of it?’

  Torres shrugged.

  ‘I heard it was something to do with the cuts in healthcare,’ he said. ‘Arranged it a few days ago. Before all this started.’

  He scratched his beard, pushing his chin out.

  ‘They must have decided to carry on regardless.’

  ‘I’m surprised . . .’ Cámara began. But Torres did not seem interested. Silently, Cámara wondered to himself about what the policing arrangements were for the demonstration. A rally like this, on such a night, could turn into something much bigger and very different from how it was originally envisaged. Were the riot teams on alert? He found himself secretly hoping that they were not.

  ‘So this murder case of yours,’ Torres said.

  ‘Seems fairly straightforward,’ said Cámara. ‘On paper.’

  Torres chuckled quietly.

  ‘What about the suicide?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘Oh,’ Torres said with some exaggeration. ‘The suicide. Well . . .’ He pulled a face. ‘Guy called Diego Oliva. Unemployed for the past four years, can’t pay the mortgage, about to get his flat repossessed, so he goes for a dive off the balcony.’

  ‘Is he dead?’

  ‘No. Not yet, anyway.’

  ‘Did you go and see him? Where is he?’

  ‘They’ve got him at the New La Fe hospital. Intensive care. Wouldn’t let me in, obviously, but I caught a glimpse of him through the window.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Guy lying in bed with a bunch of tubes sticking out of him.’

  Cámara sniffed.

  ‘All right. But what are they saying?’

  ‘No one wants to commit. They’re certainly not very hopeful, but they reckon there might be a chance. If only a slim one.’

  Cámara took a long swig of his beer. Down in the square someone was blowing a piercing whistle, raising the volume of the swirling crowd.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Torres did not react for a moment, his eyes dark under the shadow of his black eyebrows.

  ‘His mortgage is with Caja Levante,’ he said.
r />   Cámara sighed.

  ‘Well, he wouldn’t be the first.’

  The local savings bank had been one of the keenest lenders during the building boom a few years before. Now that the crash had hit hard, it had only been saved from annihilation by direct intervention – and millions of public money – from Madrid. But the price of staying afloat was to take a zero-tolerance approach to mortgage defaulters. Thousands of flats in the city now lay empty after people who had lost their jobs in the recession found they could not keep up with the repayments. Not a few of them had decided to end it all when faced with the loss of their home. Graffiti had started appearing on walls renaming the bank ‘Caja Sangre’ – the bank of blood.

  Torres lifted his eyes and looked down the street towards the demonstration.

  ‘They take his taxes and use them to prop up a failing bank that then takes his home away when he falls on hard times.’

  ‘I don’t understand it either,’ Cámara said.

  ‘Yeah, but get this.’ Torres pulled out another cigarette, lit it and then leaned in towards Cámara.

  ‘The guy’s in his late thirties, right? Divorced for a couple of years, no kids. And until three or four years ago he’d been working his entire adult life. Always had a job. Same company. But he was on some rolling temporary contract system. You get paid a bit more in exchange for not getting any job security or labour rights. That kind of thing. But it seems he was pretty well set up. Clever guy. Had a degree in economics, steady job, as I say. Buys himself a nice flat, near the river. Everything’s looking OK. Then suddenly, one day, no more contract, no more job. They pull the plug on him. No warning either, by the looks of it.’

  Cámara nodded. Who was Torres really talking about? Diego Oliva? Or a future vision of himself?

  ‘But guess who he was working for all that time.’

  Cámara recognised the glint of dark irony in his colleague’s eye.

  ‘No. It can’t be.’

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘You mean . . .?’