Blood Med

by Jason Webster

  ‘I don’t know what happened,’ the woman said.

  ‘It’s the pills,’ said Cámara. ‘He needs his ACE inhibitors.’

  He put a hand out to touch his grandfather’s face.

  ‘I’ve run out,’ Hilario said. His voice sounded broken and heavy. ‘None left. Meant to get some this morning . . .’

  Cámara stood up and looked at Alicia.

  ‘We’ve got to find some. Fast.’

  ‘At this time?’ She looked concerned.

  ‘I’ll find a twenty-four-hour chemist.’

  ‘Let’s just hope they’ve got some medicines left when you get there,’ said Daniel. ‘They’re running out of basics these days.’

  But Cámara was already on his way.

  ‘Take him home,’ he called out as he ran back down the platform towards the exit. ‘I’ll see you back at the flat.’

  EIGHT

  TWO CHEMISTS IN the city centre stayed open all night. After queuing outside both only to be told that they had run out of the medicine he needed, Cámara jumped on to the motorbike and sped off into the suburbs.

  It was gone midnight and the streets were mostly deserted. He scooted through the alleyways of the Carmen district, wending his way quickly through the pedestrian streets of the old city before he could find a proper road heading north. As he rounded a corner he caught a glimpse, down at the far end of Calle Caballeros, of the Plaza de la Virgen. Large numbers of policemen wearing helmets and carrying truncheons were blocking the view, but the demonstration that Torres and he had seen earlier in the evening appeared to have turned into a full-scale riot. A tickling, burning sensation in his throat told him that tear gas had already been used. He opened the throttle and rode away in the opposite direction.

  The situation in Madrid was still uncertain: he would have heard otherwise. But things were potentially explosive. The country the King had done so much to shape, guiding it along as it shook off the past and took steps – tentative ones at first but then ever more confident – towards a freer and more prosperous future, appeared close to collapse.

  Cámara was not a monarchist. But he believed in being grateful. Recent years had not been the best of the King’s reign – the scandals, the illnesses, the indiscretions. There was an element of legend or folk tale about his story: as his health and prestige declined, so did that of the country as a whole. Almost like a tale from the Bible. All they needed now was a sign – a plague of venomous toads falling from the sky, or something – and then they would really know that they were fucked.

  The road took him to the Torres de Quart city gates, where he turned right and headed up Guillén de Castro, running the red lights as he sped along. Chemists with no basic medicines. He had heard about it, but these things only meant something when they affected you directly. Thanks to another hole in the city’s finances there was no public money left to pay pharmacists to keep a full stock. The place felt like a ship springing leaks, taking on ever more water.

  He crossed the river and shot up Avenida de la Constitución, away from the city centre. There was one place he knew, a big twenty-four-hour chemist in an immigrant neighbourhood, where he might have better luck.

  Here in the suburbs the streets were deathly quiet. No police, no rioters. Just closed shops and offices and ordinary people getting some sleep before facing another day: those without work looking for a job or a way to feed themselves; those with work hoping to hang on to what they had. Not everyone had the luxury of being able to care too much about the news. Getting by, day by day, took up too much time and energy. He counted six, seven, eight people sleeping rough as he rode along – on benches, under palm trees or huddled in the entrances of high-street banks.

  He turned and headed up Juan XXIII Avenue. A queue of people ahead told him that the chemist was open. He parked the bike on the zebra crossing and wandered over. His phone vibrated and he saw a message from Alicia: she had got Hilario home safely, but was worried about him. If Cámara did not get back soon she was going to take him to the hospital.

  Cámara glanced down the line. There were five people ahead of him: a black man, two Ecuadorean women, and a Spanish-looking woman. At the counter, slurring his words and starting to get irate with the chemist, was a junkie. It seemed that his papers were not in order for the fix he was trying to get. The black man looked back at Cámara and rolled his eyes.

  ‘It’s been like this for five minutes already,’ he said. ‘My little boy is at home being sick. I need to get him some medicine. But . . .’

  He tutted loudly.

  The others started joining in, telling each other why they were there, what they needed to get hold of – urgently in each case. Cámara put his hand to his forehead. Should he try somewhere else? He was not sure if moving Hilario again and making him wait for hours in the emergency ward was the best option. If only he could get the pills and shoot back. He could be there in less than ten minutes.

  The junkie was starting to shout, banging the glass as he demanded his drugs. He was skinny. Physically he would not pose a problem, but Cámara knew from experience that junkies could lash out unexpectedly. And their pathetic appearance could often disguise an unusual strength. Intervene or wait for the situation to resolve itself? If he stepped in, he knew that there would be little chance of getting home before dawn. The bureaucratic machinery of police work would suck him in for the next couple of hours at least.

  Two more people – two young Chinese men – had joined the queue. It had never been orderly in the first place and was now more of a mingling small crowd than a recognisable line. But the junkie continued with his rant. Finally, as though aware that things were close to getting out of hand, the chemist relented and handed over a white box, slipping it under the thick partition. The man grunted and slunk off, disappearing into the shadows of a side street.

  There was a collective sigh of relief. The next in the queue, the Spanish woman, sidled up, and pushed over a piece of paper. Cámara checked the time on one of the street displays. He could still make it. Once he got hold of the medicine he would text Alicia that he was on his way.

  Assuming that they had what he needed.

  Something about the sound of the car’s engine made him prick up his ears and turn to look. It sounded angry and incongruous. The vehicle was not travelling fast, but it was coming towards them from the top of the avenue and some instinct told him that the occupants had clocked on to this small group of people and were watching them.

  The man in front of him sensed it as well, and turned as the car reached the traffic lights near where they stood, made a wide arc and swung round to drive straight towards them, mounting the pavement with a thud before braking just metres away.

  Cámara’s police mind automatically clicked into action: a dark red, five-door Opel Astra. Four people inside, all male and between the ages of twenty and thirty-five. All were white, clean-shaven, had shortly clipped hair and were wearing light summer jackets.

  The information was registered in the second between the car coming to a halt and the doors opening. The men inside were only partially visible, lit by the street lamps above. Friends having a bit of fun, driving up on to the pavement like that for a lark? Or with something more sinister in mind?

  Then all four of them got out of the car.

  The two Chinese men took one look at the newcomers and ran as fast as they could, quickly vanishing across the road. One of the four men – a younger-looking lad who had been in the back seat – laughed as he watched them go.

  Cámara glanced down at the car registration plate, trying to see, but the legs of one of the men were in the way. What was visible, however, was a sticker on the bonnet of the Spanish flag with the black eagle of the Francoist coat of arms in the centre. Instinctively, Cámara lowered his weight and steadied his breathing.

  The Spanish woman had got what she came for but was standing still at the counter, paralysed by this new and unexpected turn of events. The Latino women behind her turne
d to look, then recoiled, shuffling backwards, unsure as to what to do. From inside the chemist’s shop, the pharmacist was unaware of what was happening and called out impatiently for the next customer, his voice muffled by the glass.

  The four men stepped closer, the three younger ones following the lead of an older member. All of them worked out – it was clear from the bulging shoulders and thick, squat necks. They had the air of a pack of dogs, a curious animal telepathy that forged them into a unit. And their lazy, arrogant and dark expressions implied a capacity for random and acute violence.

  It was not clear what they were here for or what their intentions were, but Cámara’s hand moved to his back pocket, fumbling for his police ID card. The leader was swinging a large bunch of keys from the end of a thick cord. Cámara noticed his balding, narrow head and a large tattoo on his right forearm of a shield painted in the Spanish colours of red and yellow, with a double-headed axe emblazoned at the front.

  There was a movement from behind. The black man pushed past Cámara and stood to confront the group.

  ‘Go away!’ he called in a strained, angry voice. ‘Go away! We have had enough of this.’

  The leader swung his keys in a wider circle. One of the Latino women began to whimper.

  ‘Come on,’ the Spanish woman said to them, pulling one of them by the arm. ‘You don’t want to be here.’

  ‘But I need my pills.’

  ‘Come on, come on.’

  And they shuffled away. Cámara and the black man were on their own.

  ‘Enough!’ the black man called again. ‘Leave us alone.’

  ‘You have had enough?’ the leader suddenly spat out. ‘You have had enough? What about us? What about the Spanish people?’

  He took a step forward, pulling the keys into his fist with a jerk. Behind him, the other three followed in unison.

  The black man was scared. The leader bared his teeth.

  ‘Stop!’

  He had to move – now before it was too late. Cámara pushed past and held up his police ID card.

  ‘Stand back,’ he said. ‘Stand back, all of you. Back towards the car. Now!’

  The leader looked at him and smiled.

  ‘A direct order from a representative of the Spanish State,’ he said calmly. ‘And we must obey. Right, lads?’

  The others mumbled their assent.

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘All right, then.’

  Without taking his eyes off Cámara, the leader took two large paces backwards. For a moment Cámara thought he was winking at him.

  ‘That far enough?’

  The leader was not scared – not in the slightest. This was part of some game for him, where he knew his role, the others theirs, and in some warped way Cámara realised that he too was one of the players, acting out a part that had been scripted before. Or so he felt. They were obeying him, stepping back and away. But he did not have a feeling of control. The tension, if anything, was worse.

  ‘In the car. All of you,’ Cámara said.

  ‘This is the bit where we drive peacefully away, correct?’ the leader said. ‘Situation resolved. No incident to report. I understand.’

  That smile again, joyless and calculating.

  ‘It’s been a long day. For everyone. I’m sure this is the right decision.’

  At his command, the others climbed back into the car. The leader took one more look at the black man, then again at Cámara. Then he got into the car himself. The vehicle backed off the pavement on to the road again with a loud, exaggerated roar.

  The window came down and the leader leaned out.

  ‘There will be other opportunities,’ he said. ‘Nice to have met you.’

  And they were gone.

  Cámara stood for a few moments, watching them disappear at the end of the avenue and listening out for the sound of the car above the silence of the sleeping suburbs. Would they turn around and come back? Or had they really gone? Only when he could no longer hear the engine did he turn round, back towards the chemist’s.

  The black man had gone.

  The pharmacist looked stressed.

  ‘Yes, I’ve got one more box,’ he said when Cámara asked him for Hilario’s pills. He opened a drawer, pulled it out and slipped it across.

  ‘That’s the third time those pricks have been round here in as many nights,’ he said. ‘Harassing people, threatening to beat them up. They call the immigrants “invaders”. Fucking idiots.’

  He sighed and passed Cámara his change.

  ‘I need a fucking holiday.’

  NINE

  DEAR GOD, HE thought, let me never end up like this.

  Amy’s corpse lay on the cold aluminium table with a plughole between her feet for the leaking fluids to drain away. She lay face up, but her face was so destroyed that the phrase was almost meaningless. The rest of her body, despite having the yellow-purple colour of the recently dead, was young and fresh and beautiful. He would try to remember that, he thought. That and the smiling photo in her passport. Not the mangled mass of bone, hair and flesh that was now her head.

  Darío Quintero was carrying out the autopsy. Cámara liked him. They had worked together in the past, and the elderly man with his full grey beard and thin white hands had a way of going about his work that ensured a calm dignity at such horrific and gruesome moments. Cámara had seen him operate many times before. It was not always necessary, but it formed a part of his job. This time he felt that he should be present. But seeing the young woman lying there, something rebelled in his insides. Some people, he thought, could never get used to this, no matter how many times they witnessed it. And he was one of them. On occasion he could stand it better, but it never left him unmoved.

  Quintero spoke slowly in a gentle tone as he walked around the body, his giant-like assistant taking measurements, cleaning up splashes of blood. It was almost like a form of theatre, a soliloquy in honour of the deceased as her mortal remains were examined, prodded and cut apart. She measured 1.57 metres, he was saying, had thick chestnut hair and weighed approximately 65 kilos. Her eye colour was unknown as there were no eyes to speak of left in her skull.

  The body was turned over and the assistant began shaving off her hair, collecting it from the floor with a dustpan and brush. The kind you could buy from the supermarket for three euros. Quintero was looking closely at the bullet entry points at the back of her head. Something about the muzzle burns had caught his attention. The assistant stood to the side with the saw in his hand, waiting to cut the top of the head off.

  ‘I’m . . . I’m going outside,’ Cámara said.

  ‘I’ll fill you in when we finish.’ Laura was at his side. She spoke without reproach.

  The swing doors gave a satisfactory slap behind him as he walked out, symbolically reassuring him that he had left the autopsy behind. But his stomach and shoulders felt knotted and he rubbed his hands hard over his face as though trying to clean away a stain. Stepping over to a water dispenser, he drank hard and quickly, then belched and gave out a long sigh.

  Thoughts of giving up police work, like those that had dogged him in the past, no longer featured in his mind. But there were moments like this when he remembered why, at times, it had been so easy to contemplate, and then so easy to dismiss. The horror and disgust were an essential part of his being a detective. The day you stopped feeling angry was the day you really had to consider carrying on or not. And there were still so many reasons for his blood to boil. Today, that reason was Amy Donahue.

  He walked outside and reached for his cigarettes. The forensic medicine department was at the law courts, and as usual there were several dozen people mingling outside: lawyers and judges nipping out for a break, like himself; people with folders full of paperwork, shuffling and organising them before heading inside to the lobby; parents holding babies, come to register new births. This was the official, legal centre of the city and province, where the business of living, dying and breeding was played out.

 
Further on, in front of an annexe, wedding parties waited their turn to go in and take part in the quick-fire civil ceremony, some in formal suits and dresses, others in more everyday, if colourful, clothes. Would he ever be there himself one day, he wondered? As if unbidden, he knew in that instant who he would be standing next to: there could be no one else. And the thought brought a smile to his face. But would they ever come this far?

  His thoughts were interrupted by the sound of shouting and whistles being blown. Another demonstration was getting under way. A banner was unfolded beneath a group of around twenty people. Cámara turned away, but not before registering the words ‘corruption’ and ‘politicians’ painted in red on the white cloth. More upset citizens, complaining about the low standards of their supposed representatives. They should take matters into their own hands and stop expecting others to rule on their behalf. More and more, he thought, it was the only way.

  He finished his cigarette and hovered at the door for a moment, his mind filled with dread at the thought of what was inside. Finally, after taking a deep breath, he pushed on the door and walked in.

  Laura was standing in the entrance. She looked pale.

  ‘Finished already?’ Cámara asked.

  ‘We’ve got what we need,’ she said. ‘Quintero is continuing, but . . . he’ll get in touch if he thinks there’s anything more we ought to know.’

  She did not look him in the eye.

  ‘I find a drink can help at moments like this,’ Cámara said. ‘A quick brandy. For the nerves. There’s a place round the—’

  ‘No, I’m fine.’ She pursed her lips. He felt pleased, somehow, that this affected her as well. She was like him, not one of the others with steel blood running through their veins. Quintero was different: it was his profession. But there were some in Homicidios who, he knew, could sit through autopsies an entire day and not be moved by them, as though watching procedures in an abattoir. That was not normal – at least not in his world.