‘I don’t know if this is a good time to tell you,’ Alicia said. ‘But I’ve got to say it sometime.’
‘What’s up?’ he said, still looking out towards the dark.
‘I did some rummaging around about that American girl you mentioned. The one who was murdered.’
He dug his hand into the sand.
‘You’ve found something.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. I was looking at her Twitter account and saw that she had some friends who were also blogging and doing news stuff like she was. There’s this English guy who’s got a rolling news site on Spain for expats.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I got in touch. Said I was a friend of Amy’s. They’ve all heard about the murder now and are shocked, of course, and it seems that some are starting to speculate.’
‘Go on.’
‘The husband was being questioned, so most people are accepting that he did it. None of these people seem to have known Amy personally, just via the Internet.’
‘But the English guy?’
‘The English guy said something about Amy being on to a big story. He didn’t know what it was, but he said she was really excited about it.’
The scoop, Cámara thought.
‘Did he know what it was about?’
‘No. He just said the last thing she mentioned on Twitter was that she was going to meet some guy who had some info for her.’
‘That’s it?’
‘I checked out her Twitter feed,’ Alicia said. ‘To have a look, and it was there.’
She pulled out a piece of paper.
‘I jotted it down, her last tweet. Here.’
Cámara read.
‘V excited. Off to meet banker with scoop on high-level VLC corruption.’
He pursed his lips.
‘Banker?’
‘I copied it exactly.’
He looked back at the sea. The waves had died down completely now and the waters were so flat that the reflection of the night sky barely shimmered.
‘Pass me the bottle,’ he said.
It was well past midnight before they started heading home.
‘I’ve written an article,’ Alicia said as they traipsed back over the sand. ‘About – about what happened to Hilario.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think it says a lot about the way things are going at the moment.’
‘Yes. You’re probably right.’
‘It’s being picked up by some of the foreign press,’ she said. ‘People want to know. A human story that somehow sums up the situation in Spain.’
He pulled on his helmet and climbed on to the bike.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m pleased.’
They took a different route back, wending their way along side streets as they zigzagged towards the flat. Alicia wrapped her arms tightly around his waist: it was one of the most serenely pleasurable experiences for them both. The exhaust hummed deeply, echoing back at them from the buildings lining the traffic-less streets. The mood of the city had been volatile over the past days, veering from riotous to morbidly quiet almost by the hour, but from the looks of things tonight was calm.
Approaching the edge of the centre, they stopped at a red light. Ordinarily he would have jumped it, but he wanted the experience of the ride home to last as long as possible.
As they sat, waiting, something caught his eye.
‘What the hell’s that?’
Alicia popped her head round from behind him and looked. On the other side of the junction, perhaps a hundred metres away, a van with its engine running was parked at an awkward angle on the pavement. Behind, partially hidden from view, was a branch of Caja Levante. Three men were scuttling around, moving very lightly on their feet.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said.
There was a small explosion, a cloud of smoke shot into the air and the bank alarm started ringing violently. A second later, two of the men hauled some metal boxes into the back of the van and climbed aboard. Then they set off, screeching down the road before they even closed the doors.
Cámara had not noticed that the lights had turned green. A bank robbery? In Valencia? As though pulling himself out of a dream, he opened out the throttle and made chase.
The van had gone in the direction of the old river bed. Now he was even more aware of Alicia behind him – their combined weight slowed the bike down and where normally he might expect to catch up quickly he struggled to keep the robbers in view. But curiosity more than a will to bring the men to justice was pushing him forwards. Robbing a bank? They should be given a medal.
They sped over a bridge and into the city centre. The streets were not so empty here and a few cars were cruising by. He thought that the van had gone straight over, but he could not be sure.
‘There!’ Alicia pointed to their right. At the third turning a van – their van? – was disappearing from view. Cámara pulled out, swerving to avoid the traffic, and pushed on.
‘It was Daniel,’ Alicia called out from behind. ‘I could swear it was Daniel.’
Daniel? From the metro? The men had been too far away to see properly. And it was dark.
They reached the corner and turned. The street was empty. Cámara slowed the bike down to glance along each junction as they reached it. If they could catch sight of the tail lights somewhere they might be able to give chase again. At the first crossroads there was no sign of them; at the second, nothing. The third . . . nothing. Cámara sped on to the end of the street and the final junction. Again, no sign of the van.
‘Me cago en la puta.’ Fucking hell.
He turned the bike around and went back to check, heading the wrong way along a one-way street. The van had vanished. In the distance they could hear sirens screeching into action. The police were on their way to the robbed bank.
‘Do you want to call it in?’ Alicia asked. ‘At least we got a sighting of them. Could give a description.’
‘Do you think it’s Daniel?’
‘I, er . . . I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’re right. We can’t be sure.’
He sniffed, pulled the helmet strap tighter on his chin, and they shot off.
They had crossed six or seven blocks heading in the direction of the flat before they saw them. They were in one of the less affluent streets in the old part of town. A group of women was gathered at the far end. Some of them were screaming, others crying. As the motorbike rolled ahead, it became clear that tears of joy were rolling down their cheeks.
‘Look! Look!’ they cried.
Many of them were holding their hands up, bundles of paper clutched between their fingers.
The group was blocking the road, dancing, cheering, shrieking. One of the women approached Cámara and Alicia as they came close, forcing them to stop.
‘They told us to wait here,’ she cried. Her eyes were like flares. ‘They said a miracle would come. I couldn’t believe it but now it’s happened. Bless them, bless them.’
She waved her hand in front of their faces. A wad of fifty-euro notes was gripped tightly between her fingers.
‘We are saved!’
There was a screech of tyres and Cámara looked up. Over the women’s heads he could see the van disappearing from view once again as it sped away. The thieves – whoever they were – were not stealing the money for themselves; in Robin Hood fashion they were distributing it among the city’s poor.
‘You’re lucky,’ he said, turning back to the woman, a wide grin stretching over his face. ‘I’m very happy for you.’
Cámara and Alicia sat on the bike for a few minutes, soaking up the moment. The robber banks had finally been robbed themselves. And just one drop from the ocean of money that had been handed over to prop them up was now returning to the people who had been forced to hand it over in the first place. Justice? This was justice. Let the squad cars giving chase do their best. He would have no part in it.
Perhaps Daniel was involved. If so, he could imagine no one better f
or such a job.
‘It’s happening,’ Alicia said. ‘Whatever it is, it’s happening.’
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached down and pulled it out to see. The text was from Torres.
Never interfere in my cases again, he read.
He closed his eyes and was about to put the phone away, when it buzzed again and a second message came through.
Oliva is dead.
TWENTY-TWO
‘I KNOW YOU,’
Cámara raised an eyebrow. The man was of a similar age to him but thinner and younger-looking. His collarbone was visible above the low-cut neck of his T-shirt.
‘You’re one of the people helping out at the metro refuge.’
Cámara nodded.
‘I’ve been a couple of times. How do you know . . .?’
‘Word’s spreading. You can’t keep something as cool as that secret for long. Goodness will out.’
‘You understand, though,’ Cámara said, looking the man in the eye, ‘it’s important that the . . .’ He paused. ‘That the authorities don’t get wind of it. They will eventually, but we want to keep it going as long as possible.’
‘Oh, that’s absolutely clear. You think I’m going to call the police or something?’ The man laughed. ‘No way. Do I look like a rat?’
Cámara smiled.
‘You’re right. We just need to be careful.’
‘That’s cool. I’m Berto, by the way.’
‘Max.’
They shook hands.
‘I heard there was some really great old guy working down at the metro. Giving them ideas and stuff. An anarchist from the old days. But they say he died just, like, a couple of days ago or something.’
Cámara was silent.
‘Did you know him?’
‘A bit.’
‘I wish I’d met him. Sounds to have been like a saint. People speak so highly of him.’
Cámara cleared his throat. An ‘anarchist saint’. Hilario would have loved the contradiction.
‘He was a good man.’
‘So what do you think?’ Berto said, glancing around them.
They were standing in a large empty room on the ground floor of an old building. Perhaps not long before it had been a shop or a workshop. A few chairs were scattered around and small groups of people were sitting and standing, discussing points from the lecture that had just finished.
‘I was passing by,’ Cámara said. ‘The notice outside looked interesting, so I thought I’d pop in.’
‘It’s just a beginning, of course,’ said Berto. There was an enthusiasm and optimism about him that Cámara warmed to. ‘But I think there’s going to be more and more stuff like this going on. Lots of groups springing up spontaneously.’
‘But you think you can do it? Really step outside the system, set up an independent local economy?’
Berto tilted his head to the side.
‘The question is whether the status quo is viable,’ he said. ‘And if you believe it isn’t, then you have to look to alternatives. It may be a case of trial and error, but we have to try. Otherwise we’re all going down, even the politicians and the banks and everyone who wants to keep going as if nothing has happened.’
A new local currency, bartering, interest-free credit for small businesses, a food bank, neighbourhood schemes to help the homeless – Cámara had heard all these being mentioned during the tail end of the talk. He had decided to walk to work that night, hoping that stretching his legs would help lift the heaviness that lingered in his body after sleeping through most of the day. And the lights from the meeting and notices outside had drawn him in.
Could something like this really work? And if it got off the ground could it survive? Or would it decay and turn into something lifeless, like so many other ‘good’ causes? Perhaps Berto was right. Perhaps he was not asking the right questions.
But the word ‘banks’ produced a spark, a light, and he decided to see if it led anywhere.
‘What do you know about Caja Levante?’ he asked Berto.
‘Caja Levante? What, you looking to buy shares or something?’
Berto smiled.
‘Just an interest.’ Cámara made a punt. ‘All the banks seem crooked, but there’s something about Caja Levante that makes me think it’s a little bit worse.’
Berto sniggered.
‘Yeah, you could say that. They’ve only been propping up Emilia and her party for the past twenty-five years, spending public money to do so. The whole thing’s totally corrupt. Our taxes go straight into their pockets. They can hardly be bothered to hide the fact these days.’
‘All the big building projects, you mean. The opera house, Formula One . . .’
‘That’s just the tip of the iceberg,’ said Berto. ‘That’s just the visible stuff. There’s far more under the surface.’
‘You know about this, then?’
‘I’m an economist by training. Yeah,’ he said, ‘I know I don’t look it. Worked at the university for a while before I jacked it in. You look at the numbers and you realise the whole thing’s got to collapse, sooner or later. So I started doing stuff like this, setting up local initiatives. My way of trying to give something back.’
‘Let’s hope it’s a success.’
‘It will be. It has to be.’
‘But hold on a minute,’ said Cámara. ‘You were saying about Caja Levante. There’s more we don’t know?’
Berto waved a hand in the air.
‘Much, much more. It will all come out in the end.’
‘You don’t . . .’ Cámara started, trying to feel his way forward, to see if this could lead somewhere. ‘Do you know of someone there called Felicidad Galván?’
Berto squinted at him.
‘What’s this about?’
‘That old guy at the metro refuge, the one you mentioned,’ Cámara said. ‘He wanted me to sniff around a bit.’
‘OK, cool. I get it.’ Berto smiled. ‘Well, listen, I used to hear stuff at the faculty. Some of the guys there were from Emilia’s lot. They talked, you heard things. How much of it was actually true, I don’t know.’
‘Do you know Felicidad?’
Berto shrugged. ‘Not personally, but everyone knows of her. She’s a powerful lady, high up in the Caja Levante, head of the development and investment department. That’s just her official post, though. She’s probably much higher up in the unofficial bank hierarchy, if you see what I mean.’
His eyes widened and he spread his fingers out, like a magician.
‘She’s the éminence grise.’
‘So what does she do?’
‘Pff. Pretty much everything, as far as I can gather. Not much happens at Caja Levante without her knowing about it. And she’s a party member, so she’s well in with Emilia and local government. They use her like their private banker. No checks, balances, anything.’
‘What I want to know is how something like that could ever happen?’ Cámara asked.
‘That’s easy,’ Berto said. ‘They’ve got a slush fund. Paying everyone off. Not just their own people but opposition politicians, trade union leaders, judges. Whoever they need to keep things sweet. There’s this massive web of corruption, and no one’s ever going to talk about it because it’s not in anyone’s interest. There’s too much dosh at stake.’
‘Where’s the money for the fund coming from?’
Berto pursed his lips.
‘Political backers? Private companies? I don’t know. The truth is that the money is starting to run out for the party these days. Everyone’s feeling the pinch, even big companies. So it’s a bit of a mystery, but they’re obviously getting it from somewhere.’
‘And Felicidad is in charge of the fund, right?’
Berto paused.
‘Probably. I would think so. But there might be someone behind her. Someone not in the public eye but with connections to the top. That’s my guess. It’s how these things usually work. It’s never quite how it seems. They’re like wo
rms, wriggling under the surface, burying themselves deeper and deeper in the shit. And you never know which is the head and which is the tail.’
He wrote a note for Laura, deciding against email and opting for pen and paper. Despite the lack of anyone about, an air of suspicion and lack of trust seemed to circulate inside the Jefatura, like mosquitoes looking for fresh blood.
He set out what he had found, giving her the facts as he had come across them, without theorising or conjecture. It was better to let her come to her own conclusions and then compare.
When he had finished, he folded the sheets of paper, sealed them in an envelope and then headed upstairs. Laura’s office was locked, as before, and there seemed little chance of getting the spare key again without raising suspicions, so he slipped the envelope under the door, hoping that Laura – and only Laura – would see it in the morning.
It was unorthodox and he was taking a risk by acting like this with someone so keen on doing things by the book, but he felt that he had no other option, given the circumstances.
Back in the murder squad offices, he checked the Webpol intranet service to see if there were any official developments in either the Amy or Oliva cases. He had not expected any notes from Torres after his text message of the night before. Now, it seemed, his colleague was not even writing up anything for viewing on the system.
He rubbed his hands through his hair and was about to turn the computer off, but switched the screen to have a quick look at the news stream coming from the incident room instead. Several flashes glared up, written in capital letters. They were coming directly from the ministry in Madrid. Warnings of serious civil unrest . . . political developments in the capital . . . urgent measures . . . cancelling of all leave . . . economic upheaval . . . protection of bank buildings.
He stared, soaking in the words. No one was spelling it out, but he had a dark certainty about what was happening.
His phone rang. It was Alicia.
‘Hello, cariño,’ he said.
‘Max. That article I wrote.’
Her voice was high, her breathing irregular.
‘The one that was picked up by the news syndicates.’
‘What about it?’ he asked.
‘Someone doesn’t like it.’
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