Something had stirred inside Cámara.
‘This man Julio,’ he said to the doorman. ‘Why do you say he’s got a funny head?’
‘Well, it just is. I’m not saying he’s abnormal or a weirdo or anything. But . . .’ He raised his hands above his head, placing his fingertips together. ‘It’s not round like you and me. More like a triangle. If he let his hair grow you probably wouldn’t notice, but he insists on shaving it, see?’
Cámara wondered: was he the thug who had shown up that night outside the chemist’s?
‘Is there any other way of getting into the gym?’ he asked.
Pascual shook his head.
‘Well, that’s your main entrance. And without the key, or some professional to open it, I reckon you’re not going to get in.’
‘What about round the back? The patio of your building must connect with the one at the back of here, right?’
He pointed at the gym.
‘I don’t know,’ said Pascual. ‘There’s a wall between them. You could scale it, perhaps.’
Cámara was already on his feet and walking over to Pascual’s door.
‘Show me.’
‘Cámara!’ Laura shrieked. But seconds later she was racing after them as the two men headed to the back of the entrance hall and through a little opening.
The back patio of Pascual’s building was used as a dump area – old gas bottles were lined up against the side wall, while scraps of rubbish thrown from upper windows were scattered on the ground.
‘Don’t come out here much,’ Pascual said by way of excuse.
Cámara jumped up on to a pair of dusty butane bottles.
‘On the other side of this wall is the patio behind the gym, right?’
‘That’ll be it.’
Laura looked on in silence.
‘Here,’ Cámara said. ‘Give me a leg up.’
Pascual sauntered over and put his linked hands out to use as a step. Cámara needed just a small push to get a grip on the top of the wall. He pulled himself up and looked over. The yard at the back of the gym was very different from the one that he was climbing out of. The walls were painted brilliant white and tiles on the floor shone from cleaning and polishing. At the back of the gym, Cámara could see a small clouded window in a door. Not giving it a second thought, he pulled himself over the wall and jumped down. Then wrapping his jacket sleeve over his hand he smashed the glass and opened the door.
‘Cámara!’
From the other patio, Laura had heard the sound of breaking glass.
‘What are you doing? Wait. I’m coming over as well. Pascual has found a ladder.’
Cámara headed inside regardless. He tapped his pistol to make sure it was there.
Stepping out of a back room, he came into the main area of the gym. Weight machines and benches were arranged neatly in squares, making separate exercise sections. They were just visible in the scant daylight streaming in from the back. He flicked a switch and the lights went on. The place was spotless. Every piece of equipment reflected the lights back at him as though made of the freshest chrome. A large Spanish flag hung from one wall, while the other was taken up entirely by mirrors so that the gym boys could watch themselves as they worked out.
But this was not what he had come to see. There would be an office somewhere: that was what he needed to find.
Behind the last mirror he spotted a small door. He was pulling on the handle when Laura arrived.
‘I’m not letting you do this on your own.’
They stepped into the office together. Cámara switched on the lights. Another Spanish flag greeted them, but this time with a black emblem in the centre – a double-headed axe. Whereas the rest of the gym was spotless and ordered, however, here there were signs of chaos. Papers were scattered everywhere – on the single desk at the centre of the room, and across the floor. Laura got down on her hands and knees and started checking through them.
Cámara spotted a bust of Franco that had been knocked over and now sat on its side. He picked it up and held it in his hand. Underneath, still on the desk, was a beer mat emblazoned with the Nazi swastika.
‘No doubts about the party’s agenda, then,’ he said to himself.
Laura was reading one of the documents on the floor.
‘Cámara,’ she said softly. ‘I think you should take a look at this.’
TWENTY-NINE
CÁMARA KNELT DOWN beside her. The papers looked as though they had fallen out from a file and scattered. Some had footprints on them, others were upside down. He saw lists, numbers, pieces of text; none of which, at first glance, had any order to them.
But a word and a phrase did register as he scanned the documents: ‘TARGETS’ and ‘DIRECT ACTION’.
Laura handed him a sheet.
‘Look at this.’
At the top, in red letters, the word ‘COPY’ had been stamped. Below, lists of names were arranged in columns, three across. The first was labelled ‘Separatists’, the second ‘Known Left Wingers’ and the third ‘Dangerous Media’.
He did not recognise all the names, but some of them were familiar to him – politicians, a couple of trade union leaders, a political commentator who often appeared on television, even a comedian.
‘What do you think it is?’ he said.
‘Turn over.’
The names continued overleaf. Again Cámara checked them, not sure what he was looking for. Then one, in the third column, leapt out at him.
‘You seen it?’ Laura asked.
It felt as though a light, cleansing shower had begun to fall on them.
‘They were watching her,’ he said. ‘They had her on this list.’
‘And it’s dated a month ago,’ Laura said. ‘She was in their sights for some time.’
He got to his feet, still clutching the sheet of paper, and glanced instinctively in the direction of Amy Donahue’s flat, beyond the gym walls on the other side of the street.
‘It would have been very easy for them to keep tabs on her,’ Laura said. ‘Just watching her movements from their own front door.’
She stood up and went to take the document from Cámara.
‘They must have dropped it as they were leaving. From the sounds of it they were in a hurry.’
As the significance of the place where they were standing sank in, they began to move around more gingerly.
‘We need the científicos in here,’ Cámara said.
‘I’ll give them a call.’
‘Try to keep Maldonado out of it.’
She raised an eyebrow.
‘For as long as possible.’
As she dialled a number, he stepped across the office. A black metal cupboard hung from the back wall. He pulled out a pen from his jacket and swung it open. The brackets for holding five firearms were clearly visible, while an empty brown cardboard box of bullets sat at the bottom.
‘They’re going to love this,’ he said.
He spun on his heel and turned to Laura. She was already on the phone, but saw the expression on his face and paused.
‘Try and get Fernández,’ Cámara said in a loud whisper. ‘He was there at Amy’s flat.’
Laura nodded. On the whole the members of the Científica were professional and thorough, but getting someone who was already involved in the case was preferable. More importantly, in this case the danger would come from having científicos sympathetic to the LOP and its ideas. Cámara did not know what Fernández’s politics were, but he had witnessed the bloody scene across the road first hand and had an emotional investment, if nothing else, in solving Amy’s murder.
Laura spoke on the phone for a few more moments, then hung up.
‘They can’t send a team till tomorrow at the earliest,’ she said. ‘They’ve run out of money – nothing has come in from Madrid for months, and they can’t even afford any latex gloves, let alone more expensive equipment.’
Cámara shook his head.
‘The corralito,’ he said.
‘There’s no money left.’
‘Can you believe it?’
‘We’ll have to get along without them.’
He pointed to the gun cabinet.
‘Take a look at this,’ he said. ‘It’s almost certainly what they were most interested in emptying. We’re looking at handguns, judging from the ammunition box they left behind. But also at least one rifle or shotgun. That’s a tall cabinet, not just for storing pistols.’
Laura nodded.
‘There are no computers in this office,’ she said. ‘But look at the markings on the desk.’
She pointed down to dents on the surface of the wood.
‘This place has been kept very clean and well ordered. But there was almost certainly a computer here.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if they had a considerable amount of cash as well. I can almost smell it.’
Laura smiled.
‘The ability to smell money. That’s a useful skill.’
Cámara crouched down to look at the papers on the floor again. Laura checked the list of names still in her hand.
‘I reckon this is incomplete,’ she said. ‘The names run on at the end of the page. See if you can find the rest of it down there.’
He carefully slid each page across, looking for a continuation of the list.
‘Direct action,’ Laura said. ‘Nice euphemism.’
‘I’m not sure if it’s here,’ Cámara said. ‘But take a look at this.’
She crouched down beside him.
‘Look. All these documents refer to something called the “bunker”. Here,’ he pointed to one sheet, ‘then here, and here.’
Laura read.
‘It’s like going back in time,’ she said. ‘That’s what they called the hard-line Francoists in the seventies, the ones who dug in against any change.’
‘You think that’s what they’re referring to here?’
‘Probably.’
‘I wonder if it’s an actual, physical place.’
She thought for a moment.
‘This gym belongs to Protegival,’ she said.
‘Yes.’
‘But I’m assuming it’s a social club for Protegival guards. They come here to work out.’
‘And receive political indoctrination, by the looks of it.’
‘Pascual can confirm some of this.’
‘Where is he?’
‘I left him next door,’ said Laura. ‘Told him to stay put.
Her knees cracked as she got up from the floor.
‘A lot of phone calls need making,’ Cámara said.
‘Not least to legalise our illegal raid on this place.’
She sighed.
‘I’ve got a feeling that’s more my strength than yours.’
‘I can give you a lift,’ he said. ‘Get you back quicker.’
The thin bow of her lips parted to reveal even, pearl-white teeth.
‘I’m fine.’
Cámara’s phone buzzed. The message was from Alicia.
Think I’ve got something big for you. Expect a call soon. All well. Kisses.
He made to leave.
‘I’ll get Pascual to organise some ladders,’ he said. ‘Make it easier getting in and out till we sort the lock at the front.’
He let the bike find its own way. Riding meant that he had to concentrate on the road, the traffic, and on his balance as he cruised round corners and wove slowly in and out. Which allowed a slower and calmer part of him to think through what they had discovered. He reached the roundabout at the top of the Alameda and shot up past the Estación de Madera. There was little traffic and the avenue seemed to draw him along with a promise of empty, unhurried horizons.
There was no doubt in his mind now that people – men – from the gym were involved in Amy’s killing. And that her murder was connected with Oliva’s death, possibly that the same group of people were responsible for both. Different individuals, clearly – they could not have been in two places at once. But the link was there.
What was the motive? The list of names had not specified why those particular people were being singled out, but Amy’s name had appeared in the ‘Dangerous Media’ column. If, as he suspected, the young men training at the gym and working as guards for Protegival were also members of the LOP, the suggestion was that they were planning violent acts against people they considered a political threat. Had they seen the current crisis coming? The papers were dated at least a month back, before the King’s illness and the sudden worsening in the climate. The background grumbling against the lack of jobs and endemic corruption was now turning into real anger on the streets, yet it looked as though the LOP had been preparing for this moment for some time. Was Amy their first victim? If so, why? What had she done to bring their violence upon herself?
He kept returning to the five shots to the back of her head. Two shots could have been the sign of a professional assassin. But five? It was excessive. Then there was the damage to her vagina and the crushing of her fingers. The thugs he knew from Protegival rarely showed respect for women – the information that Laura had dug up on them confirmed as much. Pumped up with their weight training, their self-importance and – he guessed – some chemical enhancers, he could easily imagine them carrying out Amy’s murder. Shot in the back of the head – like a professional would have done, like they probably imagined themselves to be. But then the anger, the lust for violence forced their hand: three more shots than was necessary; a quick fumble between her legs and stomping on her hands as they were leaving.
And why her hands? Of course, because of what she wrote. She was in the media column. It was because of what she was blogging.
Or what she was about to blog.
She had mentioned the scoop herself on her Twitter account. Were the LOP thugs monitoring her? Were they reading her tweets and Facebook messages? What were they trying to stop her from writing? Had Amy written her own death warrant that day when she mentioned on the Internet that she was popping out to meet an important source? She was only an amateur, after all, could never have imagined the danger she was in.
He slowed down and stopped the bike by the side of the road for a moment. It felt as though he had not breathed properly in days, the air stuck in the top of his chest, never flowing freely in and out of his lungs. Not since Hilario had died. Now, taking off his helmet for a second and feeling the breeze blow through his hair, he tried to force his chest, his body, to relax. The tension was becoming such a part of him that he barely even registered its existence any more.
Yet now, as connections began to fall into place, he needed to feel the air coursing through him.
‘The importance of breathing well is highly underrated,’ Hilario had said to him once. And he heard his voice inside him now almost as though he were standing next to him. ‘It can take someone years to learn how to breathe properly.’
Cars, lorries, other motorbikes and pedestrians all streamed past him, and he sat still on the bike, his feet planted on the ground, feeling the vibrations of the engine pulse through him, and he breathed. Did nothing but breathe.
Who was about to give Amy the scoop? Oliva. He was ‘the banker’ mentioned in her tweet.
What was the scoop about? The Caja Levante. It must have been something to do with the department where he was working before he lost his job.
Was Felicidad Galván involved in any way? The answer popped into his mind instantly, with an image of her face, the sound of her voice from when he had gone to speak with her at the bank building: yes, certainly.
But how? He could not say.
And how was the LOP involved in this? If Oliva was going to blow the whistle on something at Caja Levante, why was he not going to talk to a journalist from one of the local newspapers? Why Amy?
If the LOP were involved in Oliva’s death, did that mean they were spying on him as well? If so, how?
More questions kept coming, but they hung in the air, unanswered, like thunder clouds seeking points on the e
arth through which to discharge their lightning.
His phone rang and he lifted it out of his pocket. The number on the screen was unknown to him.
‘¿Sí?’
‘Max Cámara?’
It was a woman’s voice.
‘Yes?’
‘My name’s Sonia. I’m Diego Oliva’s wife.’
Cámara breathed – deeper than he had breathed in what felt like years.
‘Can we meet? I think I have something you might want to see.’
THIRTY
HE HAD NOT visited the botanical gardens in years. Earlier, when he first moved to the city and was still working in UDYCO – the drug and organised crime squad – he had popped round frequently, pacing up and down the long green avenues, sitting on a bench in the shade, enjoying the solitude. Local people were proud of the place – it had started life as a garden for pharmaceutical herbs five hundred years before, when the city had one of the most advanced medical systems in Europe. Valencia still enjoyed a reputation for having good doctors, but with ever less justification. Now an emblem of a more enlightened time, the gardens were one of the quietest and most beautiful spots in the centre, lying just beyond the Torres de Quart. No one would see or disturb them here.
It was clear from their brief telephone conversation that Sonia was frightened. She wanted to talk to him, but was suspicious. She was only going ahead with this because Alicia – the journalist she had met earlier in the day – swore that Cámara was trustworthy. Sonia had got in touch with Alicia herself after she saw the article that she had written on the decline of the Spanish health system. The two women had got on, and Alicia had conviced Sonia to get in touch. But only with Cámara. She would speak to him alone, in confidence. Nothing could be recorded, nor photographs taken.
Cámara rejected out of hand the idea of meeting at the Jefatura. A bar or restaurant might be possible, but there was always the risk that someone might see them. Who, exactly, he could not say. Nor would she. She had appeared on the point of backing out when the botanical gardens had occurred to him as a venue.
‘Yes,’ she said after a long pause. ‘Yes, that’ll do.’
Blood Med Page 20