Or the Bull Kills You (13 page)

Cámara drank steadily through all of this, his glass emptying. Without batting an eyelid, the barman picked it up and refilled it, then placed it back on the bar in front of Cámara, reaching for a small tray from the other side, filling it with a handful of almonds and placing them next to him. A spare copy of
El Diario
was lying nearby; Cámara glanced over and caught the inflammatory headlines barking out their faux concern.

‘Don't want to look at that,' the barman said. ‘Don't take any notice. Just trying to sell more copies.'

Cámara sniffed and took another gulp of beer. His cigarette had finished.

‘Have you got a tobacco machine in here?' he asked.

‘Over there.' The barman nodded at the opposite wall with his head. ‘I'll unlock it for you. Got to keep these stupid remote controls now, to stop kids from buying fags. Machine doesn't work unless I flick the switch. Stupid EU bloody rules. Started smoking when I was twelve, me, and it hasn't done me any harm.'

Cámara fished for some change in his pocket, then walked over and bought himself a packet of Ducados.

‘Prefer black tobacco, I see,' the barman said respectfully when he saw the blue-and-white packet in Cámara's hand. ‘Stick to the blond stuff myself.' He lit Cámara's cigarette, then pulled out another for himself and fired it up, leaning in to continue their conversation as though they'd been friends since childhood.

‘You know what sticks in my mind from that night,' the barman went on. ‘After you'd left, I mean, and we'd all found out about what had happened.'

‘When
did
you find out?' Cámara butted in.

‘Must have been about fifteen minutes after you left,' the barman said. ‘That journo woman, Alicia What's-her-name, got a phone call.'

‘How did she react?' Cámara lifted the delicious cigarette up to his mouth but kept his eyes on the barman.

‘Horrified. Like the rest of us. Looked like she was going to be sick, or something. Quickly told us what had happened then ran out the door.'

‘But you were saying,' Cámara said. ‘What sticks in your mind from that night.'

‘Yeah, I mean, you know, the image that kind of stays in my mind, like what I see when I close my eyes and I'm trying to go to sleep, is the face of old Ramírez. When he heard what had happened.'

‘Go on,' Cámara said.

‘Well,' the barman frowned. ‘He just went all white, as though the blood had gone from him completely. I thought for a second he might be about to have a heart attack or something. That can happen, you know. A bit of a shock and the old heart just packs in. His face just went grey, as though he was already dead. Never seen anything like it. It chilled me right through. Everyone else was wailing and crying. Shed a few tears myself, I'm not ashamed to admit it. That Carmen Luna was a right mess – started throwing things around, screaming and tearing her hair out. But old Ramírez just sat there, not moving, his face like stone or something.'

‘How did his son react?' Cámara asked.

‘Paco? Yeah, he was cut up as well. Not as bad as his father. He was there helping to sort out Carmen, I remember. Stopping her from trashing the place – made her sit down and shut up. Talked to her like a little girl, if you want my opinion. Don't think the boss is going to chase her up for it. After all, it was her fiancé just got murdered. Still, she's not short of a peseta or two.'

Cámara wondered for a moment if in the confusion of the traumatic evening the barman had confused Carmen Luna for Marta, the
anti-taurino
girl who had smashed a table clear in front of Cámara's face. He wasn't shy of elaborating a story, by the sounds of it. If he'd left coming round till the next day Cámara might have ended up hearing a slightly different, perhaps even more dramatic account of what happened.

‘How long was Ramírez like that?' he asked. ‘In a state of shock, I mean.'

‘About ten minutes, I reckon.'

‘What happened then?'

‘Then he suddenly stood up, as though he'd come back from the dead, or something. Called Paco over and the two of them just left right through that door there. Never said a word. First to leave, probably. After yourself and the journo girl, Alicia.'

Cámara had a flash of her smiling at him at the second mention of her name. Had he dreamt about her last night? He couldn't tell. But some image of her seemed to jump out at him from his subconscious.

‘Do you know where they went?'

The barman gave him a conspiratorial look, proudly aware for a moment that he might be doing his bit to help the police investigation.

‘Can't say for certain,' he said with a pronounced frown. ‘Didn't say where they were going, see? But I reckon they went off to their house off Blasco Ibáñez Avenue. Always stay there during
Fallas
. It's their official Valencia base. Just for when they're down for the bullfights. Ramírez bulls traditionally start the
feria
off on the first day.'

‘The best bulls around, I hear,' Cámara said.

‘Oh, yes.' The barman closed his eyes, as though bringing to mind the image of a Ramírez bull. ‘In my opinion, at least. One of the longest established breeders. They produce strong, angry bulls. Always
bravo
, a Ramírez bull. Not to everyone's taste. Some people don't rate them. But you'll never see a
manso
Ramírez bull. Or at least…'

The barman tailed off and looked down at the shiny bar top separating them. Cámara cleared his throat.

‘Well,' the barman said, ‘a few people – I'm not saying I'm one of them – but a few people have been commenting recently that the Ramírez bulls might not be what they used to be. Not quite so strong, not quite so powerful.'

He stopped and glanced around the empty bar again before continuing.

‘It's a difficult one this, 'cause some people won't even hear such a thing, see? It's like blasphemy or something even to suggest that Ramírez isn't producing them like he used to. But you want my opinion? You take a Ramírez bull from ten years ago, and you pit it against the ones they're breeding now, and the old feller would beat the young one every time. Course, it's hard to prove this kind of thing. We always like to think things were better when we were younger. Bullfight aficionados more than anyone else. But the Ramírez bulls, they're different. Not the same as they were, at least. The
casta
– the genes, the breeding, the blood – it's all there. You can't ruin a bloodline like that overnight. But are they doing things to them that they didn't in the past? Ah, well, that's the question, isn't it.'

Cámara picked up some of the almonds the barman had placed out for him and tossed them to the back of his mouth.

‘Look, I'm not saying anything, right?' the barman went on. ‘To accuse someone of bad breeding practices is about the most serious thing you can do. But we all know it's going on.
¡Por Dios!
You don't need to be an expert to see how the bulls' horns have been shaved down. Just look at all the splinters around the tip. You can see that with the naked eye. Sometimes they get carried away and then the horn starts bleeding, 'cause that's flesh inside there. It's not just a hard bit on top of the bull's head. It's got blood and nerves and everything running up there.'

He jerked his thumb up at the bull's head mounted on the wall behind him.

‘It's bloody criminal. Everyone's doing it. But that's not all. They're having to find ways round it, see, 'cause there's checks and stuff, to see if the bull's all right or been tampered with. The bullring employs a couple of vets – they get to check the bulls the day before the fight, and then again a couple of hours before going into the ring. But you can get round that easy. There are injections you give them just before – that way it doesn't show. The first ones are a bit livelier, maybe, but by the time you get to the last one of the afternoon he can barely stand up from the dope, let alone run around the ring. There's some new chemicals they're coming up with all the time to get round the tests. But then best of all is these new trucks they've got where they keep the bulls on a slope, with all the weight on their back legs. That way when they come out into the ring there's not so much strength there, see? 'Cause they've been standing at an angle, bearing all their own weight for an hour or two before the fight. And how are you going to detect that? Some people don't even bother with the trucks and just park on a hill for a couple of hours before delivering the bulls. Does the same trick.'

 

It had gone ten o'clock when his mobile phone woke Cámara up. His head hurt from where it had been lying on the pile of interview notes on his desk, and a small puddle of saliva dribbling from his mouth had smudged some of the ink of the reports. He reached for the desk lamp and switched it on, trying to make sense of the muddled images of Almudena flashing across the back of his eyes. Still half-asleep, he couldn't remember where he'd put the phone, and as he flailed around, trying to locate it by sound alone, he stood up sharply and banged his head on the corner of the metal shelf above his desk.

‘
¡Joder!
'

Collapsing to the floor, he let out a sharp, low grunt. Whoever was trying to reach him would have to wait.

The blow to his head seemed to clear something in his mind, however, banishing thoughts of Almudena to allow memories of where he was and what he had been doing that afternoon to filter back in: Torres's reports on the interviews with the El Perelló fishermen; a possible identification of the boat the killer might have used. Cámara stumbled back to his feet and his eyes fell on the note he'd written to himself: ‘El Perellonet
barraca
– Old Pere's place. Rope cut, boat found floating nearby.'

Old Pere, it seemed, hadn't been too worried by it at first. The boat, after all, hadn't disappeared completely or anything – he'd found it in the reeds just a few yards downstream. Though it was probably just someone messing about. It was only when he'd heard about the murder, and police being round, that he'd thought he might mention it to someone. The
criminalistas
from the
Guardia Civil
would be analysing it and would probably get word to them the next day. Although perhaps nothing would come of it. Torres hadn't seemed that convinced.

He thought the voicemail would have kicked in by now, diverting the call, but his mobile still chirped away at him. Ducking his head so as not to repeat the same trick as before, he went round to the other side of the desk where his jacket had fallen to the floor from the back of a chair. Inside he searched for the vibrating plastic box and pulled it out, flicking it open without checking first to see who it was.

‘Cámara,' he grunted into the end.

‘Max.' It was a woman. Cámara didn't respond. The fact that it wasn't Almudena's voice hit him like a physical force.

‘I can still call you Max, can I?' came the voice again. ‘Or do you prefer Chief Inspector?'

Cámara cleared his throat.

‘Is this a bad time? Perhaps I should call back later.'

‘Alicia?' Cámara grunted.

‘Ah!' came the voice. ‘Thought I'd lost you there for a moment. Are you all right?'

‘I'm fine. Fine. Er, nice of you to call. How did you get my number?'

‘I know it's late,' she said. ‘It's been a long day at this end as well. Just finished actually, and I was wondering if you fancied popping out for a drink. I'm round your way. Just in a little bar near the Torres de Serrano. Across the river from you.'

Cámara rubbed his hand through his hair, his mind still grey from sleep and the aching that had now replaced the sharp pain where he had hit his head.

‘Look, I…'

‘It's all right if it's not a good time. I understand.'

Another couple of reports on the desk caught his eye – a note from Sánchez about Ruiz Pastor's body: Quintero had released it and it had been flown back to Madrid for burial. Then one from Vargas on Cano's movements. According to his
mozo de espadas
– his right-hand man – he hadn't left Valencia since the night of Blanco's death. All his movements, however, were accounted for: parties, dinners, girls; it seemed the man almost never spent a moment alone.

‘I'd love to, really,' he said. ‘It's just…'

‘Fine. Don't say any more. I take it you're coming to the bullfight tomorrow. A commemorative corrida to honour Blanco's memory.'

‘I, er…' Still struggling to think straight, Cámara reached for a pen. ‘Will Cano be there? Fighting, I mean?'

‘Yes,' she said.

‘I'll be there. What time does it start?'

‘Six o'clock. Look for me at the entrance. We can watch it from the side of the ring. You get a better view, a better understanding there than from up in the president's box.'

‘Quite.'

‘Then we'll go out afterwards,' she said. ‘I can accept a refusal now. But you can't turn me down two nights in a row.'

Wednesday 15th March

The house stood back from the road, down a recently asphalted track lined with tall, mature cypress trees. Antique, cast-iron street lamps arched over the green-painted metal gates at the far end, while the drip irrigation system watering the crown daisies and blue lupins between the trees hissed as moisture leaked out into the fox-coloured soil underneath. Having parked his old Seat Ibiza around the corner, Cámara walked down the middle of the tunnel-like driveway wondering if anyone was at home.

He buzzed the intercom panel by the side of the gate and waited. There were no sounds from inside, but he had been informed that this was her habitual place of residence, and that there was no information of her being anywhere else at the moment. At least not according to
Webpol
, the police intranet, or even to a probably more reliable source, the gossip magazines and their websites. Cámara had expected to find a group of paparazzi gathered here, waiting for more shots of Blanco's would-be bride. But either they'd moved on to new prey, or else he'd caught them napping down at the nearest bar.

He cast an eye up at the cypress trees pointing like accusing fingers at the deep blue sky above. He didn't know what he expected to see – some signal of mourning, perhaps? Some sign of the loss that had been suffered behind these gates. But there was nothing, no black ribbon tied around the railings, no message to the world. He remarked at the lack of birdsong. Although the splash of waves caressing the rocks not far below was just audible. He could smell the sea strongly from here: salty air and the promise of a seafood lunch. There was a new little place in the Carmen across from the Jefatura that he might try if he got time. One thing Valencians had got right was how to mix rice and fish. No one else in the world could beat them at that. Except, of course, for those funny Japanese guys who came over every year and won the International Paella Competition hands down. But they didn't count.

The intercom crackled and a male voice answered.

‘
¿Quién?
'

A moment later the electric motor on the gate buzzed, the doors swung open, and Cámara walked through into a green, luscious garden. In front of him a red Mercedes sports car was parked under a carport, while a gravel path led off towards the front door of the house. A young Moroccan man appeared from behind a large oleander bush wearing a white shirt and black trousers.

‘Chief Inspector,' he said. ‘Would you come this way?'

Cámara followed him into the house, a modern building constructed mostly of cement and glass. Had Montesa had a hand in this? Cámara doubted it – it was far too small and the cement wasn't quite white enough. Still, he might have inspired it in some way – a house built more for looking at than for living in.

They passed through into a large living room with tinted glass walls that gave out on to the Mediterranean. In the distance, to the right, he could make out the Montgó mountain above Denia marking one end of the Gulf of Valencia, while to the left the coastline stretched far beyond Valencia port up towards Sagunto and beyond into the neighbouring province of Castellón. Ahead there was nothing but a vast expanse of shifting, rippling, threatening blue.

‘Please, have a seat,' the Moroccan said. And he indicated the large white fluffy sofas forming an L-shape. Cámara remained on his feet.

‘The Señorita won't be long.'

Cámara was left on his own, smiling to himself at the use of ‘señorita' to describe his hostess. Not only her age, but the fact that she had been married before made the use of such a word unexpected. Perhaps she was still trying to play the role of the young bride.

Cámara scanned the room: photos of Blanco were everywhere, placed in silver frames at the side of the room in the built-in bookcases: in his
traje de luces
; in a suit with a shiny blue tie; with Carmen, holding her hand as though it were a precious object and gazing into her eyes. Was that love? Intensity, perhaps.

He heard soft footsteps behind him and turned. It was the Moroccan again with a cocktail glass in his hand. He bent down and placed it on a small white table by the side of the sofa along with a white paper napkin and a tiny tray with a handful of nuts.

‘
La Señorita
's compliments,' he said with a smile and walked away again. For a minute Cámara had the feeling of having stumbled into an airport executive waiting lounge. But the call of a passing gull – the first sound of real life that he'd heard since arriving – brought him back to where he was. He looked out over the sea again. Below, the garden sloped down to a swimming pool surrounded by outsized olive-oil jars and a couple of reproduction Greek statues.

Cámara checked the time on his mobile phone. He didn't usually drink so early, he told himself. No, that wasn't strictly accurate. To tell the truth he'd had a few morning drinks in the past. In fact, now he came to think about it, it was actually a fairly common occurrence. And if he counted the surreptitious gulps from the office hip flask he had to admit that morning drinking – even early-morning drinking – was a regular pattern of his day. He shrugged as the realisation sank in. Perhaps he should just accept it.

He edged towards the cocktail glass, picked it up and had a sniff. The Moroccan hadn't said exactly what the Señorita's idea of a ‘compliment' was. Poison? His nose was tickled, however, by the unmistakable scent of an Agua de Valencia cocktail, the orange juice, cava, vodka and Cointreau making his mouth water as he breathed in their fragrance. He pulled out the slice of orange that had been placed in the glass, flicked it into a nearby plant pot, and then drank the thing in one.

He waited, savouring the flavours on his tongue, the roaring sensation down his gullet as the mixture burnt its way down to his stomach. No, he thought, still convinced that the first stiff drink of the day was best served before ten in the morning, that was clean. Or at least if they had tampered with it there was nothing he could detect.

An alcoholic flush had just reached his cheeks when he heard a clipping sound on the floor behind him. Turning, he found himself face to face with Carmen Luna. Or rather face-to-bosom with Carmen Luna, as it took the tiniest fraction of a second for his attention to rise above her cleavage.

‘Chief Inspector Cámara,' she said slowly, smiling blandly at him.

The last time Cámara had seen her in the flesh had been at Blanco's funeral. Since then he'd seen most of the rest of her flesh thanks to the revealing photographs in
Entrevista
. Now, as the Agua de Valencia kicked rapidly into his bloodstream, thanks to the lack of anything else in his stomach to delay its progress, it was challenging to keep those powerful images from his mind. The black attire of their last encounter was still in evidence, but there was possibly even less than before. A black, filmy negligee was covered only by a black satin dressing gown tied very loosely and expertly around her waist. Both these garments were short, barely descending to her thigh, and revealing tanned naked legs and high-heeled slippers with fluffy feathers bunched up just above the toes. The effect was to suggest that she'd only recently risen from her bed, although Cámara noticed that her face was fully made up, her skin smooth and free of blemishes as though she'd spent some time at least in front of a mirror before appearing.

‘If you'd given me more warning I wouldn't have to receive you like this,' she said, waving her hand.

‘Did you enjoy your cocktail?' she said, beaming at the empty glass still balancing in Cámara's hand. ‘Cyril makes them specially for me. It's his own recipe. A secret. He refuses even to tell me. I've threatened to fire him and send him back over the Strait unless he tells me. But he never gives in.'

Cámara tried to recall the face of the Moroccan who had brought him the drink. Cyril?

‘Oh, I know,' Carmen said, waving her hand. She brushed past him and went to sit down on the white sofa, crossing her legs delicately as she looked out towards the sea. ‘His real name's Abdul…Abdul Something. I can't remember right now. But he prefers Cyril. It's the name I gave him when he joined me.'

Cámara walked over and sat on the opposite sofa. Carmen crossed her legs a little tighter and turned to him.

‘Of course, as a Muslim he's not supposed to drink at all, never mind mix cocktails for unbelievers like me. But I found him at this wonderful little
riad
hotel in Marrakesh and simply had to bring him back with me. And he's been loyal ever since. Even if he can be a bit naughty sometimes. Just like those cocktails he makes.'

Cámara wondered to himself how long someone like Carmen Luna could keep up the performance. Did she spend her whole life talking like this? Or did moments of clarity occasionally shine through?

‘Before I ask you some questions,' Cámara said, ‘I would just like to say how sorry I am for your loss.'

She looked blankly at him for a moment. Cámara had wondered if she would break down at this point, or at least perform something of the kind of display he had seen at the funeral. But instead she simply gazed ahead with an expressionless look on her face.

‘Are you, indeed,' she said at last.

‘Forgive me,' Cámara said, trying to back-pedal. Perhaps the cocktail was affecting him more than he realised. ‘I simply…'

‘If there were no murders, Chief Inspector, you'd be out of a job. So unless you're looking to be unemployed, I fail to understand how you can be sorry for what has happened. This is, after all, what you do.'

Cámara fell silent; words failed to come to his dulled brain.

‘Unless, of course,' Carmen went on, turning away from him and staring out at the waves again, so that he couldn't see her eyes, ‘you only say these things to test the other person's reaction.'

A smile played on her lips and she raised her eyebrows.

‘Am I right?'

‘I've spoken out of turn, perhaps,' Cámara said.

‘Not at all. You said what anyone is expected to say in these circumstances. Only the fact is you're a policeman and you've come here unannounced to speak with me, all of which makes me wonder quite what your motives are.'

Cámara rubbed his eye, trying to feel his face, his skin: everything seemed to have gone numb.

‘Do I surprise you?' Carmen said, finally turning back round to face him. ‘I've had people trying to catch me out all my adult life. You develop a sixth sense for it.' She closed her eyes for a second before reopening them. ‘If not always for ways of dealing with it.'

It wasn't hot, but almost instinctively Cámara reached up to his throat to loosen his collar and tie. For some reason he'd thought it appropriate to wear a suit for this meeting, but now that he thought about it he wasn't entirely sure why. A shirt and jacket was his usual dress. Something about her celebrity, perhaps? It was curious how these things affected you, even when you were convinced they didn't.

‘Perhaps you'd like to take a stroll outside,' Carmen said, standing up. ‘You need some air.'

Not waiting for him, she walked up to the glass doors on the far side of the living room and slid them open, stepping onto a wooden portico that surrounded the house and out into the shade of a tall palm tree. Cámara followed, half-expecting some yappy little dog to appear and gnaw at his feet. A few minutes ago he would have assumed Carmen was the kind of woman who kept a fluffy little companion, something to cuddle at on those lonely, cocktail-fuelled nights. But now he was less sure.

Carmen sat on a low stone bench down by the pool, dangling her hands in the water.

‘Jorge used to love it here,' she said, watching as the mid-morning sunlight caught the ripples she was creating on the surface. ‘One of the few places he felt safe. He told me that many times. “Carmen,” he'd say. “
Aquí tengo paz
.” Of course, he's peaceful where he is now; no one can get him where he is now, no matter how hard they try.'

Cámara felt the urge for a cigarette kick in, and his hand was already caressing the plastic cover of the packet of Ducados in his pocket. But he hesitated. Carmen, he felt sure, would allow him if he asked permission, but instinct told him not to interrupt her train of thought.

‘He was a good man. I hope you understand that,' she said. ‘Some people deserve their death, the way they die. But not my Jorge. He was never meant to die like that. I could never watch him in the ring. I'd go, of course, to the fights, to be with him sometimes. But I always made an excuse not to have to watch. It's hard for a woman to do that, to see the man she loves placing himself so close to death. I know we're expected to sit there obediently in the stands, drape our finest
mantón de Manila
shawl over the side like those ladies in the stories of knights of old. It's what the man wants, after all, displaying his strength, his valour, in front of the whole world. Look at me, look at this man pitting himself against the worst that the world can throw at him. But that's for future conquests, the ones to come. For the woman already in a torero's life it is the worst thing imaginable to see him out there.

‘Oh, don't get me wrong,' she said, glancing up for a second, ‘I never worried about other women. Not with Jorge. He was a one-woman man. I knew, from the moment I met him. I've been jilted in the past, believe me. And a woman can always tell. But Jorge was pure, which was why our relationship was pure, why I wanted to make myself pure for him.'

Still standing some distance away from the pool, Cámara slowly took a couple of steps forwards and sat down on a wooden lounger at right angles to Carmen. She looked up at him, as though trying to gauge whether he understood her or not.

‘Did you ever argue?' Cámara asked.

‘Ah, of course.
The
question,' she said. ‘I wondered when you'd get to it. Well, can you believe it? But no, we never did. Not once. Oh, Jorge had a temper; I know that. A man needs anger to do what he did. But he took his anger, his violence, and turned it into art. Jorge could be sharp with people sometimes. But you have to understand – he was under a lot of pressure. He risked death daily; he was the best: everyone was watching him, waiting for the tiniest error, anything just to bring him down, say that he was finished as a bullfighter. We live in a strange country, always beating down our heroes, the best of ourselves. Or at least while they're still alive. If you want to be a great Spaniard, better to die first, then let them mourn over what they have lost. Only then can you really be appreciated.'