Or the Bull Kills You (28 page)

Making his excuses for a moment – he could rejoin them to take his seat when the fight started – he pulled away from the Cano cloud and paced up the passageway, observing the people as they stood and talked and smoked and drank.

Through an archway he caught a glimpse of the sandy bullring at the centre of the building, the scene of the bloodshed to come. Did he feel sick at the thought? He couldn't tell. It had been an automatic response before. Now he seemed to exist in a state of suspended judgement.

The spectators were already beginning to stream into the seating area, taking their places. A sharp shadow cut across the open space, marking a clear dividing line between those in
Sol
and the others in
Sombra
. The air was still cool, however, and although the sunlight was intense, he felt that the social division at this early time of year should be reversed. Let people pay more to sit in the sun in early spring – at least it would keep them warm.

People began to shuffle towards their seats as the hour of the bullfight approached. He lingered a moment longer, watching the faces in the crowd passing by. It was only after a minute or two had passed that he realised he was looking out for Alicia. Would she be there somewhere? Of course. How could she not come to the last bullfight of the fiesta? He was less certain, though, if he wanted her to see him. He'd screwed things up the night before.

The passageways were emptying and it was time to go in. Something else was bothering him, beyond the bullfight and Alicia. A doubt, a niggling, nagging thought at the back of his mind, but which he couldn't identify clearly or put his finger on. It felt almost like a siren, a warning signal, as though a red light were flashing. But still he couldn't make out what it was about. Nothing to do with the past. Something to do with what was happening now, or was about to happen.

His phone rattled in his pocket and he flipped it open.

‘We've arrested Paco.' It was Torres's voice.

‘Just thought you'd want to know. Caballero issued a warrant.'

Cámara said nothing.

‘Picked him up at the Ramírez place. That house of theirs near the top of Blasco Ibáñez.'

‘Yes, I know it,' Cámara said.

‘And you'll never guess what?'

Cámara sniffed.

‘Go on. Tell me.'

‘He's admitting he stayed behind after the bullfight that day. He was waiting for Blanco.'

Cámara paused. ‘What for?' he said at length.

‘I hit him with what Flores told us, that he was threatening to out Blanco as gay. That's when it came out. He said it was true, and that he waited for Blanco after the bullfight. Said he wanted to talk to him in private, to give him a final chance to back down before he went ahead with his threat.'

Cámara could feel his old life clawing at him.

‘He says he saw him,' Torres went on. ‘Says they had their confrontation. But that Blanco refused to give in.'

‘Then what?' Cámara said.

‘He says he just walked away. Went off to the Bar Los Toros for the award ceremony. Which was why he was a bit late getting there.'

Cámara knew what would be going through everyone's minds: that Paco was telling a partial truth in order to cover up a greater one. Yes, admit to being there, even to having a motive, but step back from final admission of guilt in the hope that they wouldn't quite be able to pin it on him. They'd been there a hundred times before in other cases, and usually it just took another little push to bring the whole case home.

‘And another thing,' Torres added. ‘He doesn't have an alibi for the Ruiz Pastor murder. Said he left the Ramírez house early that morning to drive back to the farm. He could have been there, chief. He could have done it.'

‘Why are you telling me this?' Cámara said. ‘You know I'm off the case. Pardo fired me last night.'

‘Not until tomorrow,' Torres said. ‘Come in now, help me break Paco. We'll get a confession out of him. He's virtually admitted it as it is. We'll do it, we'll make this case. And you can save your arse. It's still only the eleventh hour. There's time yet to keep you in
Homicidios
.'

Cámara held the phone against his ear. He was virtually on his own now in the passageway. The bullfight was about to begin.

‘
Jefe
, I need you,' Torres said. ‘We've got a rhythm going in interrogations. I don't know if I can do this on my own.'

‘Thanks, Torres,' Cámara said. ‘I appreciate the call. I really do. But you can do this yourself. You'll be fine.'

‘Chief!'

‘It's too late.'

Cámara flipped the phone shut and put it back in his pocket. It was time to find his seat next to Cano and watch the bullfight. Tomorrow he'd think about what his future life was going to be.

He heard footsteps and the sound of someone clearing his throat. Spinning on his heel he turned and saw two unexpected faces.

‘Shouldn't you be at the Jefatura interrogating my son?'

Any remaining strength seemed to have left Francisco Ramírez since their last encounter: a slight stoop had developed in his shoulders, while the power or shine in his eyes appeared to have dulled. He was dressed, as ever, in an elegant suit, but the knot in his cravat was loosening and his hair, usually slicked back, appeared less than neatly combed.

Propping him up with a hand under his arm was Roberto. He seemed attentive to his father, watching his step as though wary that the old man might stumble. And although he was dressed in a dark blue suit with white shirt and blood red tie, he too looked less than at his best: there was a slight colouring under one eye, and red marks near the top of his collar.

‘Are you trying to humiliate me?' Ramírez said. ‘First the interrogation at my home and now arresting my son?'

His face blushed as he spoke.

‘It's all right, father,' Roberto said to him. ‘Paco will be fine.'

Then turning to Cámara he said, ‘This has all come as a shock.'

‘Yes,' Cámara said. ‘I'm sorry we only ever seem to meet when there's a crisis in the family.'

Roberto frowned.

‘I'm as surprised to see you here,' Cámara said. ‘I thought you hated bullfighting.'

‘These are tough times for the family,' Roberto said with a pointed look. ‘We have to stick together.'

The two men took a step forward and Cámara moved to the side to let them pass. Ramírez looked at him with hatred as he shuffled along, his bottom lip trembling. Roberto kept his eyes on his father, guiding him as best he could.

‘Looks like you've been in an accident,' Cámara said as they drew closer. And he nodded at the marks on Roberto's neck and lower face.

‘Those New York girls,' Roberto said with a wink. ‘They can get a bit rough sometimes.'

The two men turned the corner and headed into the bullring area. Cámara watched them disappear then turned to take his own seat with Cano. The first fight had already started.

As far as he could tell there was no magic that afternoon, nothing of the spark that had sent a shiver through him the day Cano had fought. He didn't recall having heard the names of any of the bullfighters appearing in the ring, and when, after the third bull had been killed with little art or skill, and there was a slightly longer gap before the next one came on, he decided to get up and stretch his legs a little.

‘Does anyone want anything?' he asked Cano's group. A couple of orders came in: a whisky with ice and a beer.

‘I'll be back in a minute.'

Cano smiled at him.

‘Don't be long,' he said. ‘You don't want to miss anything.'

Cámara headed out into the passageway and strolled in the direction of the nearest bar. He'd scanned the public inside several times already, watching for a sign of Alicia, but he hadn't seen her. Still, there was a chance that she, too, would be out at one of the bars during the break. He realised now that he really did want to see her again. Should he apologise if he did? He'd wait and see.

The bar had brought its shutters down, so Cámara carried on walking, looking to find another. He watched for shadows behind him but could see nothing. If he was being followed it seemed his pursuer had either lost him or lost interest.

A guard in brown uniform with a yellow stripe on the shoulder was standing at a gate that seemed to lead into a different section of the bullring. Cámara was wearing his usual jacket, with his ID tucked into the inside pocket. He showed it to the guard, who allowed him through.

Cámara immediately recognised it from his previous visits as the preparation area for the bulls and bullfighters. Horse shit lay spattered on the cobblestone floor as a couple of picadors and their mounts readied themselves to go into the ring. Apart from a group of
mayorales
keeping an eye on the next bulls to come through, the area was virtually deserted.

In front of him, just to the right, was the chapel. A chain and padlock had been wrapped around the doors, he noticed. No one was to go in there; whereas the bullring itself could somehow be cleansed of Blanco's murder through more bloodshed, for this place there was perhaps little chance of redemption. Cámara frowned. It was as if the building itself were seen as responsible for what had happened there, its doors locked firmly shut as punishment.

He thought of Paco Ramírez. He'd be in the interrogation room now with Torres. How far had they got, he wondered. A confession, perhaps? It would help Torres's career, that was for sure. Perhaps get him an early promotion. If his name wasn't stained by being associated with him, that was. Pardo was usually all right about that, though. Happy to bask in the glory himself but he didn't forget you if you did a good job. For all his faults he had to give him that.

Perhaps by the morning's papers it would all be wrapped up. Even in time for the news tonight, just as the election results were coming in. But Cámara felt strangely empty at the thought. Not because he wouldn't be there to see it happen – he was involved enough in the case – even now – to experience some kind of satisfaction at the thought that it was all about to be resolved. No, it wasn't that. Perhaps…He couldn't say. There were plenty of reasons to suspect Paco: an intimate knowledge of bulls and bullfighting – that would explain the symbolism of Blanco's murder, perhaps. But then the killing of Blanco's
apoderado
? Ruiz Pastor had been trying to blackmail the Ramírez family, Torres was probably right there. He'd known something about the whole affair and thought he could get them to pay for his silence. But he'd gone to his death instead. Had Paco done them both? He was fit for a man of his age. He could easily have climbed in and out of the bullring up the drainpipe. Stealing a boat and crossing the Albufera for a rendezvous with Ruiz Pastor a couple of days later would have posed few difficulties for him. Then the motive: Blanco hustling for a share of the farm as Ramírez's illegitimate son, threatening to expose their new, less principled approach to bull breeding. Paco had been prepared to out him as gay to try to shut him up. Blanco was hotheaded, obstinate. Perhaps he'd refused to stand down. Reason enough to kill him instead.

And Paco had no alibi. Cámara tried to cast his mind back to the night of Blanco's murder, when Paco had arrived late for the ceremony. Had he really looked like someone who had just killed a man? Did his face fit? On paper he looked guilty as hell. But he couldn't say. He just couldn't say.

Cámara walked out into an open space that formed a triangle between the chapel, the outer edge of the bullring, and the open gate that led to the street outside. A truck had been parked there, with its back ramp open and sloping down to the floor. The truck itself was painted mostly white, but there was a stripe running low around the edge: deep burgundy.

He circled around it. The cab was empty, but the door was open and the keys were swaying in the ignition. Whoever was driving was probably just about to leave and would be returning shortly. Moving to the back, he poked his head in and saw an empty, metallic shell with straw and piles of dung heaped in the corners. Running around the top was an open space with bars – something to let in light and air for the bulls while they were travelling, he assumed. More bars crossed the box from one side to the other, as though to reinforce the structure, or perhaps to tie the bulls on to. There were dents and scratches aplenty on the sides, testament, no doubt, to the struggle to get the bulls in and out during transportation.

He climbed up the ramp to get a closer look. The smell of piss and dung mixed in with the straw underfoot seemed to speak of panic and fear, anger and rage. He kicked at a ball of gunk that had glued itself to his shoe. Treading in dog shit, they always told you, brought good luck. He wasn't quite sure what kind of luck treading in bull shit would bring.

Something caught his eye as he moved his foot from side to side, trying to shake it clean, something partially hidden by the straw. Flicking at it with his foot he saw a metal ring in the floor, as though for a trapdoor. He pushed at it again with his toe, reluctant to get his hands covered in whatever mixture of excrement was down there obscuring it from view. But there was only so much he could do. Bending down he took a deep breath and started to poke around. The ring lifted up. Sliding his finger underneath it he pulled.

As he had thought, it was a kind of door for a compartment in the floor. He knelt down again. Some thick blue material had been placed at the top. Cámara pulled on it and drew up some workers' overalls. They had been well used by the looks of it, with brown stains on the legs and what looked like bloodstains around the body. He placed them to one side on the floor. Beneath the overalls were a couple of brown cardboard boxes wrapped in transparent plastic bags. He lifted one up, and placing his hand inside the bag pulled out a box. It rattled as he did so, a sound very much like glass bottles. Lifting the lid he stared down at a dozen phials. Each one had the same label. Cámara lifted one up and tried to read it, but could make nothing of it. The writing was in a foreign language he didn't understand, perhaps German. There was what looked like a company name – Fischer und Hauptmann – and then a list of chemicals with percentages next to them: 2%, 4.1%. It was almost like reading the ingredients on a packet of biscuits in the supermarket trying to work out what was actually in them. Except that he understood even less than usual. Only the brand name, printed in bolder letters across the front of the label, seemed to be written in any language other than Chinese: Ketakom. There was something about it, something that—

A blackness invaded his thoughts: a sharp, invasive nothingness. Then silence.

 

Consciousness returned to him in circling waves, washing over him, dragging him down, before coughing him out and spitting him on to the shore. Pain announced itself from the back of his skull as he lay curled in a ball on the floor, and he gave out a cry. Or at least he tried. His voice appeared to have left him, and all he could hear issuing from his mouth was colour: blues, purple, mauve.

He fell back into non-being, all-encompassing blackness once again.

When he came to, his eyes opened on to darkness. He tasted it for a while, sucking on it, rolling it on his tongue. It was different: not the blackness of before, this was something outside himself, something he felt he might understand.

Motion returned to a finger, and he twitched it once, then again. Nothing happened. No sound. No sense of another being there with him. He tried again, this time flexing his hand, wrapping it into a fist-ball before opening each finger, stretching them. Still no reaction from outside. He tried lifting his head, and with it came a rustling sound as he brushed what he understood to be clothes wrapped around his body. But still nothing. He concluded that he was alone, and raised his head higher, pulling his weight on to his elbows. The darkness, which had been constant until that point, shifted. There was a window.

He got to his feet, breathing strength back into his flesh. The walls were close around him, and by the touch and sound of his feet on the floor he made it out to be a simple concrete and breeze-block structure. There was a dampness about the smell, as well. Was this a basement? No, the window made that clear. And another thing: the lack of noise. There were no cars, no trucks. Thoughts of the city, of his life there, reminded him of his phone. What time was it? How long had he been here? Perhaps, at least, he could call someone to come out and find him. He was less than surprised, though, when he reached into his pocket and found that it wasn't there. He double-checked in his trousers, but it had gone. He would have to work this one out on his own.

He stepped over to the window. It was dark outside as well, yet a faint gloom, like shadows, seemed to register in his sight: the shift in the darkness he had perceived earlier. The glass felt thin against his hand as he pressed it up to strain at whatever lay out there. He could break it easily. And escape? From where, exactly?

There was a flash, far away in the sky, bright green and white. A firework had been let off, and suddenly the shadows were silhouetted in sharp contrast: a sight he'd seen a hundred times before. He was in the middle of the
huerta
– the vast market-gardening area that circled Valencia, and these were orange trees in front of him. At that moment, as though in confirmation, a draft pushed its way through the window frame, carrying with it a heady, sweet scent of orange blossom on the night air.

The smell seemed to bring a necessary sharpening back to his senses. The pain of earlier remained at the back of his head where he assumed he had been hit, but his immediate thought now was of escape. If, as he thought, he was in some farmer's shed in the middle of an orange grove, there would probably be a way out somewhere. He slid his fingers along the wall away from the window, and after only a few centimetres felt the cool metallic touch of the door.

There was no sign of his captor. He certainly wasn't inside with him now, but it was possible he was standing guard outside. Groping around, he found a plastic handle, gripped it and then lowered it as slowly as he could. When it could go no further, he gave the door a pull. It didn't move. He tried again. Nothing, it wouldn't budge. Whoever had placed him in here had locked him in.

Returning to the window, with every intention of smashing it open, he heard a sound from outside: footsteps in the dirt. They were soft at first, but gradually intensified as they drew closer. There was a jangle of keys. Cámara threw himself against the wall just as the door was unlocked and a shadow appeared in the doorway.

A sharp, piercing howl split the air as Cámara pulled and twisted on the man's arm, locking the elbow and forcing it back on itself. As his captor screamed in pain, momentarily immobilised by the shock, Cámara planted a foot into where he guessed his stomach would be. The scream turned into a deep groan and the man fell to the floor, retching.

Still grappling his wrist, Cámara reached for the man's gun in his holster, threw it to the ground, then dragged him outside on to a dirt track that led to the shed. In the occasional flashes from fireworks, and the reflection of the distant city lights, he could make out more orange trees all around them – they were deep in the middle of the
huerta
, as he had guessed. A car was parked a few yards away.

The man was vomiting, but was already trying to wriggle free of Cámara's grip. Cámara wrenched on his arm again to make him keep still, then leaned over, grabbed a handful of his hair and pulled his head back. In the pale flickering lights he saw a face that had become engrained on his consciousness and a deep, swelling, animal loathing came over him.

‘You,' he spat. And almost before he knew what he was doing his fist had landed square on the man's chest, sending him heavily and painfully to the ground.

Cámara took a step forward. He had been brought here so as to be far away from prying eyes: no one would see what they would do to him here. What was the plan? Just keep him locked up? Or something more sinister? He could turn what had been their advantage to his own, though. No one would see or even hear what every sinew in him now wanted to do to the man who had been the agent of torment over the past days. He felt the cold rush through his veins, a giddy sickness in his stomach as the excitement of impending violence took its hold over him.

‘No.
Por favor
.'

The
Municipal
was looking up at him with raw fear, trying to edge away from the beating he knew he was about to receive. Cámara lifted a foot and brought it down on his groin to keep him still.

‘Please?' he said as the man doubled up in pain once more. ‘Please? Why didn't you think of that when you attacked me in the street? Or when you followed me to take smutty photographs? Or when you smashed the window of my car?'