A Death in Valencia (10 page)

The restaurant had half a dozen tables outside on the pavement, where two couples of partially clothed northern Europeans were grilling themselves in the sun. Glancing at them with incomprehension, he ducked his head under the canopy and dived into the air-conditioned refuge inside.

He'd texted Torres earlier, and was pleased to see him already sitting there at their favourite table in the corner. It was a small place that did a decent lunch for seven euros–three courses with bread, wine and coffee. And best of all, you could smoke. Some kind of anti-smoking law had been passed a few years before, but it only applied to places with more than a hundred square metres of floor space. Anything smaller could opt out. So on paper the country could say it was conforming with the EU directive, while in practice everyone carried on as before. Or at least until they got caught and had to bring in a new law plugging the gap in the old one.

‘They'll get us in the end,' Torres liked to say. ‘You mark my words. We'll have to step outside between courses to spark up. As if we didn't have it bad enough at work. You won't be able to walk on the pavements for all the smokers blocking the way. Then people'll start getting run over, 'cause they're having to walk in the street where the cars are. And they call it progress.'

‘Bad day?' Cámara asked.

‘Ah, nothing,' he said with a sneer.

From his expression, Cámara recognised the symptoms: trouble at home. Torres's wife, Marga, was a quiet, intense woman who had a tendency to blow up every so often–usually now, shortly before the August break, when the speed, heat and noise could break many people in the city. What he'd sometimes suspected, but had never been able to confirm, however, was that on occasion Marga sought solace during these nervous interludes in someone else's bed.

Despite the food being good and being able to smoke, they didn't have Mahou beer on tap, so Cámara ordered a bottle. Torres opted for some red wine, which came chilled in a half-litre flask, condensation thick on the outside of the glass.

‘Bring me some lemonade as well,' he called to the waiter. ‘Might as well mix it into a
tinto de verano
. This stuff's undrinkable otherwise.'

They both ordered paella for the first course. Usually, as he grew accustomed to the intense heat of early summer, his appetite would wane for a few weeks, as though his body were slowing down to adapt. But today he felt hungry, perhaps, he reflected, because he had nowhere to go, no home to embrace him at the end of the day. So a feast-or-famine instinct had awakened in him, making him intent on gorging while food was available.

This being a working lunch, the paella came heaped on plates rather than served in the paella pan. Cámara looked down at the dark yellow mixture of rice, chicken, rabbit and green beans and was pleased to see there were plenty of specks of brown
socarraet
in there as well–the crispy, gooey bits from the bottom of the paella dish where the rice was more toasted, and the flavours more concentrated. It was one of the things about paella they only really got right in Valencia, and they knew him well enough in the restaurant now for him not to have to ask for it.

And despite the fact that they weren't eating it straight from the pan, he still used the more traditional spoon to feed himself. Paella just wasn't paella with a fork.

The first mouthful was delicious: enough oil as a vehicle for the myriad tastes, but the rice was still a little chalky and not overdone. Paella, he often thought, was best regarded as a combination of pan-frying and boiling: both were needed to create this unique dish.

‘There's a kind of rating system for rice dishes,' Torres said. ‘All part of the mystery of paella.'

‘You're not going to get mystical on me, are you?'

‘Paella's not just food for a Valencian; it's a way of life.'

Torres took a swig of his fizzy red drink and pursed his lips.

‘You know all this already. Or at least you should do. Been here long enough.'

‘All right.' Cámara held up his hands. ‘No disrespect. So what's this rating system, then?'

‘
Bò, rebò
and
mèl.'
Torres flicked out his fingers as he listed the words. ‘It's like giving marks to the paella depending on how good it is.'

Cámara chuckled.

‘Serious stuff.' Torres stared at him. ‘A family can spend the whole mealtime arguing over what grade to give it.'

‘All right, so what do they mean?'

Torres gave him a look.

‘
Bò
, as you should know by now, is Valencian for “good”.
Rebò
means “very good”.'

‘And
mèl
?'

‘
Mèl
means “honey”.'

‘That's the top mark?'

Torres frowned.

‘Kind of.'

‘Well, is it or isn't it?'

‘There's another one above that. But it's hardly ever used. Perhaps never. It belongs to the perfect, archetypal paella, like some kind of Platonic ideal. One that's been made over an open fire, using only wood from an orange tree.'

‘And using Valencian water.'

‘Of course. It's impossible to make paella with water from anywhere else. Doesn't come out the same.'

‘And this top mark is?'

‘
De categoría
,' Torres said, his Valencian accent thickening slightly, all open vowels like a yowling cat.

‘You think Plato had paella in mind when he was coming up with his theory of Forms?'

‘There's a Form for everything,' Torres hit back. ‘Even the hairs in your nose. Or at least that's what my mate Joaquín told me at school. I never did understand much in philosophy classes.'

Cámara lifted up a spoonful of rice and meat.

‘So what category's this one then? I reckon it's pretty
mèl
.'

‘Get out of here. You don't know what you're talking about. This?' He pointed at his plate and frowned in concentration. ‘
Bò
. You can't give it more than that.'

Cámara put the spoonful in his mouth. It tasted all right to him. Perhaps a little heavy on the oil, now he thought about it.

‘So what's below
bò
, then? What happens if it's a bad paella?'

Torres scowled.

‘No such thing,' he said.

 

They only started talking about the Sofía Bodí case once coffee arrived. To have done so earlier would have been disrespectful to the food as well as to Roures in some strange way. Both knew, without having to say, how the other felt about having to suspend the investigation like this.

‘By the way,' Torres said. ‘There was an email from the Logroño police. The tests for blood on Victoria Luna Pérez came back negative.'

Cámara shrugged; Torres handed him some papers.

‘Printout with more background on Sofía,' he said. ‘Everyone's got it.'

He reached for his cigarettes.

‘Don't know why, but I'm feeling less like an inspector and more like a bloody corporal or even a constable on this detail. There's a lot of orders being made, and we're just expected to run around at Maldonado's beck and call. Not sure how you can stand it, given the history between you two.'

‘Anything I need to know?' Cámara asked.

Torres glanced down at the papers.

‘Well, if you're too lazy to read it yourself…'

‘Come on,' Cámara said. ‘This way we'll both remember it better.'

‘Quickly, then.'

‘What's the rush?'

‘Maldonado's scheduled a conference at three thirty.
Everyone's
supposed to be there.'

‘Right. OK, what's the stuff on our missing abortionist?'

‘Born nineteen fifty-three.'

‘Birthday?'

Torres checked the papers.

‘Twenty-seventh of February.'

‘Pisces, then.'

‘Oh, come on. Don't tell me you're into all that crap.'

‘I knew there was something fishy about this case.'

‘You can't take this seriously, can you?'

‘Fish swim in the sea. Sometimes they get caught.'

Torres stubbed his cigarette out in the overfull ashtray, spilling ash on the white paper tablecloth.

‘Back to Roures again?' he said.

Cámara was staring into space.

‘I don't know.'

He pulled himself up.

‘Anything else?'

‘Father, mother…You know all this,' Torres went on, glancing through the notes. ‘Studied medicine at the university here, but then went to France to learn about abortion. Back when it was still criminalised here.'

‘When was that?'

‘Seventy-three.'

Cámara raised his eyebrows. Franco had still been alive then. Leaving the country to study abortion was about more than medicine: it was a political act.

‘Got an internship almost straight away at a clinic in Paris. The
Clinique Fontaine
. She stayed there until eighty-two, then opened her own place, the
Clinique Liberté
, specialising in catering for Spanish girls who couldn't get a legal abortion done back home.' He looked up. ‘You got any French?'

‘Studied it at school,' Cámara said. ‘Enough to get by.'

Torres carried on.

‘Came back to Valencia pretty quickly after the González government decriminalised abortion in eighty-five. Set up a clinic here, off the Gran Vía, then they moved to the present site in the Patraix district in ninety-eight. Bigger premises, apparently.'

She's dedicated her whole adult life to this, Cámara thought to himself.
Liberté
. That's what abortion was about–freedom. To make choices about your life. He sniffed. Or to kill.

Torres flicked through the pages, but it seemed that that was it. Cámara signalled to the bar.

‘You're not coming, then?' Torres said.

‘To Maldonado's conference?' Cámara shook his head.

Torres pulled out a note and some coins and gave them to the waiter.

‘On me,' he said.

‘Hey, look,' Cámara said, trying to thrust some cash into his hand. ‘It's not as if I kept all my money under the mattress.'

Torres shook him off.

‘I told you, if you need somewhere to stay.'

Cámara remembered his earlier hunch about Marga.

‘I'm fine.'

Both their mobile phones buzzed at the same time. Torres pulled his out first.

‘Don't bother looking,' he said.

The light from the screen reflected in his eyes as he read the text message.

‘Maldonado's brought the conference forward. Wants us all to get there straight away.'

‘News?'

‘A communiqué from the kidnappers. “Suspend the abortion law, or Sofía dies.”'

‘I've realised what it is.'

‘What
what
is?'

‘Why you've been so miserable all this time.'

‘Miserable?'

‘Am I speaking to the same person? That is still my grandson, isn't it?'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘You've been out of sorts, depressed. Fucked, basically. For at least a year, I'd say. Perhaps more.'

‘And?'

‘Well, at least admit it. Helps, you know.'

‘All right.'

‘That'll have to do.'

‘Well?'

‘Well what?'

‘You said you'd worked it out.'

‘That's right. What's wrong with you. Came to me last night. I was reading Kropotkin before going to bed. Bit of a breeze blowing up, coming in from the sierra, cooling. Good for the brain. And, of course, Kropotkin is always good for the soul…'

‘The soul?'

‘Yes, that's what I said.'

‘You're an anarchist. You're not supposed to believe in souls.'

‘I can believe in the soul or not, precisely because I am an anarchist. No one's going to tell me what to believe or what not to believe.'

‘Does this mean you've turned to religion? I always thought it would happen one day. Must be something to do with getting old. Getting closer to death, wondering if anything's on the other side. Hedging your bets by believing in some kind of god.'

‘I'm no closer to death than you are. In fact, a damn sight further away, I'd say. You don't catch me wandering around all day with a gun strapped to my ribs talking to murderers. If either of us is walking a tightrope, it's you.'

‘Yes, all right. But have you?

‘Have I what?'

‘Turned to religion. Found God.'

‘I'm not even going to answer that. I'm an anarchist. I don't believe in belief.'

‘Pretty strange kind of anarchist if you ask me.'

‘What?'

‘Most anarchists actually have a set of ideas, of how they want the country to be run, even if it does mean getting rid of government and money. But at least they actually believe in something. I always thought you did too. Or you gave that impression when you were active in the union. Seems that nowadays being an anarchist for you just means making it up as you go along. Accepting whatever nonsense happens to be floating around in your head each morning as though it actually meant something.'

‘You might have nonsense floating around in your head. I think we established that some time ago.'

‘Oh, come on.'

‘But some of us have a clearer vision of the world around us. And even of things which aren't immediately around us.'

‘So, what? You've become a saint now. Hearing voices?'

‘Which is why…'

‘San Hilario? Perhaps I should pray to you at night. What does that make me? The grandson of a saint? Any special concessions?'

‘Which is why I suddenly realised that it's all to do with some woman in Madrid…Hello, are you still there?'

‘I'm here.'

‘Right. Thought you might have dropped the phone for a minute. Seems I'm right, then.'

‘What?'

‘It is. It's some
chica
in Madrid, isn't it?'

‘I've never mentioned any woman in Madrid.'

‘No, but you've been talking about it.'

‘About what?'

‘About Madrid. Keeps coming up in conversation.'

‘I've been talking about Madrid?'

‘Not every day. But enough.'

‘When?'

‘Last time you were up here, you said something about the Prado.'

‘But that was you. You were talking about the Goya exhibition.'

‘Yeah, but there was something about the look in your eye. Then it's been mentioned a few other times.'

‘When?'

‘It doesn't matter. I'm right, aren't I? There's something about Madrid that's bothering you. And the only thing that would bother you for so long is a woman. Stands to reason. Ergo you're upset about some woman who's living in Madrid. QED.'

‘You should be on television. Make a mint. Hilario the great mind-reader.'

‘No. I just know you. Flesh and blood. Bringing you up for all those years helped as well. Almost like knowing myself.'

‘All right.'

‘All right what?'

‘Well, you're right. There is some woman in Madrid.'

‘Hah! Knew it. What's her name?'

‘It doesn't matter. It ended. Almost before it started.'

‘Come on. What's her name? Names are important.'

‘Alicia…Hello?'

‘What?'

‘Thought I'd lost
you
then. Well?'

‘It's good. It's a good name. What happened? Why aren't you with her?'

‘It's a long story.'

‘They're always the best.'

‘No, really. I'll tell you some other time.'

‘You're holding on to something, I can tell. And it's not doing you any good. That anger, again. Always was your problem. Constipating you. Are you shitting properly these days?'

‘There's something I need to tell you.'

‘And another thing. I rang your home number last night. I wanted to tell you about my amazing discovery, about what was wrong with you. But all I got was this dead tone.'

‘That's what I needed to tell you.'

‘They cut you off? What's the matter? Can't pay the bills? Bastards. They don't have a right to cut you off. Not for six months at least. I looked into the laws on this. You're protected, as a citizen…'

‘No, it's not that. The house fell down.'

‘Your house fell down.'

‘The block of flats. It collapsed the other day.'

‘
Me cago en Dios
.' I shit on God.

‘They've been building the new metro line outside, and…'

‘Vibrations. Right. Could be. I take it you weren't inside at the time, then?'

‘No.'

‘Otherwise this would be a very strange conversation.'

‘No. But others were.'

‘Oh. I'm very sorry to hear that. Very sorry.'

‘A young mother and her little boy.'

‘They didn't…?'

‘No.'

‘Susana, was it? You mentioned her. That's…I'm very sorry…Very sorry.'

‘The building was rotting. Wasn't connected to the sewerage.'

‘What?'

‘Some fuck-up years back.'

‘Fuck-up or Town Hall dodgy practices?'

‘What do you think?'

‘Cunts. Those fucking murderous cunts.'

‘…Yes…Look…'

‘You got somewhere to stay? The police sorted you out with something?'

‘Er, no. I'm OK. Friends putting me up, I'm all right. I'll…I'll find something. Eventually. Things are busy at the moment. Some missing abortionist. They think she's been kidnapped and they want us to find her.'

‘Right, well, I won't keep you.'

‘It's OK.'

‘I'll call you. I've got your mobile number. Let me know when you're settled in some place.'

 

The diary smelt of old glue and leather. The paper was thick, and of a light beige colour; it felt like the work of an artisan: well crafted, expensive, sure of itself.

Cámara resisted a more systematic urge to start at the beginning of the year and work his way through each day till he reached the last entry. The diary might have been written like that, as most were, but thoughts and lives moved to different rhythms and he would get a better sense of Sofía and her life in recent months–perhaps even her entire life–by allowing his eyes to wander over the pages at random.

The first thing he noticed was the names. Lists of women's names on most of the days:
Inma Gutiérrez, Claudia Albornoz García, Ruth Jiménez
. He kept flicking through. They were on weekdays, with perhaps a few gaps. Four or five a day, sometimes six or seven. Always female names, never a man's.

The women she'd given abortions to?

He checked the beginning of the year. No names there, not until 7th January, the first day back at work after the Christmas holidays. Then again, during the week leading up to the
Fallas
fiesta–no names. Nor at Easter. Only on working days–the days the clinic had been open.

He pulled out a Ducados and lit it. If he were right, the diaries back at the flat contained the names of all the women who'd ever passed through her hands, stretching back to the mid-1970s. What was it? Some kind of tally? A personal record of all the women she'd…what? Helped? That was probably how she saw it. What about a record of all the lives she'd terminated just as they were beginning? Staring down at the names–
Marta Sampedro
,
Mari-Luz Ferrero Pavón
,
Carmen Molina Valdés
–he felt disturbed by it. It was almost as if…what? Was it…? Was it so dissimilar from a serial killer keeping a list of all the people he'd murdered?

He stared into space and allowed himself to get lost in the experience of smoking for a few moments. Sofía Bodí a serial killer? Did part of him really think the similarity was there?

Nonetheless, there was something a little odd about this private record of hers. Was it some kind of insurance? This was information she could use in the future if she had to. ‘Right-wingers also abort,' she'd said at the press conference.

Or was it something more human? These women meant something to her; they were real people.

He was confused; he didn't know what to think about it. Perhaps one day, if things turned out right, he'd get the chance to ask her.

He started flicking through the pages again. The
Guardia Civil
investigation into the clinic had begun in December, so any entries relating to that would be in the previous year's diary. But there were plenty of developments in the case to get a mention in this year's. The first few in January, before the clinic reopened, seemed to refer to it. The handwriting was harder, the pen pushing deeper into the paper, with a liberal use of exclamation marks. The
Guardia Civil
itself was referred to as
GC
, while Comandante Lázaro leading the investigation into the clinic was
Lázaro
, changing as the weeks went by into simply
L
.

‘CB' probably meant Cesc Ballester.

Lieuterant Colonel Tejero was one of the main figures in the attempted military coup of February 1981, the man who had held up the Spanish parliament at gunpoint as a group of pro-Franco diehards in the army and
Guardia Civil
tried to take over the government. For almost twenty-four hours the country had appeared to be on the brink of more bloody civil conflict, and tanks had even appeared on the streets of Valencia, where the leader of the coup, General Milans del Bosch, was based. In the end the plot collapsed and Spain's nascent democracy avoided being stillborn, but Sofía seemed to think that Comandante Lázaro was of a similar political breed to the men who'd taken part.

Cámara continued flicking through the pages of the diary. Later in the year, as the months progressed, and the
Guardia
investigation intensified, the entries grew shorter, except for one or two longer passages whenever new developments came along. And he noticed figures appearing at the start of each day's writing:
3, 3.5, 2, 4, 2.5
…At first he couldn't make it out, but over time the numbers seemed to get smaller–
2, 1.5
–and he realised: this was the amount of sleep she was getting each night. The worry and anxiety were eating into her unconscious. Over the previous week she hadn't managed to sleep more than three hours straight. Someone in her condition might be hallucinating, perhaps even getting lost. He thought for a minute. No. There were independent witnesses–two people at least had seen her being bundled into a car by men wearing
Guardia Civil
uniforms. She hadn't just taken the wrong street and collapsed under a bush in a park somewhere.

The pages turned backwards and forwards, always the same black ink, the same small, neat handwriting. Sometimes thicker and heavier, getting scrappier perhaps in recent weeks. That would be the lack of sleep.

Then something, a flash of red, caught his eye. He skipped back to the page where he thought he had seen it. Down low on the right-hand page. A mark in red ink had been made in the margin: an ‘
x
' and a date with a circle–
3 Nov 77
.

He checked the entry for the day next to the red mark: a Saturday back in May that year. Details of reports in the press about the
Guardia
investigation into the clinic. An editorial in a left-wing newspaper criticising the Valencian local government for not condemning the case, claiming it was obvious to ‘anyone with eyes' that it was politically motivated. A reference to a meeting of
Mi Cuerpo, Mi Elección
scheduled for the following Wednesday evening.