A Death in Valencia (5 page)

‘Thank you,' Cámara said. ‘Call us if you hear anything more.'

 

Cámara hadn't seen Dario Quintero for over a year, since they'd worked on the Jorge Blanco case together. The
médico forense
was staring down at some papers in reception as Cámara stubbed his cigarette out on the ground outside and walked through the doors of the
Instituto de Medicina Legal
.

‘Chief Inspector,' Quintero said, looking up with a smile half-buried in his full grey beard. ‘Always a pleasure.'

‘Likewise,
doctor
.'

‘I imagine you've come to visit
el pobre
Roures?'

Despite being able to poke, probe and cut bodies open with clinical efficiency, Quintero always treated the dead with an old-fashioned decency while they were in his care.

‘I'm afraid this city won't be quite the same without him,' Quintero said as they pushed through a swing door and headed to the deposit. ‘Or at least from a culinary standpoint.'

‘I take it you were a regular.'

‘Oh, perhaps not a regular. But like so many I'd been to La Mare enough times to know you couldn't find a better paella.'

Cámara smiled at Quintero's use of the restaurant's unofficial name.

‘Not even La Pepica, with its photos of Hemingway on the walls, could improve on what Señor Roures was capable of doing,' Quintero added.

If there was anywhere as famous as La Mar for rice dishes by the sea, it was La Pepica, a large, almost warehouse-like establishment on the beach, where Papa often ate with his matador friends after a bullfight. But where La Pepica reeked of power and the Valencian establishment, there was something more intimate, counter-cultural, and more authentically ‘El Cabanyal' about La Mar.

They entered the deposit. Quintero walked to a locker but hesitated before opening.

‘We may all have appreciated his art,' he said, ‘but we're not dealing with another famous murder victim here. Not another Blanco. Señor Roures was a
pez pequeño
–a little fish. He didn't have contacts or power. Which is why, I suppose, they were bent on pulling his house down, along with all the other buildings lined up for demolition. But it wouldn't have been under threat if he'd had strings to pull. That's the way things work in this city.'

He raised his eyebrows as if to ask whether Cámara was ready to see the body, and then pulled out the bench.

The decomposition had been halted temporarily, and the body had been cleaned up, but he was still a long way away from appearing like the chef whose paellas they had so enjoyed.

‘I heard you were the one who brought him ashore,' Quintero said. Without looking up, Cámara gave a nod.

‘You know, he drowned in the end.'

Cámara gave a look of surprise

‘But you were right–he was attacked. From behind,' Quintero went on. ‘Look.'

Walking round to his side of the body, Cámara leaned in and saw the wounds in Roures's upper waist.

‘Three stab wounds,' said Quintero. ‘The first two caught on the floating rib, but the third one went in. That would have stunned him. But the renal artery is intact. Often it's cut in attacks of this kind, and the victim bleeds to death in a matter of seconds. But not Roures.'

‘Stabbed in the kidneys?'

‘Perhaps a hand over the mouth–there's some light bruising just visible around the chin–and then, yes, a classic kidney stab, I'd say. Except that it didn't kill him. Being dumped in the sea did that. The lungs were full of water. Five litres of it.'

Cámara closed his eyes.

‘He wouldn't have lasted long. No more than a minute or two at most. The stab wound would have debilitated him enormously.'

He closed the drawer and took off his gloves.

‘Might still have been in the water at any other time of year,' he said. ‘We were lucky that the sea is relatively warm now. Makes the body float to the surface faster, what with the gases from decomposition.'

‘Any thoughts on the murderer, from what you've seen?' Cámara asked.

‘Right-handed, from the position of the wounds. Stabbing from behind like this is often thought of as the mark of a professional.'

Quintero rubbed his hand through his beard and looked down at the floor.

‘But there's something amateurish about this. We've got two attempts to stab him before the third finally penetrates. Even then it's not as deep as one might expect, and leaves the artery intact, as I mentioned.'

He paused.

‘In my mind's eye I can almost see someone who's read up on how to stab someone from behind, but hasn't been able to practise. That's to say, not a true professional at all. Although appearing to be so may have been part of the plan.'

‘Male?'

‘A female could explain the lack of depth to the final stab wound. It takes a not inconsiderable amount of strength. But there's something quite masculine about the nature of the attack. Soldierly, almost.'

They walked back out into the corridor and headed towards reception again.

‘And then…' Quintero began. Cámara urged him to continue.

‘This is beyond my technical know-how, but there's one other thing.'

‘What's that?'

‘It seems quite clear to me that the murderer didn't row out very far to dump the body. The currents generally move from north to south along the coast. In ordinary circumstances, Roures could have been found anywhere from El Saler to Gandía. But leaving him so close to the shore, the harbour wall prevented him from being pushed southwards; there was nowhere else he could go.'

‘Perhaps the idea was for him simply to disappear out at sea, make it look like an accident. Everyone knew about his fishing lines, it seems.'

‘Perhaps,' Quintero said. ‘But for that harbour wall you might be wondering if this really was a murder on your hands, or a case for Missing Persons.'

Cámara's phone rang as he stepped outside into the heat, and he could already feel his skin prickling from his shirt clinging to his back with the humidity.

He didn't recognise the number, but answered anyway.

‘Maximiliano Cámara Reyes?' came an official-sounding voice.

‘Yes.'

‘Resident of number 6 Calle Luis Santángel?'

‘Who is this?'

‘I'm calling from the
Policía Local
,' said the voice.

Cámara cursed under his breath. Another parking fine? Someone had broken into his car?

‘You have to come immediately to the Ruzafa office.'

‘Look, what the hell's going on?' He was about to tell the official who he was: a chief inspector in the
Policía Nacional
, with a murder case on his hands. But the voice interrupted him.

‘There's been an incident. It's urgent…Your block of flats has collapsed.'

Pulsating orange lights were reflecting off the shiny metal crane towers soaring high above the gaping holes of the new metro line. Approaching from a side alley, Cámara could sense a wailing, billowing crowd of people at the far end, on the corner of his street. Heavy, pale grey brick dust wrapped itself around him, clinging to the sweat on his arms and chest, and sticking at the back of his throat. In the fog, people pushed backwards and forwards like shadows, many with their hands over their faces, others with dirty streaks lashing their cheeks where the tears had stained.

He edged closer, feeling his way along by leaning on the parked cars, his eyes fixed on the steady rhythm of the flashing sirens. The crowd around him grew tighter, but rather than holding him back, it seemed to push him forwards, as though aware of who he was, that he should be allowed to see this.

Eventually he reached the front of the throng. A police tape had been strung across the top end of his street and a couple of
Policías Locales
were keeping watch. Behind them, blocking most of the view, were a couple of fire engines and an ambulance. He could just see the crushed back end of a car, its tail crumpled by lumps of misshapen masonry.

But he couldn't see his building–there were too many things in the way, too many men in suits shouting at their walkie-talkies, too many uniforms. The crowd itself shunted him a few feet to one side. Only then did the emptiness come into view, the space where once his block of flats had stood. The place where he had slept that night, had slept almost every night for the last decade or so. The world that had taken him in, given him refuge, a shelter, a place to wash, rest, and forget–if only for a short time–had vanished for ever.

For a moment he tried to imagine what it might feel like to be someone who had lost their home like this, to show up suddenly one day and discover the place you lived had gone, had simply ceased to exist while you were out. Perhaps only then could he connect with what was happening in front of him. Right now it was as if all this was taking place in another world, to someone other than himself.

He heard a name coming from his mouth, as though issuing from some other being: ‘Tomás.'

He felt something on his shoulders: a warm, paw-like hand. Turning, he looked into a fleshy, perplexed face.

‘I knew you'd get here soon enough.' It was Vicent, the owner of the bar on the corner. ‘Here, you'll need this.'

A brandy glass was thrust into Cámara's hand and Vicent began to pour from a bottle of Carlos III.

‘Do you want to sit down?'

Cámara didn't answer. Vicent finished pouring, then linked his hand into Cámara's arm and led him through to a stool inside the bar.

‘Sit there. I'll get you a wet towel to wipe your face.'

The brandy slid through him like lava.

‘Happened just after lunch, about half four.'

Vicent pulled up a stool next to him and left the damp cloth on the counter beside his glass. Other people were sprawled on chairs by the window, heads in their hands or with pale, empty expressions of shock in their eyes. Behind the bar, a girl was busying herself frantically with washing up plates, as though trying to block out the tragedy that had forced its way into her world. Through the open windows, Cámara recognised people he saw around here almost every day, neighbours he had greeted and chatted with hundreds, perhaps thousands of times, like an informal extended family.

‘They've evacuated the buildings on either side,' Vicent said. ‘The kids from the school across the road have been told to go home, so they're putting some up there. Camp beds and stuff. We'll be making some sandwiches and bits and pieces with what we've got here. There's not much, but at least we can do something.'

Cámara sipped on his brandy. The drink seemed to be injecting some kind of life into him, but he was uncertain if he preferred the dulled, half-death state of shock which had so quickly overcome him.

‘It was just one almighty crash,' Vicent went on. ‘We were cleaning up, just a few people still here. And then…' He tailed off. ‘Never heard anything like it. Thought the world was crashing in on us. We all ran out into the street, sharpish. Didn't know what was happening. Could have been our building coming down on top of us. But all there was was dust. Then silence.'

He reached out and poured himself a brandy from the bottle at Cámara's side.

‘Then the screaming started.'

Cámara's eyes darted towards the metro works just a few feet away.

‘Yeah,' Vicent frowned. ‘That lot didn't stick around for long. Reckon they've been expecting something like this to happen ever since they started. What with all these old buildings everywhere. This is Ruzafa, working-class area. They didn't build them as well as the ones on the other side of the avenue. Bound to happen. Remember that time in Barcelona with the metro line there? Same thing. Start digging underneath one of these places and sooner or later it'll come toppling down.'

‘What about the others?' Cámara asked. It had been the only question on his mind since he'd arrived, but until now he'd been unable to speak.

‘Well, I knew you'd be all right, 'cause you're hardly ever here,' Vicent said.

‘What about the others?'

‘
La Señora
Esperanza is fine–she was out shopping when it happened. Bit shocked, obviously. Her heart and all that. Then Antonio and Carmela were out at work…'

Vicent went through a list of Cámara's neighbours, ticking them off as having escaped the collapse of the building. But there was only one name he wanted to hear, one that Vicent refused to mention.

‘What about little Tomás?' With a sudden jerk he grabbed Vicent by the shirt. ‘Where are Tomás and Susana?'

Vicent looked him in the eye, but his expression had taken on the same emptiness as the others'.

‘They're looking for them now.'

Night had fallen, and although the street lights on one side were no longer working, there was enough of a pink glow from the remaining lamps to illuminate the scene, while powerful white beams were being shone on the rubble itself to aid the rescue workers.

Cámara sat on the pavement opposite, his arms wrapped around his knees, waiting. The earlier crowds had gone, but still a core of neighbours and other locals stayed behind, staring at the destroyed block of flats, watching the firemen coming and going, the trail of Town Hall officials slipping under the police cordon, and leaving again with loosened ties and anguished looks on their faces. Already calculations were being made about the flows of responsibility from an event like this–where they were headed, and how they could be diverted.

The only noise came from the cars passing along the avenue at the top of the street. Many slowed to catch a glimpse of what they had already seen on the television news before speeding away. Here, in front of it, no one dared break the silent, hopeful vigil.

Above them, painted walls where the building had abutted the neighbouring houses stared out in shock. Pictures still hung in a couple of places from dusty hooks, while a bathroom sink was perched on the first floor on a lip of masonry, with a bright red-and-yellow child's towel draped over the edge next to the taps.

Below, smashed, destroyed brickwork was heaped in front of them. The pile was, Cámara thought, about a storey high. Take away the space, the lives that had filled this once, and that was all you were left with–a formless heap of mortar, plaster and splintered furniture measuring about three metres when compressed into this concentrated, if irregular, shape.

Someone had towed away the cars that had been crushed in the building collapse. On average he managed to park right in front of his block of flats about five or six times a year, what with all the cars cramped into the narrow streets. The previous Wednesday had been one of those occasions, and he'd almost leapt for joy at the time. But his old Seat had been the worst hit by the falling masonry, smashed into a dense little parcel. The insurance didn't cover events like this. Right now he didn't care.

He sat, silently smoking cigarette after cigarette as the sounds of people bedding down and preparing to sleep in the school behind him echoed out through the open windows. Ahead, a dog from the rescue team was scuttling about on top of the rubble, trying to find a scent. Most of them were local men–a team on permanent standby for flying out to disaster zones around the world in search of earthquake survivors. No one had thought they would have work to do so close to home.

Some had remained hopeful for a while. Susana had often taken Tomás out for walks down in the old river-bed-turned-park in the afternoons, playing in the shade of the mulberry trees, or in the spray of a fountain. Either that or to the beach, where the cooler breeze took the sting out of the burning sun. But they would have returned home by now; it was too late. Still, even if they had been caught by the collapse, there was hope that they might be alive. They'd seen the images on the television, when someone was dragged out from under an earthquake-hit house, shaken, dirty, but smiling. The same could happen here, couldn't it? Certainly the small group of women holding candles at the far end of the street thought so.

A piece of paper was fluttering towards him, caught in the light wind that had blown up, momentarily cooling their overheated, grimy bodies. Cámara watched as it skipped along the tarmac. It seemed familiar, somehow. As it drew nearer, he realised it was the sleeve notes from one of his flamenco CDs–
Omega
, by Enrique Morente. It was one of his favourite albums, and the black, white and red lettering seemed to call up to him, appealing for him to reclaim it, to say it was his.

With a frown, he quickly thought through what he had lost that afternoon: clothes, some books, a TV, music centre, pieces of furniture he wasn't too bothered about. The car. Perhaps, yes, the only thing he might really miss was his flamenco CD collection. It had taken a few years to build that up–there were recordings there he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to replace. But with this slight pang of loss, he realised there wasn't much he'd pine for. Had this flat really meant so little to him? No, despite being rented, it had felt like his–his bolt-hole, his retreat. Yet it wasn't the objects there that mattered to him; it was the memories. Memories of when he'd first arrived, back in the late 1990s. A couple of parties he'd had back then. The girls who had been and gone. Not that many, but this had been the first place he'd made love to Almudena. And she'd complained even then how messy it was.

It was over a year since they'd split, but whenever something brought her to mind, he was always glad they were no longer together, and even found himself wondering how they had ever managed to get together in the first place, so incompatible were they. A
poli
and an interior designer…

And then there was Susana. He'd never felt anything more than a friend and neighbour, and if it hadn't been for little Tomás, he might never have chatted with her so much. Something about her being left on her own by Tomás's father made him feel protective towards her.

Another push of wind, and the CD cover slipped past, and away down the street, unnoticed by anyone but him.

The dog barked. One of the firemen hissed for complete silence. Cámara stood up as the group collectively held its breath. He saw one of the rescue workers begin to clear away with his hands at the spot indicated by the animal, slowly, so as not to disturb the delicate structure created by the rubble. Piece by piece lumps of masonry were pulled up and placed to one side as the man tried to delve into the broken mass. Then he stopped. A torch was passed to him. He leaned in, pushing his hand through the remaining inches of debris before stopping and shining the torch down once again. He paused, checked once more with his hand, then stopped. After a couple of breaths, he stood up, shoulders tight and hunched.

The worst had been confirmed.

 

Whether minutes or hours had passed, he couldn't say, but he had the feeling of not having moved for a long time when he heard footsteps close behind. Gradually he became aware of someone crouching down beside him, placing small hands under his arms and pulling him up. After a moment, he obeyed, and began to lift himself on to his feet.

‘Come on,' a voice said in his ear. ‘You're coming home with me.'