The Anarchist Detective (Max Cámara) (11 page)

The two men punched each other affectionately on the shoulder, then embraced.

‘This is payback for all the times I helped you cheat through school,’ Cámara said. ‘Think of it as a debt repaid.’

‘You with him?’ Gerardo asked Alicia with a grin. ‘You’ve got to watch this one. Never forgets.’

Alicia gave him a knowing smile.

‘So what have you got us?’ Cámara asked. ‘Something that’s not going to break down on us, I hope.’

‘Don’t you worry,’ Gerardo said, leading them outside on to the street. ‘It’s a little black BMW.’

‘You’re joking.’

‘No, I’m serious. Look, it’s over there.’

Cámara saw a shiny two-door sports car on the other side of the street.

‘You
are
joking.’

Gerardo threw him the keys.

‘I just bought it off a guy,’ he said. ‘Lost his job, needed the money. So I’ve fixed it up a bit. But I can sell it on, make a bit of extra cash.’

Cámara opened the door to a scent of leather seats.

‘It’s done over a hundred thousand – it’s hardly brand new or anything. But I can get five or six grand for it.’

Alicia had walked round to the other side and was climbing in.

‘Help clear some of my own debts. Know what I mean?’

Cámara’s phone rang; he reached into his pocket.

‘All right,’ Gerardo said, heading back inside.

‘I’ll bring it back later on this evening,’ Cámara said.

The phone clicked as he brought it to his ear.

‘Hello?’

He sat down in the driver’s seat. Next to him Alicia was going through her notes.

‘Yes,’ he said as the voice on the other end began to speak.

‘I see . . . I understand.’

Alicia looked over at him, detecting the change in his tone.

‘Fine,’ he said into the mouthpiece. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

He put the phone back in his pocket, then slotted the key into the ignition and started the engine.

‘It was the Jefatura in Valencia,’ he said, putting the car into gear.

‘They’ve given me until next Monday to make a decision. Either go back, or leave the police for good.’

Soon they were leaving the confines of the town and heading out into the countryside. The flat ‘basin’, after which the Moors had given the city its name, spread itself out with barely an undulation in all directions, a vast blanket, its colour blanched by the sun.

They headed north, neither of them speaking. Cámara had seen it often enough, a landscape that had felt at times to be an extension of himself, as it was of everyone from Albacete. And which you fled from, and always took with you.

Pozoblanco was a fifteen-minute drive away. As they were arriving, saffron fields with short green plants in rows, but no flowers visible, appeared. A tree-lined avenue off the main road led them towards a cluster of low, mostly white houses, a stone church bell tower stretching high above the other buildings. A sign where the village officially began welcomed them to ‘
the collectivist utopia of Pozoblanco, a founding member of the Republican Towns Network
’.

‘I’m not sure if a BMW is the right kind of car for a place like this,’ Cámara said as they left the tarmac and started bobbing up and down cobbled streets.

The plan was to head straight to the town hall, where Alicia had arranged to meet the mayor, Francisco Faro Oscuro. A Republican red-yellow-and-purple tricolour flag hanging from the walls of an official-looking building seemed the likeliest place, and they pulled in opposite, slotting the car into a space between two others.

‘We could ask if this is it,’ Cámara said, ‘but I can’t see anyone around.’

The streets were deserted, and the shops closed. But there were no metal security shutters over the doors and windows, as there were in most towns, Cámara noticed.

They got out of the car and climbed a few steps. Alicia nodded at some modest lettering on a side wall: ‘Town Hall’.

They stepped inside to an entrance hall with a pale marble floor. A staircase led up to the storey above. No one was at the reception desk. Alicia stopped and stood expectantly, waiting for someone to appear, while Cámara snooped around.

‘There must be a bell, or something.’

He glanced at the papers strewn on the reception desk – official forms, pamphlets relating to water rights, and a map of the town, which he quickly glanced at, then folded and placed in his pocket. A little black metal box with a key was unlocked. He opened it and found a colourful array of papers inside, including bright green
100
-euro and yellow
200
-euro notes. About
3
,
000
-euros in total, he quickly calculated.

‘Anything interesting?’ Alicia asked.

‘What time did you say we’d be here?’

‘We’re on time.’

She pulled her phone out.

‘I’ll give them a call.’

They heard footsteps coming from above, scuffing the floor as they moved towards the top of the staircase. Alicia took a step forwards. Cámara closed the metal cash box and stayed where he was. Then remembering he was meant to be a photographer, not a policeman, he stepped away from behind the desk and came out into the centre of the hall.

A tall, slim man with black hair appeared on the staircase, pausing as he caught sight of them before continuing downwards. Reaching the hall, he started to cross towards the main doors leading out into the square, not glancing at the two strangers.

‘Excuse me,’ Alicia called out as the man reached the door. He hesitated, then half-turned to her.

‘I’m looking for the mayor,’ she said. ‘I was supposed to meet him here now. Do you know where he is?’

The man already had his hand on the door handle.

‘The mayor?’ he repeated. Both Cámara and Alicia noted the accent. Middle Eastern, perhaps, given his appearance.

‘Francisco Faro Oscuro,’ Alicia said.

The man looked puzzled.

‘Ah, Paco,’ he said eventually.

‘Do you know where he is?’ Alicia asked again.

‘No,’ the man said. And he turned to leave.

‘Do you know where we might find him?’ Alicia butted in before he could get out the door.

The man shrugged.

‘Somewhere in the village,’ he said. ‘He walks around. You’ll find him. It’s not big.’

And he shuffled outside and disappeared.

Alicia and Cámara gave each other a look.

‘I don’t think there’s anyone else here,’ Cámara said.

‘Well, it looks like the mayor certainly isn’t,’ Alicia answered. ‘Fancy a stroll?’

Stepping out into bright November sunshine, Cámara reached for the map.

‘I can work out where we are,’ he said with a frown. ‘I just don’t know where we’re going.’

‘Down here,’ Alicia said, pulling on his arm.

They walked down what appeared to be the high street. Again, no one was around.

‘Perhaps everyone’s out working on the saffron harvest,’ Alicia said.

‘Or the place has been hit overnight by the plague,’ Cámara murmured.

He glanced up at a sign on a nearby house.

‘We’re on Calle Che Guevara,’ he said, ‘which leads on to Avenida Salvador Allende,’ he looked at his map. ‘And you’ll be happy to hear we’re just a stone’s throw from the Karl Marx Civic Centre. Perhaps they’ve all gone there for a collective read of
Das Kapital
.’

Alicia ignored him and carried on walking.

‘Are you taking photos?’ she called back.

Cámara shrugged, then reached for the camera slung around his neck, pulled off the lens cap, and started taking snaps. Peering through the viewfinder, he circled around, pausing, clicking, moving, pausing and clicking again, trying to capture a
360
-degree view from where he was standing. A wooden door with black iron studs; an agricultural supplies shopfront; a dusty tall window with old, thin glass; a view back down the street to the town hall square.

He stopped, and quickly darted the camera back up to the window. He’d seen something there, a movement, a person. Through the viewfinder he saw only rain-streaked glass and a dirt-white curtain: no one was there. Pulling the camera away from his eye he looked up. No: nothing.

He was about to start scrolling through the photos he’d taken, to see if he’d caught anything with his shot, when Alicia beckoned him over.

‘Come on. Over here.’

Turning a corner, he saw her standing in front of what looked a bit like a police car. It was light blue and white, and had the town emblem stamped on the door, but the only word written on it was that for ‘
Town Hall
’; nothing to indicate
police
.

‘What do you reckon?’ she said.

Cámara shrugged.

‘Not like any
Municipales
car I’ve ever seen,’ he said.

‘That’s because it’s not really a police car,’ a voice said behind him.

Cámara turned to find a man in uniform approaching them from the other side of the street. He was bareheaded – no cap – and the black belt above his hips lacked a gun of any kind.

‘We don’t have any police in Pozoblanco,’ the man said. He was in his mid-thirties, with three days of stubble covering his chin.

‘You don’t need them in a utopia.’

‘You work for the Town Hall?’ Alicia asked.

The man nodded.

Alicia explained who she was, how she’d arranged to meet Paco, the mayor, to do a report for a major national newspaper.

‘We were told to walk around,’ Cámara said, ‘and see if we could find him. Some guy at the town hall. Tall, foreign.’

‘That’ll be Ahmed,’ the non-policeman said. ‘Yeah, but if you want Paco you’re better off going to the Peace Co-op. It’s harvest time, so everyone’s up there.’

Cámara checked the map.

‘That’s in Federico García Lorca Square?’

‘That’s right. Keep going straight, then swing round to the left.’

He turned to go.

‘Just one thing,’ Cámara said. ‘If you’re not the municipal policeman, what do you do?’

‘Deliver the mail,’ the man said. ‘That and a few other odd jobs around the place.’

‘Give out parking tickets?’

‘Nah! Nothing like that.’

He grinned.

‘We don’t need any police. It’s very peaceful here. People just get on with their lives.’

IT WAS OBVIOUS
which one of them was Paco. The town might have been a collective utopia with no police force, but Mayor Faro Oscuro’s body language spoke of authority and of himself being in charge.

He wasn’t tall, but then neither were the dozens of other people milling about inside the Peace Co-op. He was physically strong, however, and the thick, forked greying beard jutting from his jaw gave him presence.

When he turned and caught sight of them, Cámara immediately registered two things: an animal liveliness in his eyes that seemed incongruous with one who had recently lost a granddaughter; and a white T-shirt pulled over the man’s black top showing a picture of Franco’s face with a red line drawn over it. He would have to get Hilario one of those.

Finishing his conversation with a middle-aged woman, Faro Oscuro walked over to them, shaking hands first with Alicia and then with Cámara.

‘It’s harvest time, the most important moment of the year for us. We have to pick the flowers early the very morning they bloom, otherwise the stigmas dry out and become worthless.’

He swept a hand out, indicating the bustling activity around them.

The Peace Co-op was a simple barn-like structure made from breeze block and brick, with a corrugated roof. Around them were a dozen tables, each with four or five women and children sitting in front of piles of violet saffron flowers. With quick, deft movements, they were plucking at the red stigmas inside each flower, dropping them into baskets, and then tossing the remains of the flower on to the floor, chatting and joking as they worked.

‘We started yesterday. It’s hard work, but it has to be done. Can’t be kept waiting. It’s what keeps this town alive.’

Cámara detected an impediment in Faro Oscuro’s voice, an inability to roll his ‘r’s properly. At their feet lay a thick, undulating carpet of flowers, while the air was rich with an intense, sharp, hay-like saffron aroma. It made him think of paella, of Valencia, of his old police colleague Inspector Torres. They’d had more than a few paellas together, nipping out at lunchtime for an hour or two. It was usually when they came up with breakthroughs in a case. Or at least that’s what they told themselves.

Torres. He wondered how he was doing. They hadn’t spoken for months. Perhaps he should give him a call.

A man with a greasy wrinkled neck was backing in towards him as he swept up. Cámara stepped out of the way to let him pass. The man looked up as he pushed a great swathe of petals with his broom, and smiled; two front teeth missing, but Cámara saw a sparkle in one of the remaining incisors: a diamond stud, clean and shiny in an otherwise rotting mouth.

‘This is very impressive,’ Alicia was saying to Faro Oscuro. ‘Can we take some shots in here?’

It was his cue: Cámara reached for his camera again.

‘We tried looking for you at the town hall,’ Alicia said.

‘I left Ahmed in charge.’

‘Yes, we spoke to him.’

Snap
went the camera.

‘Moroccan. Landed up here one day needing a job, so we took him in. Helps around the place – harvests, security, whatever’s going.’

‘That seems to be how things work here.’

Snap, snap
.

‘Yes, we do things a bit differently.’

Faro Oscuro smiled.

‘Here, come and have a look around. You can come as well,’ he called over to Cámara.

They walked around the tables. Some of the women looked up in greeting, others kept their eyes on the flowers in their hands, not breaking their concentration or the chatter.

‘It’s communal – we try to rotate work duties,’ Faro Oscuro explained. ‘But you have to recognise that certain people are better at some things than others.’

He leaned down, picked up a saffron flower, and showed it to them.

‘We only want these red strands, the stigmas. The rest of the flower, the stamens, the petals, everything, gets thrown away. That’s what ends up on the floor. Although we use it to mix with fertiliser. No waste. You have to give back to nature what you take from her.’