Or the Bull Kills You (26 page)

He sat up in his chair, leaning in towards the table, his shirt pressing tightly against his chest.

‘I mean, shit. Why not get the mayoress in here while you're at it. She's a bit busy with the election right now, but I'm sure she'd be delighted to – what was it? – help you with your inquiries.'

He laughed. The smirk was back.

‘If you're looking for those extra nails in your coffin, Cámara, I'm your man.'

‘You're not being very nice about your fellow anti-bullfight campaigners,' Cámara said.

‘Most of them are fucking hippies and dope-smokers,' Flores said. ‘The only one with any spark is that Moreno kid. But all he's ever after is money.'

‘But you don't want to give him any.'

‘In case you haven't noticed, Cámara, running an election campaign is an expensive business.'

‘But you've got backers.'

‘Yeah, thanks for your concern. We're all right. But don't let me stop you if you were thinking of making a contribution.'

‘Perhaps you should put them and Moreno together,' Torres said.

‘He's a sharp one, isn't he?' Flores said. ‘Don't think I won't forget you as well. I can bring down two of you just as easily as one.'

‘The thing is,' Cámara said. ‘In all of this there's one thing you haven't told us.'

‘I'm all fucking ears,' Flores said.

‘You see, it took me a while to find out about Blanco being gay. Proof, I mean. And what's niggling me is how you discovered it.'

Flores closed his eyes and threw his head back.

‘Paco Ramírez told me,' he said.

‘Go on,' Cámara said.

‘Look, when someone gives you something like that on a plate you don't ask too many questions.'

‘Paco Ramírez came to talk to you?' Torres took a step closer to the table. ‘What's a bull breeder doing talking to an anti-bullfight campaigner like you?'

‘As I said, I didn't like to ask too many questions.'

‘And you believed him, of course,' Cámara said.

‘He showed me photographs.'

Cámara looked him in the eye, but Flores was staring down at the table.

‘Compromising ones?' Cámara said.

‘Yeah. You could say that.'

‘Ones you then sent to Carmen Luna on her mobile.'

‘So let's just get this straight,' Torres said. ‘You're asking us to believe that Paco Ramírez suddenly calls you out of the blue talking about Blanco being gay, and then – what? – comes round to the Town Hall with a bunch of photos to prove his point?'

Flores shrugged.

‘That was more or less it, yeah.'

‘Why?' Torres said. ‘Why the fuck would he do that?'

‘Let me guess,' Flores said. ‘You're the stupid one, right? Look, I've already said I didn't ask him. I just took it. It was a fucking godsend.'

Torres stood back from the table, crossing his arms.

‘I don't know,' Flores said. ‘I just assumed there'd been a bust-up or something. Paco wanted to get back at Blanco for something.'

‘And he was going to use you to do it,' Torres said.

‘Well, he wasn't going to do it himself, was he?' Flores sneered. ‘In general you try and get other people to do your dirty work for you.'

‘A bit like you and Carmen.'

Flores's eyes bulged.

‘Look, I am not responsible for her death.' Tiny bubbles of spit were flying from his lips. ‘Let's get that straight.'

‘Tell me,' Cámara said. ‘When exactly did Paco Ramírez approach you with the information about Blanco?'

Flores fell silent and looked down at his fingers where they were clasped over the table. Cámara waited. Next to him, Torres uncrossed his hands and placed them on his hips.

‘Señor Flores,' Cámara said. ‘I need to know when you spoke to Paco.'

‘Yeah, I heard you,' Flores said, raising his head.

‘So when was it?'

‘The afternoon before Blanco was killed.'

Torres jumped.

‘What?'

‘He called around lunchtime,' Flores said. ‘Said he wanted to meet. Then came round to the office, told me the story and showed me the photos.'

‘And then hours later Blanco is found in the middle of the bullring with an
estoque
in his back,' Torres said.

‘You've sat on this all this time,' Cámara said. ‘Didn't think to tell the police, obviously. Nor did you tell Carmen Luna straight away.'

‘Withholding evidence,' Torres said. ‘We could do him right now just for that.'

‘Perhaps it just slipped my mind,' Flores said. ‘You'd never make that stick.'

‘Slipped your mind?' Torres turned away in disgust.

‘You were saving it,' Cámara said. ‘Waiting until the last days before the election. Then you made the call to Carmen, thinking that it would be all over the news the next day, just in time to swing a whole bunch of votes back your way as Blanco's reputation got ripped apart for him having a secret life.'

Flores raised his eyebrows and gave a smile.

‘As plans go,' he said, ‘even if you disagree with it, you have to admit it was pretty fucking good.'

‘Brilliant,' Cámara said. ‘Just a shame Carmen went and fucked it up for you.'

‘So what do we do?' Torres said. ‘Get a warrant for Paco's arrest?'

Torres's voice brought Cámara back from thoughts about Almudena. The text message: somewhere inside him it had been circling around and he'd been trying to work out what to do. Text her back? Give her a call? He'd decide later; right now there was too much else going on.

‘We've got a motive. This argument over whether Blanco got a share in the farm. And the guy was clearly out to get him.'

After the episode with the alarm they'd returned to their usual spot outside the emergency exit at the back for a smoke.

‘You yourself said he wasn't there the whole time at the Bar Los Toros. Could have bumped off Blanco then come round after.'

Cámara bit on the filter of his cigarette.

‘How does Ruiz Pastor fit in?' he said.

‘Cano told you he was always after more cash, right?'

Cámara nodded.

‘From the sounds of it he was virtually blackmailing the guy.'

‘So?'

‘Let's say Ruiz Pastor knew about Blanco being Ramírez's son, and that there'd been a row over who inherited the farm and all that.'

Cámara remembered Carmen Luna talking about Blanco and Ruiz Pastor, of how they often spoke on the phone, and had done so the night Blanco returned from the farm.

‘He was a chancer, I reckon. His big bullfighting star has just been done in and that's his meal ticket gone, but he thinks, I know, I can make a bit of dosh out of this.'

Torres was getting excited as the theory grew inside his mind, almost skipping from foot to foot.

‘So he calls the Ramírez family and says he's going to spill the beans, say that they killed Blanco, and he knows why. But they can buy his silence for, oh, I don't know, a million euros. So he arranges a meeting with them, and that's when Paco bumps him off too.'

Cámara wondered silently about Margarita de la Fuente's theory about there being two killers. Was that a false trail? Was it Paco all along?

He felt a vibration in his pocket and placed his hand down to flick open his mobile.

Stub it out and come and see me in my office. Immediately
.

‘Time to go,' he said to Torres as he placed it back in his jacket.

‘Pardo?'

Cámara took a deep drag on his Ducados, then flicked it out onto the waste ground next to a thousand other cigarette butts.

 

Pardo was facing the door when Cámara walked in.

‘Sit down,' he said without moving.

‘Let me guess,' Cámara said. ‘You've had a chat with Flores.'

Pardo glared at him.

‘Flores? I've had the mayoress herself on the phone. And I've only just managed to persuade her not to get the Ministry in Madrid on my case.'

‘What do you want me to do?' Cámara said. ‘Suspend the investigation just because it's election day tomorrow?'

‘You hauled in the mayoress's campaign manager on the Day of Reflection,' Pardo said, as though his sin were self-evident. ‘Short of buggering the mayoress herself, there isn't much worse you could have done.'

‘Sadly, I don't have the pleasure of knowing Emilia that well.'

‘Shut the fuck up, Cámara.'

Pardo stroked his tie, then sat down.

‘This investigation has been a disaster from the start,' he said.

Cámara's eyes wandered towards the window, and the view over the city.

‘As of Monday you're off this case, whether Mayoress Delgado wins the election or not. I was going to give you that grace at least – wait and see if she got back into office. But there are plenty of people who'd be happy to see you shunted somewhere a little less embarrassing, Cámara. For the Ministry you're a disturbing little statistic, something they'd rather forget about.'

Cámara stood up and turned to go.

‘Get out of here, Cámara,' Pardo shouted after him. ‘And don't you dare think about coming in tomorrow.'

 

Alicia made to kiss him when they met, but she caught some of the hardness that was still wrapped around him.

‘Oh,' she said as she backed off a little. ‘Should I be taking this personally?'

‘Let's get a drink,' Cámara said.

‘It's
Fallas
,' Alicia laughed. ‘We won't have to go far.'

It was the penultimate night of
Fallas
– the
Nit de Foc
, the Night of Fire, when one of the world's largest firework displays was set off over the city sky. By now the night air seemed to be filled with one continuous explosion as the streets were crammed with people walking in groups, shouting and singing, some carrying plastic cups filled with whisky and cola, others clutching paper bags of freshly fried
buñuelos
. The
fallera
queens had lost their freshly painted look, the golden combs in the backs of their heads coming loose where they'd been jostled in the crowd, stains and creases appearing on their full, embroidered silk dresses. Costumes that had cost thousands to make and several months in the sewing were now close to getting trashed in the carnival atmosphere. The smell of gunpowder was omnipresent as child after child threw his
petardos
to the ground with a wild look in his eye, their crashing only drowned out as spontaneous
mascletaes
hammered out from somewhere nearby, shaking the cobblestones beneath their feet. In the sky above, flashes of reds and yellows and greens grinned at them from the squibs overhead. Was this what hell was like, Cámara wondered? To live an eternal, never-ending
Fallas
fiesta, forced never to sleep and have your eardrums rocked again and again by an entire city of heaving, hysterical drunken partygoers?

Perhaps his time in the city was coming to an end, he thought to himself. On Monday he'd find out which forgotten corner of the force they'd be relegating him to. The
Depósito
? Perhaps he should resign. And do what? Go back to Albacete? Whichever way he looked around him, caught as he was in the crowd, there seemed to be nothing but emptiness ahead of him.

He felt a pull on his arm. Alicia was drawing him away from the fiestas and down an alleyway. He had no idea where to. Was she the answer? This latest fling? Something to hang on to in the vacuum? He felt so far removed from anything going on around him that his senses had fallen numb. Who was this woman? They'd slept together, that much he could remember. But he barely knew anything about her. Yet here she was, as though at the end of a dark, spiralling tunnel, pulling him along, past jeering piss-heads and gutters filled with pulped red-and-white paper cups as though she had a plan, as though she knew where they had to go, where she wanted him to go, to be. Away from all this, yes, away from the noise, and the crowds and the crass labyrinth of a crashing, chaotic world. An Ariadne come to save him, to lead him out, away from the bloodthirsty beast, half-man half-bull, that had been waiting to consume him inside.

He stopped dead in his tracks.

She pulled on his arm, but he wasn't moving.

‘Come on,
cariño
,' she said. ‘I know a place just a bit further on. It'll be quieter. Trust me.'

They were in a dark narrow street near the Na Jordana Gate. One of the biggest
falla
statues in the city was just around the corner. Beyond that there was only the empty river bed. Not even the
chaperos
and pushers would be down there tonight.

‘Where are we going?'

He wanted nothing of this, not the banging, the crowds, the flashing fireworks, this woman dragging him through the streets. His brain felt sodden with noise and emotion, as though a dank black web had been cast over him, slowly weakening and exhausting him, as though waiting for him finally to give up before some hidden, invisible tormentor moved in for a kill.

‘What is it?' Alicia said. ‘Worried I might be taking you to some dark corner somewhere?'

But what tormentor? Who, exactly? Pardo? He didn't care enough about him. Flores? He'd had worse, and seen them off. Perhaps it was the case itself; it had got into him, stirring something, some undiscovered part of himself. The bloodlust, the anger. Was that it? He liked to think he could control them: his fighting skills could stand him in good stead sometimes. It was useful, a tool. But was he really master of himself, as he liked to imagine? Didn't he actually enjoy it, if he was honest with himself? What had Margarita said about bulls? They kept going, kept charging at the matador, and the person who would eventually kill them. Unless…unless they managed to get him first. That fighting urge was inside him, that need for violence, for blood. He hated bullfighting not for what it did to the bull, but for what it did to him, for showing him what he was. The would-be killer inside him was on display there in the middle of the ring. Wasn't that why he had run crying as a child? Not because of the bull. Not because of his sister. But because for a moment, for the briefest of moments when he saw the torero murdering the bull, he could understand his sister's killer, flirting with her, tormenting her, violating her, before finally slaughtering her. That was why he couldn't bear to watch the corrida. It was violence transformed, made something subtler, transcendent. But his own violence was raw, lay deep within him, sleeping most of the time, waking when he least expected it. Wasn't that it? A kind of magical thinking that by refusing to acknowledge its existence it might simply vanish, cease to exist. That was the best way to deal with violence, with one's own bloodlust. Deny it. That was the way of the modern world. A modern world that was then surprised at the violence of its young people, at football matches, in joining thuggish political parties, attacking beggars, old people, other children.