A Death in Valencia (17 page)

But for his crooked nose, Rafael Mezquita, head of urban development at the Town Hall, would have made a handsome man. He was striking enough, with his tall frame, and shining, almost tearful eyes, but the near pin-up looks were spoilt by the slight disfigurement, a bend at the centre of his face where nature demanded rectitude. There were those who touted him as someone to watch, a future mayor himself, perhaps, or president of the Valencian regional government. But closer political observers tended to rule out such heights. Voters, they argued, would never vote en masse for a man with such a facial flaw, even if it was only minor. Things like that went deep, were instinctive.

Cámara pushed his way through the people watching the Pope, slowly taking his steps towards the crowd. Mezquita was standing still, not having to strain as much as the others to see over their heads. What he hadn't noticed, however, was that a white plastic cup dropped by someone in the crowd had blown over and got stuck on the end of his foot; the orange liquid that it had once contained now oozed out over his black leather shoes. It had a slightly comic effect, like some cartoon toecap, or a scene from an old slapstick comedy.

Mezquita cocked his head slightly to the side and gazed down as Cámara introduced himself.

‘Chief Inspector,' he said. ‘A pleasure. What can I do for you?'

His eyes glanced back towards the Pope as he spoke, anxious that his attention should not be distracted for too long.

‘I used to live there myself,' Cámara said, nodding at the rubble pile.

Mezquita's eyes widened in sympathy.

‘Oh, I'm so very sorry to hear that,' he said, looking at him more closely. ‘This must be a very emotional time for you.'

Cámara shrugged.

‘It's been a shock,' he said. ‘For everyone. Especially losing neighbours like that.'

‘Susana and Tomás,' Mezquita said. ‘Yes, I'm very sorry for your loss. It's been a tragic time. For the city as a whole. I think we're all in mourning in one way or another. But particularly for you, their neighbours. Their family.'

‘Did you go to the funeral?' Cámara asked.

‘I did,' Mezquita said. ‘I represented the Town Hall. Very sad.'

‘I couldn't make it.'

‘No, of course. Listen, you must let me know if there are any hold-ups in getting you rehoused, or the compensation process. I know these things can take longer than we'd all like. But you can call my office any time.'

His eyes resumed their flicker between Cámara and the Pope as he spoke, not wanting to lose sight of his important visitor.

‘I appreciate that,' Cámara said. ‘But I wanted to talk to you about something else.'

Mezquita gave him a quizzical look.

‘I'm investigating the murder of Pep Roures,' Cámara said.

‘I used to know him,' Mezquita said. ‘Years back. You're talking about Pep Roures who ran La Mar restaurant, right?'

‘That's correct.'

‘Another tragic story. We used to play
pelota
together, when we were teenagers.'

‘I've just come from the El Cabanyal sports centre,' Cámara said. ‘I saw the photo of the two of you.'

‘Oh, is that still there?' Mezquita said with a smile. ‘Yes, that was some time back.'

He placed his hand to his crooked nose.

‘That was just before this happened.'

‘Your…' Cámara hesitated.

‘My nose was as straight as an arrow back then,' Mezquita said. ‘As I'm sure you'll have noticed. But it got broken shortly after. It was Pep himself, actually. Shouldn't speak ill of the dead, but it was a mis-hit from him one day. It went straight into the side of my nose and broke it pretty badly. The doctors were never able to get it right again.'

He chuckled to himself.

‘I was devastated at the time. You get over these things, but I thought I'd had it. No girl would ever look at me after that.'

He grinned.

‘By the way,' he said, suddenly changing his tone. ‘Is this a formal interview? If so, perhaps it could wait for another time.'

And he nodded his head in the direction of the Pope, who was now walking towards them, reaching out to brush the hundreds of hands and fingers trying to touch him.

‘I'm just getting some background,' Cámara said. ‘I saw you here and thought we could have a quick chat.'

‘Yes, of course.'

‘I suppose Roures would have felt quite bad for what he did.'

‘Pep?' Mezquita said. ‘Did you know him?'

‘I went to his restaurant a few times, but can't say I knew him. I'm building up a picture of the kind of man he was.'

‘Yes, that's right. He was a noble sort, was Pep. And he was very cut up about what happened. I was young at the time, and probably didn't spare him his blushes, if you see what I mean. I could have handled things differently, done more to make him feel less bad about it. But I think he felt he owed me something after that, as though he were indebted to me in some way.'

‘Did you ever call the favour in?'

Mezquita frowned.

‘No. No, of course not. I forgave him. It was an accident. But perhaps not until he'd bought me a couple of drinks.'

He grinned again, then turned his attention to the Pope as he walked within a few feet from where they stood.

‘It's funny,' he said as the cheering soared around them. ‘I hadn't thought about Pep for years until the story came out about him being killed. And now here you are asking me about him as well. He was a tremendous cook, made some of the best paellas. This city has lost one of its greats.'

Cámara raised his voice to make himself heard.

‘Of course, La Mar was due to be demolished for the El Cabanyal building project.'

‘The price of progress. Pep would have been compensated well, but he chose to hold out. It's a shame. That neighbourhood has been run down, and these people trying to hold on to the past are simply dragging it down even further. They need to understand that they are the problem here, that they're stopping the rejuvenation of the area.'

Cámara remained silent as the screaming and cheering got louder around them. It was becoming more difficult to hold a conversation.

Mezquita seemed to register that their chat was coming to a natural end, and he grabbed his chance.

‘Do call my office if there's anything else I can help you with, Chief Inspector,' he shouted into Cámara's ear. ‘Delighted to meet you.'

And he slapped him on the shoulder.

Mezquita headed back to the nucleus of Town Hall officials concentrated around Emilia's person, while Cámara found himself being drawn along by the crowd of security men following in the wake of the Pope as he continued his impromptu walkabout. Rather than breaking out, he went along with them, displaying his badge to a quizzical man wearing dark glasses and with a weapon-sized bulge in his ill-cut suit. The team looked nervous: the Pope, he imagined, was expected to head straight back to the Popemobile, not mingle like this. But in the few years of his pontificate, the old man had become increasingly known for his erratic behaviour.

Cámara shuffled along, curious that he should find himself close to someone who meant so much to millions. Hilario would appreciate hearing about this, he thought to himself. But would probably complain that Cámara hadn't at least thought about assassinating the Pope while he had a chance. He looked around; it wouldn't be that easy even if he were so inclined: the security men were packing sub-machine guns. He'd be dead before he even got his finger around the trigger.

They progressed along the street slowly as the Pope tried to make contact with as many outstretched hands as possible, stopping to talk occasionally for a few moments with the faithful. Cámara spotted a gap in the railings further on where a uniformed policeman was holding back the crowds. Once they reached the spot he'd slip away.

He turned back to watch the Pope, who was standing just a few feet from him now. He looked hot in his robes, and the skin on the back of his neck was shining with sweat, made more brilliant by the lights of the television cameras. But the smile, which Cámara could only partially see as he stood behind him, appeared to be fixed as he glanced at the ecstatic people, holding out hundreds of mobile phones to record images of the event. When this kind of thing happened to young rock stars, he thought, they usually ended up in rehab. What did Popes do to counter the corrosive effect of so much adulation?

He glanced back at the spot just in front of the slowly moving group where the policeman stood. Something had registered in the corner of his eye, but he couldn't see now what it might have been. He looked closely at the faces: three heavily made-up teenage girls were straining to get closer, but the officer was holding them back, placing his hands on their naked shoulders as politely as he could to keep them from jumping on the Pope. As they swayed back and forth, he saw someone else there, squeezed in between them, the only person in the crowd not smiling.

He took a step forward. The security men around him sensed that something was wrong and began to twitch. One of them tried to barge his shoulder between the Pope and the crowds, but the outstretched hands got in his way. As the group reached the policeman, his hands full with the three teenage girls, a streak of colour seemed to break out. A man in a deep red T-shirt pushed his way forwards and darted towards the Pope, too quick for the policeman to stop him. Cámara was caught at the side of the group, but pushed his way around the security men to reach out. One of them was already grappling with the attacker while two others were doing their best to drag the elderly Pope away before he'd even realised what was happening.

There were screams. From smiling and cheering with joy, the teenage girls were holding their hands to their mouths, unable to utter a sound. Around them, quicker members of the crowd were already calling out in fright as others pushed in even tighter to see what was happening.

Two security men had dragged the attacker down and were pinning him on the ground as he struggled to get free. The first one was grappling to hold him still, while the second reached into his jacket for a can of pepper spray to blow into the man's face.

Cámara clambered over and held him back.

‘Stop!' he cried, pulling out his badge.

The security man shot him a look of anger, his wrist held tight in Cámara's solid grasp, his finger twitching to press on the spray can.

‘I know this man,' Cámara said.

And he lunged forward, pushing the first security man off the attacker and leaning in to pin him down himself.

‘
¿Qué cojones?
' What the fuck?

The uniformed policeman was standing close by, doing his best to hold back the crowds. Cámara leaned over and pulled him down with him.

‘You help me with this,' he said to him. ‘Keep him immobilised. Otherwise these idiots will rip him apart.'

He turned to look down into the face of the attacker.

‘Señor Ballester,' he said. ‘We're taking you to the Jefatura.'

He hauled Ballester up on to his feet and with the help of the policeman started dragging him away. In the chaos of screams and people he overheard a voice. Mezquita was looking in to see who had attacked the Pope.

‘
Es el xic de l'anti-mare eixa
,' he explained to someone next to him. The boyfriend of that anti-mother woman.

There was a queue of people outside wanting to catch a glimpse of the man who had tried to swing a punch at the Pope. Not only that: he was the partner of the missing abortionist they were now all supposed to be looking for, the reason why they had all been taken off their other duties.

Inside the interrogation room, Cesc Ballester sat with hunched shoulders, holding a bag of ice against his bruised face where the security guard had managed to hit him.

‘Fuckers,' he swore under his breath.

Cámara stood behind him, while Maldonado stepped back and forwards in front, sleeves rolled up, his hands in his pockets, snorting through his nostrils like a beast. Near the door stood Pardo, a rare sight in interrogation sessions. But no one wanted to miss out on this.

‘You should be dead,' Maldonado muttered to himself as he marched up and down. ‘By rights you should have been pulled to shreds by the Pope's gorillas. God knows it would have saved us all a headache, if it hadn't been for El Cid here stepping in to rescue you.'

He glanced up at Cámara. Pardo pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping his eyes concentrated on the floor.

‘I mean, what the fuck!'

Maldonado leaned in on the table separating him from Ballester and bawled into his face.

‘What the fuck almighty were you thinking?'

Ballester averted his eyes.

‘What did you think? That by strolling up to the Pope and landing him one you'd somehow bring your girlfriend back?'

‘They banned the anti-Pope rally,' Ballester said softly.

‘What?'

‘Emilia. She banned the rally against the Pope. We were supposed to march—'

‘What the fuck's that got to do with anything?' Maldonado screamed. ‘You couldn't stage a demonstration, so you went and took your anger out on the fucking Pope himself? What was he supposed to do? Talk to Emilia on your behalf? Get her to change her mind?'

Ballester closed his eyes.

‘Or did you think you'd just stage your own one-man rally instead? Make a stand for democracy by taking a swipe at the Holy Father in front of millions of people watching on TV.'

‘That wasn't my idea,' Ballester mumbled.

‘What? That wasn't your idea. Well, thanks very fucking much. But please do enlighten us, I mean, what the fuck was your idea? Hey! Did you even have one?'

Maldonado pulled himself away from the table and placed his hand over his eyes in a gesture of frustration.

‘
Me cago en la madre que le parió
,' he grunted. I shit on the mother who gave birth to him.

‘Do you realise the amount of crap you've just thrown at us? You've fucked everything up. Trying to save Sofía? Well, you've done that cause a lot of fucking good. How do you think her kidnappers are going to react to seeing her boyfriend assaulting the Pope? Do you think it's going to help? Huh? Do you? Really? Did you even stop to think about the consequences of what you were doing?'

Ballester hung his head in his hands.

‘We're here sweating blood trying to get her back to you alive.'

Maldonado looked up at Cámara.

‘Well, most of us are,' he muttered to himself. ‘And then you come along,' he continued more loudly, ‘and screw everything up.'

‘It's all his fault!' Ballester shouted, looking up from his seat.

‘What?' Maldonado screwed his face into a sneer. ‘Whose fault?'

‘The Pope's,' Ballester choked. ‘The Pope and all those sycophantic bastards that surround him, inflaming people against us, against Sofía and people like us, and gays, and whatever. It's all just hate spewing from their mouths. Have you heard them?'

Maldonado gave a cry of mocking disbelief.

‘It's the Pope's fault, you say? The Pope what done it?'

‘Not the Pope himself,' Ballester said. ‘I didn't say that. But the people who believe in him. They all listen to him, and his talk of the family and having to save it, and that it's under threat. He spurs them on, makes them do things.'

‘Incites them,' Cámara said from behind the chair.

‘Yeah,' Ballester said, looking round. ‘Incites them.'

‘So, what? He's your fucking lawyer as well as your saviour now?' Maldonado said. ‘Telling you what to say?'

From his corner, Pardo scraped his foot on the floor as he lifted it to scratch his ankle. A wordless message to Maldonado–keep it on track.

Maldonado sat down in the chair in front of Ballester and put his fingers to his lips. The blotches on his face, old acne scars which were scarcely visible normally, were beginning to redden. Cámara had only ever seen him like this once before, when years back they'd ended up in a fight. At least, Cámara had punched him in the chest and Maldonado had ended up on the floor. Some squabble over a pay review. Or that's what he told people. It hadn't really warranted the word ‘fight'.

‘So what happens now?' Ballester asked after a pause.

‘What happens now? Maldonado asked.

‘Are you going to repeat everything I say?' Ballester said, a rush of confidence seeming to come over him.

Maldonado leaned over and pressed his finger hard into Ballester's throat.

‘Don't start getting
chulo
with me. None of that cockiness. You're in serious fucking trouble.'

Pardo took a step towards the table. Maldonado withdrew his hand.

‘You'll be charged with assault,' Pardo said. ‘That's basic enough. How bad it's going to be for you depends on how far you cooperate with us now in trying to find Sofía.'

Ballester shook his head.

‘Finding Sofía? I don't understand. All I've ever wanted to do was to find Sofía.'

‘Right,' Maldonado said. ‘And a fat lot of good it's done us so far. The kidnappers have sent a message to the newspaper in the past half-hour.'

Cámara shifted in his spot. He hadn't heard anything of the kind. This was a bluff, he felt sure.

‘They're not happy about what you did. Pretty fucking pissed off. They've given a deadline. If the government doesn't repeal the abortion law by tomorrow Sofía's dead.'

Ballester covered his face with his hands and started to shake.

‘What do I have to do?' he asked eventually.

‘Firstly, you're staying here. You're not going anywhere. On bail or in any other form,' Maldonado said.

‘Secondly, you agree to do everything we tell you. If we need to feed you to this lot to get Sofía back, we'll do it. And you'll go along with it.'

Ballester placed his hands down on his knees and nodded, as though agreeing to his own death sentence.

‘We'll also need you to agree to a statement we're preparing,' Pardo said. ‘The grief of losing Sofía has pushed you off balance. You aren't quite all there at the moment.'

‘Are you saying I'm
loco
?'

‘Some would say trying to lash out at the Pope is proof enough. And we've got a police psychologist who'll agree.'

‘It's about limiting the damage you've already caused,' Maldonado said. ‘If you ever want to see Sofía again, this is how it's going to be.'

But it was unnecessary to press the point further: Ballester was already broken. He wouldn't be arguing any more.

He nodded his agreement and Maldonado got up to leave. Outside, the corridor was quickly emptying, the onlookers realising that the show had ended. As Pardo opened the door, Cámara caught a glimpse of Torres's black beard by the noticeboard.

Ballester looked up at him.

‘One quick question,' Cámara said as he glanced at the doorway, and the exiting form of Maldonado. Pardo looked round, saw that Cámara was talking to Ballester, and quickly ushered Maldonado out, closing the door behind them.

‘Before the kidnapping, about six weeks ago, you and Sofía went to La Mar restaurant in El Cabanyal, right?'

Ballester shook his head.

‘What? What are you talking about?'

‘Think, man. This is important. It was a Saturday, in May. Sofía and you went for paella at a place not far from the beach.'

Ballester paused, then started to nod, gripping his forehead with his hand as he did so.

‘Yeah. Hang on. Yeah, I remember now. The paella place.'

He looked up.

‘What about it?'

‘Did either you or Sofía speak to the owner at all while you were there? A red-haired guy called Pep Roures.'

Through the small reinforced window in the door, Cámara saw that Maldonado was trying to see what was going on back inside the interrogation room, while Pardo did his best to distract his attention.

‘Come on!' Cámara grunted.

‘I remember a red-haired guy. Yeah, the one who served us. Is it his restaurant then?'

‘Yes, look, did you speak to him?'

Ballester was still dazed from everything that had happened and was struggling to think straight.

‘No, I didn't speak to him. Except to give the order, I suppose.'

‘What about Sofía?' Cámara said urgently. He could hear the doorknob rattling as Maldonado tried to get back inside.

‘I don't know,' Ballester said. ‘Wait. Yes, I remember now. She went up to pay at the counter. I remember because I was in a hurry to go home and watch the practice for the Grand Prix, and she was taking her time. She was talking to the bloke with the red hair. Yeah, that's right. How did you know?'

‘What did they say?' Cámara asked. ‘What did they say?'

The door was already opening in on them.

‘I don't know,' Ballester said. ‘She didn't tell me.'

The door opened and Maldonado walked in, the blotches on his cheeks now bright crimson.

‘Barely said a word for the rest of the afternoon,' Ballester said to himself, ‘now I think about it.'

 

Cámara stepped into his office, seeking solitude and a moment to think. There was somewhere else he needed to go, someone he needed to talk to, but for a minute or two at least he could stand here, undisturbed.

He had almost lost control earlier on, he could see that now; almost strangled Ballester as he'd pulled him away. That was why the security men had allowed him to take over: not because he was a policeman or had more authority than they did, but because there was a more intense aggression in him that they responded to instinctively, and respected.

It had only been for a second, but it had been enough, and Ballester was still ruffled by it.

Getting stoned on duty: he couldn't remember doing anything so idiotic.

The skunk was buried deep in his pocket. He lifted it out, crushed it in his hand and dropped it in a grey plastic bin at the side of his desk.

That was it. No more.

He'd seen enough of himself, enough of what he was in danger of becoming.