A Death in Valencia (21 page)

Don't think about it, part of him was saying. Just let the thoughts come.

But there was nothing, no clue. Just a fairly straightforward chat. Mezquita had seemed helpful and genuinely concerned.

He stubbed the cigarette out and went to step back inside. Close by were the stairs leading down to the cells in the basement. Ballester would still be down there, he imagined, all but forgotten in the chase to find Sofía, another victim of the country's illiberal laws on detainees' rights. He wondered for a moment about heading down to tell him about the morning's developments, but stopped himself: better not give the man false hope; they didn't know yet whether Sofía was alive or dead.

Ballester. Part of him understood what had led him to lash out at the Pope like that. Not that he had anything against the Pope. Not really. But the sense of rage, of helpless, nihilistic rage. He knew, because he had it in him himself. It was what separated him from Alicia.

He had seen the disgust in Mezquita's face as they hauled Ballester away. Ballester at least gave wild, uncontrolled release to his anger. Mezquita had been nursing his, building it up, even. Had he ever forgiven Sofía for killing his child–even though he himself would have demanded the abortion?

He stopped still. There was something of himself in that image. How had he felt towards Alicia? Anger, frustration. But as she'd said–not so much at the loss of the child, but at not being able to resolve an irresolvable situation. And over time the anger had begun to fester, until he'd become infected by it.

He breathed deeply as he saw how close he'd been to becoming a reflection of the man he'd been searching for.

What had Mezquita uttered as they dragged Ballester away from the security men?

He was the lover of Sofía, the lover of–it was a curious phrase–
‘l'anti-mare
', ‘the anti-mother'.

The phone slipped from the sweat on his fingers as he tried to dial a number.

‘Torres. Get over here right away. I know where she is.'

A greasy black cloud was ballooning up from the restaurant as they braked hard and Cámara leaped out. The police cordon still wrapped around the door was beginning to melt and flames were visible licking at the upstairs windows.

Torres had already spoken on his phone to raise the alarm.

‘I've got to go in,' Cámara called.

‘No!'

‘Sofía's in there!'

He pulled off his jacket to wrap around his hands so he could touch the door, but before he reached it Torres had wrestled him to the ground.

‘You'll be burnt alive.'

‘Let me go, you bastard. She's in there.'

But Torres only tightened his grip harder, wrapping his arms and legs around Cámara's torso till he could barely breathe.

Immobilised, and with his face pressed hard into the pavement, Cámara stiffened as the acid smell from the fire filled his nostrils. Tears were falling down his nose and he coughed, a hacking, sickened cry rising up from his guts. A few days ago he could barely have cared for the fate of Sofía; now he would throw himself into the blaze just to see if she was in there.

He was strong, and although Torres was no wimp, Cámara could probably throw him off if he drew up enough force, but a weakening resignation seemed to be descending on him. And as long as Torres sensed Cámara might throw himself in there, he wasn't going to loosen his hold.

Cámara could hear the first sirens racing in towards them now, growing steadily louder until they drowned out the humming, cracking sound of the fire. The hardness in his body began to lessen. By the time he realised he could move again, Torres had already stood up and was briefing the wave of policemen surging in in the firemen's wake.

He leaned against one of the squad cars, his back to La Mar as he heard the sound of the front door swinging open and firemen running in. There was a cruel, evil irony to Mezquita coming here. La Mare, people had called it–the mother, as though it were some kind of birthplace. Where else would he want to take the woman who threatened him now–the woman who had aborted his unborn child?

Someone was pushing a bottle of water into his hand. He lifted it to take a gulp, then poured the rest over his head, as though trying to rid himself of the putrefaction of the scene.

A few yards away Torres was talking to the fire chief, nodding. He spied Cámara and walked over to him.

‘They've found one body,' he said. ‘It's a female.'

Flecks of ash were beginning to fall from the sky. Cámara wiped them from his face where they were sticking to his wettened skin.

‘Sofía,' he said flatly.

‘Almost certainly.'

Had she been killed first? Dear God, let her not have burnt to death.

‘Just one body?' he said.

‘Yes.'

He gave a start.

‘Get in the car!' he shouted.

He broke into a sprint as he rushed across the street, Torres following close behind.

‘We might just make it.'

 

There was only one other place in his mind that Mezquita might go, one other mouth, in his desperation, that he needed to silence.

It took them less than five minutes to get there, racing across to the other end of El Cabanyal. The door to Lucía's house was open and the old neighbour from across the street was peering in suspiciously.

Cámara pulled her as gently as he could away from the doorway.

‘We're from the police,' he said.

‘I know you,' she said, startled.

‘Is Lucía in? Please, it's very important.'

‘I can smell smoke,' she said.

‘Yes, there's a fire. It's under control. But right now I need to know if Lucía's in there.'

‘I don't know,' she said, pulling away from his grip on her arm.

‘But you were looking in through the door,' he said.

‘She's my neighbour. There's nothing wrong with—'

‘
Señora
,' he interrupted her. ‘This may be a matter of life or death. Why were you looking through her door? Did you see something? Something unusual?'

‘I just wanted to see who that man was,' she said, looking away. ‘Never seen him before. Thought he might be one of your lot. Just walked in. We've got to be careful. There's been robberies round here.'

‘Is he still in there?'

‘What?'

The old woman was beginning to look disturbed, her hands shaking.

‘Did you see him leave?'

‘No. I thought, I don't know. I just wanted to see…'

Torres had already pulled out his service weapon, and was poised at the door and waiting for Cámara's nod. Cámara edged up to the other side of the doorway, signalling for the neighbour to back off to the other side of the street, but in the confusion, she didn't understand. At that moment a younger woman carrying shopping bags came around the corner. Cámara waved to her; she saw Torres's gun, the two men poised outside Lucía's door, and in an instant took in the situation. Dropping her bags where she stood, she ran over and escorted the old woman away.

Cámara took a breath; they could either do what they were expected to do: stand here and call for backup, another GEO team, perhaps even get Beltrán with a bit of luck. And arrive too late once again.

Or they could do what they should do: go in now.

He pulled out his own pistol, looked across at Torres, then in a low voice counted:
uno, dos, tres
.

The front room was empty. Torres came in behind him and searched the bathroom to the side as Cámara kept his gun trained on the entrance to the patio at the back of the house. Nothing, either in the tiny bedroom, or the kitchen next to it, although a drawer full of chopping knives had been left open. Cámara signalled a flight of stairs leading up to the next floor. Torres took over watching the back exit as Cámara crept up the steps, keeping his head as low as possible.

The first bedroom was empty, as was the bathroom next to it.

He sensed the blood before he saw it, an earthy, metallic smell.

Lucía was sitting on the floor of the second room, propped up against the side of the bed, eyes closed, face pale grey, a deep gash just above her breastbone. She'd lost litres of blood already and it was coursing in rivulets across the tiled floor.

‘Torres!'

But putting pressure on the outside of the wound itself wasn't enough. Torres ran in and pushed Cámara aside.

‘It's deeper inside,' he said. ‘I've got to find her artery.'

Without pausing for breath, he slid two fingers of his right hand deep into the wound.

Lucía opened uncomprehending eyes for a moment, then they closed again.

Cámara had already pulled out his phone and was calling for an ambulance.

‘I've found it,' Torres said. ‘I think I've found it.'

Cámara hesitated. Torres was holding Lucía against him, taking her weight and keeping her upright.

‘You can't do anything else here,' he said. ‘Go!'

Cámara paused, then raced down the stairs, his feet slipping from where he'd stepped in Lucía's blood. Pausing at the bottom, he quickly wiped his hands and gun handle dry on the tail of his shirt, then resumed his search.

Outside in the patio, a roof tile had fallen and smashed to the floor.

He ducked to the side of the glass door leading out, fell down on his ankles, and glanced upwards.

Nothing.

Holding his pistol firmly in his hand, he took a breath, and then shot out into the open.

The tail of a shadow passed out of view up above.

A windowsill served as a step up. He stuffed his gun into the back of his trousers and lifted his foot on to the ledge, reaching up to some iron railings spiking out from the sides. Within a few seconds he was up on to the lower section of a sloping roof.

Away to the left, he heard the loosening and cracking sound of more tiles as feet scampered away over neighbouring houses. He stood up and started following, his ankles bending sharply as his shoes got stuck in the ruts.

As he moved slowly upwards, an earthen red landscape of rooftops came into view like an undulating patchwork, some flat, others cascading down to the street or to more patios like the one he had just climbed out of. Three or four houses further on, he spotted the
torre-miramar
rising up another four metres or so above the height of the surrounding buildings.

Mezquita was skipping along a ridgeway only a few yards distant. Seeing that Cámara had almost caught up with him, he sped across to a nearby terrace, gripping on to the railings and hauling himself up. Cámara made chase, feeling the roofs creak and bend under his feet as he charged across.

Mezquita had miscalculated, though: on the far side of the terrace was a steep drop to a courtyard patio. Cámara managed to reach the edge and lift himself over on to the flat roof before Mezquita was able to find a way off.

The two men faced each other. The kitchen knife that had moments ago plunged into Lucía's breast was flashing silver and red in Mezquita's hand. His face was stained with crimson droplets where the pulse of her severed artery had spat at him. There was a smell of petrol about him, no doubt from the fuel he had used to set La Mar on fire earlier, and his eyes had the dulled, black stare of a man divorced from any human spark. He had killed once that day, perhaps twice, and in the surging heat of his escape he was more than capable of killing a third time.

Cámara felt the icy rush of blood through his veins: this was what he wanted, this was what part of him was always seeking–a bloody fight. The gun was nestling in the small of his back, and he knew that faced with a man with a knife–a man taller and longer-limbed than he was–he should reach out and draw it on him. But there was a hesitation there: to fight this man and beat him, even though unarmed? A swaggering, animal arrogance overcame him for an instant: he could do this; he didn't need any gun.

But the momentary uncertainty had made him pause, and in that second Mezquita launched himself at him. Cámara took a step to the side as the blade came swooping forward in a vicious, rapid thrust. Mezquita was quick, lashing out in a series of wild swipes and cuts, aware himself that his strength lay in the weapon in his hand: Cámara was obviously strong; he had to wound or kill him at arm's length.

Cámara ducked and parried as best he could, slapping the knife away while trying to get a grip on Mezquita's wrist, but he had been backed up against the terrace railings and was in danger of getting cornered. Blood was beginning to flow from the cuts in his hands where he had caught the point of the blade, and still Mezquita kept coming at him. It was impossible to think of a counter-attack, of kicking his shins, or using his knee against his torso: all attention had to be focused on the knife, and not getting caught on the end of it.

Cámara's feet slipped and he fell on the ground. Mezquita tried again for a mortal thrust, but Cámara fended him off with his feet. It worked, for a second. Mezquita would take only a moment, however, to realise that Cámara's feet and legs could now be a new target. And it was only a matter of time before he stabbed him well enough to disable and then murder him.

Never taking his eyes off the knife, Cámara reached around him for something he could use against Mezquita. The gun was trapped between his back and the ground, but at least he might find a loose tile or some rusty wire lying around–something he could throw at him and win a precious second in which to draw his pistol.

What a stupid way this would be to die, he thought to himself. Why, people would ask themselves, if he had a gun, didn't he use it? Faced with an imminent end, he was no longer sure himself.

His hands and arms were wet with blood, and although he kicked out as hard as he could, his lower legs were now beginning to suffer from Mezquita's lashing out. No giving in, no sense that this fight was over, but he was losing, perhaps had already lost. Images began to flash through his mind and he pushed them away: no, these were not his final moments, he told himself, no reliving his life.

But one face kept repeating itself, forcing its way in.

Alicia.

Hot tears were squeezed from his eyes as the panic began to take hold. Mezquita was tiring, but his thrusts were getting stronger, harder. The floor was spattered now from the cuts in Cámara's calves and shins. Once he reached up to the thigh, and the femoral artery, it would be over.

BANG!

There was the crack of gunshot. Mezquita stopped and looked up from the panting Cámara lying at his feet. A voice called out.

‘Police!'

It was Torres.

Mezquita pulled away as the sound of feet pounding over the tiles came from behind. Cámara tried to roll over and reach for his pistol, but his hands could hardly grip it as layers of shredded skin caught in the fabric of his clothes.

Another shot.

He looked up and saw the figure of Mezquita climbing over the railings and taking off once again over the rooftops.

Seconds later, Torres was beside him, pulling his shirt off and wrapping it around the wounds on Cámara's arms.

‘Don't bother with me,' Cámara said. ‘Get him!'

Torres paused for a second, seeking and finding the assurance in Cámara's eyes, then pulled himself over the railings and headed after Mezquita.

Cámara rolled on to his front, pulling at Torres's shirt with his teeth to tighten the pressure on his bleeding cuts. He felt thirsty and cold, unable even to stand up as he lay in a streaky pool of his own blood.

His pistol had fallen from the back of his belt and lay on the rooftop in front of him.

Mezquita raced away and was scattering roof tiles in his wake as he passed over first one, then another house. Torres chased after, pausing a couple of times to take aim with his gun, but unable to make the shot.

The
miramar
tower rose up from the third house along. Mezquita leapt towards it, stuffing the knife down the front of his trousers and catching hold of the bottom of a glassless window. Finding weather-worn holes in the brickwork, he began lifting himself up, his long arms and legs allowing him to scale the outside like a mountain goat.