A Death in Valencia (9 page)

She stood up, apparently unwilling to answer any of the dozen questions fired at her by the attending journalists. Then she stopped, leaned in to the microphone again and said:

‘Right-wingers also abort
.'

Maldonado hit a button on the remote control and froze the image.

‘Take note of the words she used,' he said, turning to face the group. ‘She mentioned “powerful forces”. We're working on the hypothesis here that she had some inkling of what was going on, that there may have been more behind the official
Guardia Civil
investigation, that rogue elements may have been about to make a move on her. She stopped sleeping at her own flat, and moved in temporarily with her business partner and lover Cesc Ballester. We've taken a preliminary statement from him already, and will be conducting more interviews with him shortly. According to Ballester, Bodí was uncomfortable staying at home, and only went to her flat this morning to collect some belongings, while he went to the clinic. We suspect that it was as she was approaching her flat that the kidnappers moved in.'

He stopped, and scanned the faces looking up at him.

‘Any questions?'

A few hands went up.

‘If rogue members of the
Guardia Civil
are involved, why did they bother with the official investigation to begin with?'

‘You expect me to explain the workings of the
Guardia
?' Maldonado said with a smirk. A few at the front tittered. ‘Look, it's possible they were trying to shut down the clinic by legal means. When they saw that was likely to fail–and we understand there was a high probability that the case was going to collapse, even with a sympathetic judge at the helm–they decided to move on to plan B, as it were. That's the hypothesis.'

Pardo had been sitting quietly during all of this, but now he stood up and moved towards Maldonado, who passed him the microphone.

‘As you all know, Maldonado is in charge of the day-to-day running of this investigation, while I, as head of
Homicidios
, will be overseeing. We need our best people on this. It's an extremely sensitive case. High-ranking members of the
Guardia Civil
are under suspicion. We need to be very careful, and watch what we say. Which is why all informal contacts between everyone in this room and members of the
Guardia
are now forbidden: no drinks, no chats, no off-the-record briefings. We cannot allow any leaks. They know this police investigation is starting, so they'll be prepared.'

Cámara started shuffling uncomfortably in his seat. He'd been sitting still too long, and his thighs were going numb. And for something that didn't concern him directly, the meeting was taking up too much of his time.

‘The Ministry is fully aware of the situation,' Pardo continued, ‘as is the government delegate in the city. We have their full support. Memories of the GAL are still fresh. No one wants a repeat of the fuck-ups of back then. This is a high-publicity case, an opportunity for us to shine. Judge José Luis Rulfo is the investigating magistrate in charge of the legal side, and you all know as well as I do that he's not an interferer, but he expects an efficient, professionally done job. It's got to be wrapped up as quickly and cleanly as possible. The Pope's coming to town, people are marching in the streets over the new abortion law. A kidnapped abortionist whose life is in danger is top priority.'

He took a deep breath, flaring his nostrils.

‘Which is why I'm ordering everyone here in this room to suspend any cases they're working on. As of now you're all on this detail.'

July was the worst month. Already the temperatures were in the high thirties, but rather than slowing down people were possessed by an urgent and frantic need to get things done before the country closed for the August holidays.

He stepped out of the mobile phone shop, a new–and overpriced–charger stuffed in his pocket. The traffic was bumper to bumper, some drivers cocooned in air-conditioned bubbles, others in older cars with the windows open, breathing in hot smoke streaming from a thousand exhaust pipes as sweat dribbled down their cheeks. The sun was high in the sky, and the tall, skinny palm trees lining the avenue gave little shade. The weather was uppermost in everyone's minds at this time of year, official announcements on television reminding citizens to keep cool and drink plenty of water. Heatwaves could be lethal. They didn't want scores of the elderly giving up the ghost just as the Pope rocked into town.

Conversations tended to be monotonously alike from now until late August: someone would mention how hot it was, as though it were the strangest thing in the world, then positions would be taken between those who liked the summer, and thrived in these temperatures, and those who loathed the sticky, clammy heat, and longed for it to pass. Each one would try to convince the other that only their own position was correct. Even when it came to something as basic as the weather, his countrymen felt the need to identify with either this or that group, like political parties.

Cámara himself could bear the heat well enough, but was damned if he was going to get ideological about it. Some could cope with it, some couldn't.

A group of teenagers walked in front of him, yellow-and-white rucksacks slung over their shoulders. Publicity for the Vatican, and its front man, due to arrive in a couple of days' time. Something in him sank when he saw young kids like this being sucked into the game, each tribe–left or right, secular or religious–trying to draw them to their side, like chips in some unending poker match. He could still remember the time, back in 1978, as the country had voted on the new democratic constitution, when the priest at his school had taken him to one side.

‘And if you were old enough to vote,' Father Dionisio had asked him–Cámara had only been twelve at the time–‘would you vote in favour or against?'

And Cámara, not really knowing, but remembering comments his grandfather had made back home that, despite being an anarchist, he considered a new constitution the lesser of the two evils, had said he'd vote in favour. And Father Dionisio put on the special look he used when he wanted you to know you'd done something gravely, gravely wrong: head tilted back, eyes wide open and tight, trembling lips.

‘But who,' he boomed, ‘has put this
porquería
, these disgusting, filthy thoughts into your mind?'

In the end, the constitution hadn't needed Cámara's pubescent vote to get through. But any doubts he might have had about the clergy were removed from his mind at that moment. True spirituality may have meant something to a handful of priests out there somewhere, but the Church was just about politics and power, like so much else in the country.

Even police work.

Today Spaniards were not firing at each other in open field, as they had done in living memory, but state forces were still engaged in a long-running, mostly bloodless war, a continuous struggle for political supremacy; a fight over the identity of Spain. Was it to be a country of tradition, of order, commercially vibrant, but which, socially at least, remained relatively static, where due respect was given to institutions which had forged the country, such as the Church and Army? Or was it a country that looked to change, eyeing with envy the ‘progress' of other European nations, that accepted its own social diversity and regional differences, even at the danger of breaking up and dissolving into separate mini-states?

Now, just as always, it seemed, these two forces were going head to head, and everything and everyone was supposed to declare for either one or the other.

And so began another skirmish–this time dividing the
Policía Nacional
and the
Guardia Civil
. The
Guardias
were mostly to the right politically, and for many on the left they represented the repression of the Franco era, a hangover from the dictatorship that ought to be abolished. The
Policía Nacional
, on the other hand, had been created when the country became a democracy, to defend citizens' “rights and freedoms”, and was perceived as being more to the left. But Cámara had met enough liberal
Guardias
and authoritarian
Nacionales
to know the image didn't always fit.

Meanwhile
he
had a real dead body to deal with, but poor old Roures was just a paella chef. He would have to wait; even the judge presiding over his case had been forced to agree to a temporary suspension of the investigation. Political points needed scoring, and Cámara was being forced to play a part.

Abortion. First they'd legalised gay marriage–that had got them out on to the streets–now they were legalising the killing of embryos and foetuses. Few things were guaranteed more to galvanise the conservative right into action.

And Spanish democracy had still to root itself properly–you could tell by the way politicians had worn the word out through overuse.

Now he was supposed to go and look for an abortionist, one who might have been kidnapped by reactionary
Guardias
gone off the rails with their dreams of ‘order and progress'–the watchwords of the Franco regime. It wasn't that he was against abortion per se, he convinced himself. On balance he probably preferred a world where you could get it done properly rather than having to deal with a quack, or travel abroad, as in the past. It was just that he had better things to do.

Alicia. God damn her. She hadn't even asked him first.

The written orders Maldonado had given him involved heading over to Sofía Bodí's flat to have a sniff around. It was clear that as a member of
Homicidios
he was being sidelined, left with mundane tasks while Maldonado's people got the more interesting jobs. Doubtless Maldonado felt pleased with himself at this, another point scored in his ongoing feud with Cámara, but he didn't understand that this was actually a gift. For Cámara, pottering around the sidelines while the rest of the group ran after the main quarry suited him ideally. It was what he usually did anyway; he'd noticed it tended to bring in better and often faster results. Usually the problem was having to produce enough smoke to disguise the fact that this was how he was in fact carrying out his investigation. Superiors and administrators demanded a display of thorough working and methodology, like those maths tests at school, when you couldn't just give the answer, but had to explain how you'd arrived at it. But in his own experience answers came more often than not from unexpected and inexplicable sources, ones that couldn't be part of any ‘method'. How could he include in the reports his dreams, intuitions, or overheard conversations in bars or buses that had nothing to do with the case at hand, but which somehow crystallised an aspect of it in his mind? Even folk tales, jokes and of course the proverbs that seemed to run through his blood had given him insights in the past. And he'd had to find a way of explaining it all, sometimes inventing stories to formulate his ‘workings' in a manner acceptable and comprehensible to the force.

Now that would be unnecessary.

Yet still he felt this was a waste of time. He was in
Homicidios
; he should be dealing with Roures, a dead man, not Sofía Bodí. Not someone who made a living out of killing. The chances were she was still alive. Although, admittedly, for how much longer was uncertain.

Sofía Bodí's flat was in the Eixample area near the Colón market, an expensive part of town where fashion designers tended to have their boutiques. The buildings had mostly gone up in the early twentieth century, well-built eclectic structures with decorative motifs in stone around the doors and windows. The district had a graceful, almost Parisian air, while the Colón market itself was an architectural highlight of the city, designed by a follower of Gaudí. They'd renovated it a few years earlier, trying to turn it into Valencia's Covent Garden. But from being a thriving neighbourhood market, it had turned into a den of expensive bars and coffee shops, empty but for the occasional couple of middle-aged women showing off their jewellery as they sipped on
cafés cortados
and nibbled at
madalena
cakes.

A
Policía Nacional
was standing outside the main door, in the street. Cámara reached for his badge as he approached, but the man seemed to recognise him and nodded him through the large, open door of polished dark wood.

‘Second floor, sir,' he said as Cámara walked through. ‘Door three.'

It was cool and dark in the entrance hall. Pink marble panels covered the walls, while the floor was made of black-and-white checked tiles.

‘The, er, partner's up there at the moment,' the policeman said in a lower voice. ‘Señor Ballester.'

‘OK,' Cámara said. ‘What time did he get here?'

‘About twenty minutes ago.'

Ignoring the ornate iron lift, Cámara took the stairs. It was lighter here, the marble was a pale grey, and daylight streamed in through tall windows of frosted glass. The building felt solid, heavy, permanent. Not the kind of place you'd expect to collapse on your head at any second. It was curious, he remarked, how he seemed to have developed a sixth sense for this kind of thing all of a sudden.

He was sweating by the time he reached the second floor, but was pleased to notice he was breathing normally. He'd always told himself he'd cut back–or stop altogether–the day he got out of breath. But he was fine. Sometimes he was even convinced smoking helped clear his lungs out.

He rang the doorbell and waited. I'll make this quick, he said to himself, thoughts of the Roures case lingering in his mind. That was the investigation he should be concentrating on. Fuck the orders.

The door opened.

‘What do you want?'

Cámara identified himself.

‘You guys start showing up when it's too late, don't you.'

‘Señor Ballester. I'd like to come in and have a look around.'

Cesc Ballester was a slightly built man, perhaps in his mid-forties, with prematurely thinning dark blond hair, the remains of which he wore long and swept back. Thick sideburns came halfway down his cheeks, but did little to soften an angular face, with thin lips and a long sharp nose. His eyes, small and deep-set, were red. Cámara wondered if he'd been crying.

‘Can I come in?' Cámara repeated when the man didn't move.

Eventually, Ballester stepped to one side and let him pass.

There was something old-fashioned about the furniture and style of the flat. Cámara hadn't exactly imagined what Sofía Bodí's home would be like, but from her profession, her appearance on television, it was possible to make fairly accurate guesses about her political and social views. These didn't fit with the conservative, musty sense he got from the place as soon as he walked in, however. A large gilt-framed mirror hung from a wall in the corridor, lace curtains veiled a window at the far end, while a large, heavy wooden desk, with spiral carvings on the legs, seemed to take up most of what looked like a study.

‘I imagine you're here looking for clues yourself.' Cámara turned to Ballester, who was shutting the door behind them.

‘That's…' He paused. ‘Yeah, sort of.'

He brushed past Cámara and walked into the living room, which gave out on the street. A revolving fan suspended from the ceiling was circling above, but with the curtains drawn did little to cool the air.

‘I would've opened the windows,' Ballester said under his breath. ‘But, I don't know. You start wondering if someone might be watching you. It's all a bit freaked out.'

He sat down in a rocking chair, beckoning Cámara to take a seat. Cámara stayed on his feet.

‘Have you found any?' he said. ‘Clues?'

‘Isn't that supposed to be your job?'

Ballester put his head in his hands.

‘Look, I've been through all this back at the Jefatura. Gave them a statement. I really don't want to talk about it any more.'

‘Did Sofía give you the key?'

‘What?' Ballester lifted his head and looked at Cámara through squinted eyes in the half-light.

‘To get in here.'

‘Well, of course she bloody did. What kind of a question…?' He sighed. ‘She had a key to my place, I had one for here. Although I didn't come round here much. Never liked it, really. She inherited it from her parents. Hardly changed a thing. We spent more time at my place. Especially recently.'

‘Was she carrying your key with her this morning?'

Ballester shook his head at the banality of the question.

‘Yeah, she was coming back from my place to pick up some clothes here. I've already said.'

‘So whoever's kidnapped her will also have access to your place now,' Cámara said.

‘
Ostias!'
His eyes opened wide with fear. ‘I hadn't thought of that. Do you think…?'

‘No, I wouldn't advise you to change the locks. Not yet. But you might want to be vigilant. There's no obvious reason why anyone would want to get inside your flat. But you're an employee of the clinic, and someone very close to Sofía. You may be in some kind of danger yourself.'

Ballester's attention was fully focused on him now.

‘I can arrange police protection for you if you like.'

He might have been effectively demoted on this case, running around like Maldonado's subordinate rather than the chief inspector he really was, but he could still give orders himself, if necessary.

‘I assume this was brought up at the Jefatura?' he added.

‘No.' Ballester frowned. ‘It doesn't matter. No one's coming after me. It was Sofía they wanted.'

‘Who?'

‘These bastards who've been gunning for her all these months!' he cried. ‘Who else is it going to be? It's like a nervous tic with them. Anyone doing something they don't approve of and they've got to lock them up or get rid of them. First they cook up some charges against her. And when they saw that wasn't going to work, they pick her up off the street. I don't care how much the
Guardia Civil
deny it. It's them. She's probably down in some cell of theirs right now, but they've just forgotten to mention it to anyone, know what I mean?'

He covered his face with his hands again, shoulders heaving as the sobs took their hold.

‘God knows what they're doing to her.'

Cámara left the room and went to find the kitchen. He took a glass from the drying rack, filled it with cool water from a jug in the fridge and then walked back down the corridor. A box of tissues was sitting on a counter near the door; he picked it up and carried it with him into the living room, placing it down on the table next to Ballester with the water.

‘If it's all right,' he said, ‘I'm going to take a look around.'

Ballester was too lost to notice.

Pulling out some cotton gloves from his trouser pocket, Cámara headed back down the corridor and into the main bedroom at the far end. The curtains were closed here too, and the air was damp with summer humidity. He flicked on the light: the walls were painted fuchsia, while a simple double bed with a shiny carved pine headboard sat in the middle. It was made, with flowery sheets, but looked as though it hadn't been slept in for some time. In fact, were it not for the heat of the day, he could almost sense a coldness about the place: a room for dying, not for living. He began to wonder if Sofía had spent very much time here at all. There was nothing in the fridge except the water jug and an unopened bottle of white wine.

He walked over to the curtains and pulled back the corner of one of them to look through the window. The glass was grimy, and it gave on to a narrow light shaft at the centre of the building, connecting with the staircase and some of the other neighbouring flats. He turned the handle and opened it a little to let in some air, sticking his head out to let it cool down for a few seconds.

Back inside he tried to take in more of the room, and the person who–officially at least–had lived here. He felt under the long, tube-like pillow and the mattress, kneeled down to look under the bed, opened the bedside drawers, flicked through the clothes hanging in the cupboard, but found nothing but the usual bedroom items. If anything it felt bare–there were no books by the bedside lamp, nothing potentially embarrassing hidden in some corner. Which was perhaps explained by Sofía taking most of her things to Ballester's place. But no one had said anything about her moving in with him.

He was aware of the similarity with Roures's home, the same absence of life-giving clutter. There was even, now he thought of it, an echo of his own flat–before it had become a shapeless pile on the ground. Each one had something functional and loveless about it, a sense of merely passing through.

Llena o vacía, la casa es solo mía
. Either empty or full, my home is mine alone.

He poked his head into the bathroom. A single blue toothbrush stood in a glass by the sink next to a soap dispenser. Two white towels were folded on a rack on the wall next to the shower. Under the sink, the cupboards contained toilet roll, shampoo, some perfume in a dusty bottle that looked as though it hadn't been used in years, and a wicker basket of household drugs: paracetamol, cough mixture, and some indigestion tablets.

Back in the corridor he spotted a couple of framed photographs hanging on the wall. He saw the faces of a middle-aged man and a woman. From the style of their clothes, and the faded colour of the pictures, he had the impression they'd been taken perhaps thirty years before. Sofía's parents, by the looks of it, the people for whom this had really been a home at one stage.

The study was the last room he looked into. Dark green wooden shutters were lowered over a window giving out on to what he thought must be the side alley, but glimmers of sunlight shone through the joins, giving enough light at this brightest time of year for him to be able to sniff around without having to turn on the desk lamp; by now his eyes were accustomed to the gloom.

Built-in wooden bookshelves lined the two side walls of the square, cube-like room, and the desk stood in the middle, facing the door, like in a doctor's surgery. A black-and-gold pen stood in a stand, while the top of the desk was covered in dark red leather with gold trimming.

Cámara inspected the books: general medical tomes, works on gynaecology, many of them quite grand, but dated, he thought, as though they'd been bought more with a view to being left on a bookshelf than ever opened and read. Perhaps they were books she'd used when she was studying, and never had to refer to again.

Further across, nearer the window on the left-hand side, he noticed some smaller, leather-bound volumes. Leaning down, he noticed they were virtually identical, all with a year's date embossed in gold lettering on the spine.

He picked one up: 1987. Inside was a diary, written in neat, very small handwriting. Her mother's? Her father's? He flicked to the front page; there was Sofía's name clearly written out. He picked out another one at random, and again the same handwriting and the same name at the front.

From the living room he could hear the sound of Ballester blowing his nose. He must have stopped crying, and was doubtless wondering what Cámara was up to.

Cámara glanced down at the bookshelves to get a better look. There were dozens of diaries. The oldest one dated from 1971, then the collection stretched all the way almost to the present: the previous year was clearly visible, but then the final half a dozen copies were for future years, the dates already printed on the spines, but obviously with nothing written in them yet.

He double-checked, just in case there was more madness in this than at first appeared, just in case Sofía had written in them. But no, they were blank.

What he wanted though, and what he couldn't find, was this year's diary. That, if she was as meticulous as her handwriting might suggest, could give some interesting clues.

Back in the living room, Ballester was clearly stirring: Cámara could hear what sounded like springs creaking on a sofa.

He sat down at the desk, placed his fingertips together and let his eyes wander around the room. It was possible that Sofía had carried it with her and jotted things down during the day, but something about the neatness of the others told him she had written it right where he was sitting now, like some kind of ritual part of her day.

As if by instinct, his hand dropped down to the drawers in the desk. The first one contained envelopes and a stapler.

Inside the second was the diary. He flicked through it quickly: the last entry was from two nights before, the last time she had come to the flat.

Standing up, he placed it in his pocket. This would require time and a different space to be properly examined.

Peering round the doorway, he saw that Ballester had drunk the water, and was lying with his back to him, curled up on the sofa, his shoes on the floor.

The door gave a soft click as Cámara let himself out.