The Anarchist Detective (Max Cámara) (22 page)

‘And you were still wearing nappies. What the fuck!’

‘My sister—’

‘Yeah, I know what you’re talking about. What? You her baby brother? Come to do me in for big sister’s murder? Now? Thirty years on? Get the fuck out of here.’

Cámara sat back in his chair. His cigarette packet was on the table in front of him. Heredia leaned forward and grabbed it, taking out half a dozen and shoving them into his shirt pocket.

‘They never got me for that. And you know why? Because I never did it. I didn’t kill your sister. They never had anything on me, although they tried. They were desperate. No suspects. So they picked up some Gypsy kid and tried to nail it on him. It’s what they always do. But they didn’t even sit me down in front of the judge. It didn’t even get that far. They fucked it up.’

Cámara sucked hard on his cigarette.

‘You’re in now, though. For murdering and raping a young girl. And her body was found in a rubbish bin. Strange, that. An almost identical murder.’

Heredia began to laugh.

‘Yeah, this time I’m inside. God knows, they’ve been trying to get me in here for years. And they finally managed it. Another Gypsy off the streets.’

‘What is it? You just can’t keep your hands off young girls? They do it for you?’

There was a loud splitting sound as Heredia smashed both fists down on to the table, cracking the wood.

‘I didn’t kill any fucking girl, you got it?’ he shouted.

‘She was from a rival family, a family trying to take over your patch.’

‘I’ve got daughters of my own! You think I could do something sick to a girl like that, when I’ve got my own daughters, almost the same age? You stupid fuckers who’ve never had kids don’t get it – all children are your children. You see a kid getting hurt, it could be yours. How the fuck am I going to go round doing sick shit like that? I don’t care whose family she’s from.’

‘The drugs—’

‘Yes, I’ve done drugs. This city was mine. But they never could get me on that. So what do they do? They come up with some crap about murdering this girl.’

‘One of your own men had been beaten by them. You had a feud going. You needed to tell them you were in charge.’

Heredia’s face hardened.

‘I can’t believe how fucking stupid you people can be sometimes.’

Cámara took a last drag on his cigarette and let it fall to the floor.

‘Tell me.’

Heredia shrugged.

‘What’s the point.’

‘You’re innocent. You’re here telling me you’re innocent.’

Heredia turned his head and spat on the floor, the spit landing with a fizz as it expertly extinguished the burning butt of Cámara’s cigarette.

‘You didn’t kill Concha, and you didn’t kill Paula Gutiérrez. You’re a wronged man. Perhaps there’s something I can do.’

‘Fuck you.’

‘You see,’ Cámara said, ‘it seems odd to me that a man like yourself would rape and kill his rival’s daughter as part of a feud. So they beat up one of yours? You go back and beat up one of theirs, harder, perhaps even kill him, I don’t know. Things can get out of hand.’

Heredia stared at him.

‘But to rape and then kill the man’s daughter? You see, that doesn’t seem to fit for me either. There’s an etiquette to these things. I know that. You know it. So what happened?’

The door crashed open behind them.

‘Time’s up!’

Without looking round, Cámara looked at Heredia quizzically, as if to ask if this time the guard had brought reinforcements. Heredia glanced at the door, then gave an almost invisible nod.

‘What happened?’ Cámara repeated.

Heredia shuffled in his chair. One of the new guards had entered the room and was coming round to his side of the table to escort him away.

‘An
ajuste de cuentas
,’ he said. A settling of scores. ‘That’s all it takes.’

It was getting blustery – strong, cold winds were beginning to blow in from the north.

Estrella’s bar was gradually emptying as the last lunchers of the day finished their meals and prepared for the second half of the working day by knocking back strong doses of coffee laced with brandy or whisky.

‘
Hola, cariño
.’ She greeted him affectionately and nodded him to the same stool at the bar.

‘It’s your place,’ she said. ‘Have you eaten? We’ve got some swordfish fillets left, and pasta, but not much else. It’s all gone. I can fix you up a sandwich if you like.’

She poured him a beer and placed it down on the bar in front of him.

‘You looked troubled, sweetie. Everything all right?’

He nibbled at the food she offered him. The fish was warm and seemed to promise a night of poisoned agony, while the pasta was overcooked and going dry. He poured some olive oil over it, to try and make it go down better, but more came out than he’d intended, and the plate swam in golden-green grease.

Half an hour later, when only a couple of customers were left and the girl who helped behind the bar had started cleaning the stove, Estrella came and sat down next to him, an exaggerated frown on her face.

‘Tell me all about it.’

She placed a hand on his knee.

Cámara drained the last drop of his beer, trying to encourage the pasta stuck in his gullet to move further down towards his stomach. Smothering a belch with his hand, he looked her in the eye.

‘I want to ask you something.’

‘Of course. Go ahead, ask anything, my dear.’

Her eyes darted to the side for a second before coming back to his face.

‘What kind of thing? You mean police questions?’

Cámara shrugged.

‘Oh. Well, if I can help. Is it something to do with Concha?’

‘Maybe.’

‘OK.’

‘This man who left you, your ex . . .’

‘Oh, him.’

‘He was a dealer, right?’

‘Fuck, Max. Did I tell you that?’

‘You didn’t have to.’

‘How did you—? Oh, it doesn’t matter. Yes, I’m pretty sure he was. I mean, he is.’

She pulled her hand away from his knee and turned towards the bar, tapping her nails on the metal counter.

‘Is that what you wanted to ask me? Are you trying to bust him?’

Cámara didn’t say anything. Slowly, she turned back round to face him.

‘Or what? You want to bust me? You think I’m dealing as well?’

Cámara held up his hands.

‘It’s all right, it’s all right. Estrella, really, I’m not trying to frighten you. I just need some information. I don’t care what you’re doing. OK? Trust me. I don’t care, and I’m not going to say anything to anyone, all right? I just need to know some things.’

‘Christ, Max. If you weren’t police I’d fucking throw you out. Fucking cheek.’

She turned back to the bar and rested her head on one hand, looking down at the floor.

‘Where do people go these days, to score?’

She shrugged.

‘The same old places.’

‘And what are they selling these days?’

Estrella gave him a look of disbelief.

‘Again, the same old thing.’

‘Like what?’

‘Like what?’

‘Yes.’

‘For fuck’s sake. Cocaine, hash, amphetamines, crystal . . . same as always. It’s a stable market, Max. No one’s pushing anything new. Kids are conservative these days. Just want what they’ve always had. Don’t want to experiment any more.’

‘What about the gangs? Who’s controlling? Who’s doing what?’

‘The Gypsies,’ she said, as though he were stupid. ‘Same as ever.’

‘No one else? No one new?’

‘The Colombians aren’t here, if that’s what you mean. They’re distributing to the Gypsies, probably. I don’t know. What are you asking me these things for? Shouldn’t you be talking to the narco squad? They’ll have all this.’

‘That’s it? No one else?’

She shrugged.

‘I don’t know. People talk sometimes about Moroccans coming in. Or some Moroccan guy around. I haven’t seen him, so I can’t say. Don’t know what he’s doing here, or what he’s selling. It’s just been mentioned, that’s all.’

‘You sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘Moroccan, you say.’

‘Yeah. Some name like Mohammed or Ahmed. But, I mean, they’re all called something like that, aren’t they?’

‘
FUCK OFF. I’M
not lending
you
another car.’

Gerardo was not pleased to see Cámara’s face appearing at his door again. Sitting at his desk, finishing off some paperwork before closing the garage for the evening, he shook his head.

‘I can’t believe you. Seriously, Max. This is not on.’

Cámara said nothing, leaning against the wall, a cigarette drooping from his lips.

‘You’re a fucking liability. You lost me a lot of money on that BMW. It was a beautiful car.’

‘Still looks pretty good to me.’

Cámara glanced over to the other side of the workshop, where the BMW was parked up against the far corner.

‘Look, you don’t know anything about cars, right. That’s my department. And I’m telling you that at least a couple of grand have been lost thanks to your pissing about with it.’

‘If you say so.’

‘I
do
say so.’

‘I’ll make it up to you.’

‘How?’

‘Are you the only person in the country who doesn’t have a favour to ask of a policeman?’

Gerardo looked up from his desk.

‘Anything?’

‘Anything.’

‘No matter how big?’

Cámara shrugged.

‘They say you only know your true friends when you show up at their door with a dead body on your hands,’ Gerardo said.

‘You planning on killing someone?’

‘Right now, the only person I’d kill is standing in front of me.’

‘Can you lend me a car first? We can sort out the bit about killing me and disposing of the body when I get back.’

‘If you get back. Looks like it was a close-run thing the last time.’

‘I made it, didn’t I?’

‘Just make sure this time that when they shoot you, you put yourself between the bullet and the bodywork, all right?’

‘So you will, then?’

‘What?’

‘Lend me a car.’

‘No.’

‘Come on, Gerardo.’

‘I haven’t got anything here you could have. I’m not lending you a client’s car. Not least because if they’re in here it means they’re broken. And I’m not lending you my car, for fuck’s sake. Not for where you’ve got in mind. Where are you going, as a matter of interest?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Oh, forget it. If you’re going to be like that.’

‘Look, it’s a place not far away. But it’s dangerous.’

‘What? In Albacete? You talk as if this was Beirut, or something.’

‘Pozoblanco,’ Cámara said. ‘Heard of it?’

‘Pozoblanco? That commie village up the road?’

‘That’s it.’

‘That’s where you got shot at?’

Cámara nodded.

‘Bloody hell. I had no idea.’

‘So can you lend me a car or not? I have to go there tonight.’

‘No, I told you. What? Tonight? In the dark, sort of thing? A night raid? You sound like some kind of special forces bloke. Are you blacking up your face as well?’

‘I wasn’t. But now you mention it . . .’

Gerardo shook his head, laughing.

‘That’s the thing. I could never tell – none of us could – whether you were joking or being serious.’

‘It’s too far to walk. I’m not going to catch the bus.’

‘Oh, that would be worth seeing – all kitted out for a commando raid and then catching the number sixteen to get to the target area.’

Cámara laughed with him.

‘At least no one would expect it.’

The laughter slowly died out, and they were both silent for a moment.

‘All right,’ Cámara said. ‘No car. But what about that?’

He pointed to a motorbike leaning against the wall, partly covered in a greasy dark green tarpaulin.

‘That?’ Gerardo said incredulously.

‘Yes.’

‘It’s a Montesa Impala.’

‘Does it work?’

‘Yes, it works, but that’s not the point. It’s over forty years old – it’s a collector’s item.’

‘Are those the keys there?’

Cámara stepped across and picked up a keyring hanging from a nail above the desk.

‘Yes, but . . .’

Cámara was already walking over to the motorbike, pulling off the cover to take a look.

‘This’ll do.’

‘Lord have fucking mercy.’

Half a kilometre from Pozoblanco, he turned off the headlight and cut out the engine, coasting for as long as he could down the dark empty road until he came to the junction for the slip road down to the village. A slight slope helped him to roll down a little more until he reached the line of trees that started a hundred metres before the first houses.

He got off the motorbike and pulled it over to the verge, leaning it down on the ground on its side. No one would see it – unless they were looking for it.

He stepped to the edge of the village, remaining in the shadows beyond the footprint of the first lamp: it was just past three o’clock and the street was empty. From the map he’d worked out a way of getting around, avoiding the main square in case anyone was still about at that hour. He didn’t have long, however. Within about an hour the first risers would be getting up for the dawn collection of more saffron flowers.

Colourful posters had been stuck up on the walls showing stick figures of children with smiling faces carrying balloons and riding a ferris wheel. Bold lettering at the top announced the annual end-of-harvest village fiesta for the following evening. Pozoblanco was getting ready to celebrate.

The wind was now blowing quite hard, with sudden gusts. In the end, Gerardo had lent Cámara an oil-stained padded leather jacket he used for riding the bike. They couldn’t find a helmet, so he had come bareheaded, his eyes watering as the cold bit into them.

He took a side street, keeping close to the walls, walking quickly and steadily, his shoulders slightly hunched, trying, as much as he could, to reduce his presence, to make himself invisible. If someone saw him they would almost certainly see that he wasn’t from the village – people in places like that always know each other by sight at least.

The warehouse was only a few streets away. Reaching into the jacket pockets he checked everything was there: a straightened paperclip and small screwdriver for picking locks, a hammer, a small wind-up torch, a folded-up paper bag, and an Albacete knife with a curved four-inch steel blade.