THE JEFATURA WAS a roughly rectangular building occupying a single block along Fernando el Católico. Inside, the central area was a large, open patio that on most days was used as a makeshift car park for those higher up the Policía Nacional feeding chain. Shelters were provided along one side to shade the bigger, more expensive cars. Cámara stood under one of them, using a black Audi as a windbreak while he lit his cigarette, then stepped out into a small patch of sunlight. He needed a moment to himself to think. Or rather not to think. There had been too much thinking already in this case, he felt, which was why they were having so many problems. Tackling it head on, going forwards in a supposedly straight line. Laura was going for the big clean catch. It made things so much easier if someone could confess to a killing: hundreds of man-hours were saved – not just in police work, but investigating judges, lawyers, magistrate’s clerks – all of them could breathe a sigh of relief when a murderer pointed the finger of blame at himself. You left it at that and moved on to the next one.
But Ruiz Costa was different. And something about this case was different.
Vísteme despacio que tengo prisa. Dress me slowly: I’m in a rush. The proverb summed it up. They were getting tunnel vision, focusing too much on the prize. It was time to go on a different tack, take a sideways look. If he could have his way he would send everyone home for the rest of the day to switch off. Go to the beach, go wherever. And have sex – preferably with another person.
Laura stayed in the Jefatura, using the showers on the premises and changing into a fresh set of clothes that she kept in her office. Once she had cleaned up she would be spending the rest of the day with the científicos, she said. Did the markings on Amy’s hands match the soles of Ruiz Costa’s shoes – either the ones he was wearing now or any other pairs back at the flat? she wanted to know. Had they found anything on her body – fibres, hair, DNA – that matched Ruiz Costa? she wanted to know. The científicos hated having officers from other departments breathing down their necks as they worked, but she was not going to give up. The processes could take days in some instances – DNA testing took a week minimum, and usually much longer owing to a backlog of work – but she insisted on being there, on overseeing.
Cámara was not bothered about her disappearing for a few hours. Now, with an empty stomach and no desire to eat, he could get back to his normal way of approaching an investigation – by letting things flow for a while.
Aquí paz y después gloria. Peace and calm for the time being; success and glory would come later.
The cigarette helped settle his stomach and his nerves. They were lucky that the murder squad offices were on the ground floor and he had easy access to this refuge of nicotine. He could come back in half an hour or so and have another. Then perhaps later, if he could manage it, he would get a bite to eat. Or something to drink at least. He could do with a brandy right now.
Something of the mood of the previous day, when they had anxiously huddled around the television set to watch the coverage from Madrid, had carried through. But today, although the news was still switched on in the corner, most were sitting at their desks, their eyes focused on the images on their computer screens, with little of the banter and chat that was normally part of the background noise. At the hospital the surgeons – the best in the country – had completed the operation on the King’s heart, but so far there were no further developments, and intense concern over whether he was alive or dead could only be sustained for so long.
‘What happened?’ Lozano said, walking back into the office after a break. ‘Did someone just die?’
It was a standard Homicidios joke, and usually raised a smile. But this time it fell flat. Not even Castro reacted. The general glumness was exacerbated by the news that the interview with Ruiz Costa had not produced the result they had hoped for. He had opened up all right, but gastrically rather than verbally.
Cámara sat back in his chair with his feet on the desk, letting his mind wander. Albelda stepped in from the connecting office and walked over with a piece of paper in his hand.
‘Maldonado called down earlier,’ he said. ‘Wants a progress report.’
Without taking his eyes off a distant horizon, Cámara relieved him of the piece of paper, crunched it into a ball and sent it flying in the direction of the wastebasket on the other side of the room, where it landed with a satisfying ker-thunk.
‘Nice one,’ said Albelda. ‘You been practising?’
‘Castro,’ Cámara called out, his eyes still gazing at nothing.
‘Yes?’ Castro looked up from her computer screen.
‘You’re checking stuff on Amy on the Internet, aren’t you? Let me guess, her Facebook page?’
‘Er, yes,’ Castro said, a little startled. ‘How did you—’
‘And Lozano,’ Cámara said.
Lozano glanced over from his desk.
‘That’s Amy’s laptop you’ve got there, right?’
Lozano nodded silently.
‘Checking her emails?’
‘Trying to,’ Lozano said. ‘The password is correct. I can see them but they’re mostly in English.’
‘Good,’ Cámara said. ‘Albelda, would you mind taking a seat? I’d like you in on this.’
The elder inspector sat down in a spare chair.
‘Castro first,’ Cámara said. ‘Tell me what you’ve found out so far.’
‘There’s a lot,’ she said.
‘You’ve got English, right?’ Cámara said. She was of the younger generation. The only foreign language Cámara had been taught at school was French and his intermediate English had been picked up subsequently, largely through his own efforts. People in their twenties and thirties, however, had been given obligatory English classes. Castro should be able to make something out of it.
‘It looks like Amy had a blog,’ Castro said. ‘Wrote a lot about Spain, living here, the food and customs and that kind of thing.’
‘Did she have any friends?’
‘Facebook friends? She’s got over a thousand here. But I can’t see if they’re close friends or just, you know, Facebook friends. There’s a difference.’
‘What are they saying about her?’
‘A couple of people are asking how she is, say they haven’t heard from her, is everything OK.’
‘So no one on Facebook knows that she’s dead yet?’
‘Not by the looks of it.’
‘OK,’ said Cámara. He closed his eyes as he spoke. ‘So the blog, travel stuff. Anything else?’
‘There’s a long article she wrote about meeting Ruiz Costa. How she came over here and they fell in love and got married. Living in Valencia and her amazing life. Almost like a romantic novel.’
‘Where in the US is she from?’
‘Milwaukee, as far as I can tell.’
Of course, hence ‘M I L’ in her password. It was also the home of Harley-Davidson, Cámara thought to himself, momentarily distracted.
‘Have you read the article?’ Albelda called over. ‘About meeting Ruiz Costa and her romantic Spanish love story?’
‘As much as I can,’ said Castro. ‘I’m not sure if there’s anything there. Seems they were very happy, according to this.’
‘Move on,’ said Cámara. ‘What else are you seeing there?’
‘There’s a lot more political stuff here in the past few months,’ Castro said. ‘She’s posting up articles from newspapers and magazines about the situation in Spain, about Valencia. And, well, I think she’s putting up some material of her own, kind of doing less of the travel blog stuff and more on the crisis.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well, there’s a piece here about a food bank in the Benicalap district. It’s got her name on it so I’m assuming she wrote it. Stuff about the new poor in Valencia and how people who used to run their own businesses are now having to live off food handouts.’
‘OK,’ Cámara said.
‘Then there’s another piece about corruption. All that money that was siphoned off from the charity fund.’
‘Remind me.’
‘Last year. A group of officials in local government set up a charity to help starving kids in Africa, then took all the money for themselves. Spent it on cocaine and hookers.’
‘Lucky bastards,’ Albelda growled.
‘What does she say about it?’ asked Cámara.
‘Just reporting the story as far as I can see. But there’s also an interview with one of the lawyers involved in the case. She did that herself.’
‘So she’s trying to turn herself into a news reporter of sorts.’
‘Something like that.’
But still an amateur, Cámara thought to himself.
‘She did something on the opening of that new private clinic near Burjassot last month,’ Castro said, still reading from the screen.
‘I remember that,’ Albelda said. ‘It cost seventy-five million euros to build that place. No expense spared when it’s private.’
‘Anything interesting there?’ Cámara asked.
‘It was opened by a town councillor,’ said Castro. ‘She’s actually quite harsh about it, contrasting the cuts in public health services with this fancy new hospital. And wondering why a representative of the Town Hall was there in the first place. She says he should have been defending ordinary hospitals rather than championing a new private one.’
‘Who was the councillor?’ asked Cámara.
‘Javier Flores,’ Castro said. ‘He’s pretty high up, isn’t he?’
‘Very close to the mayoress,’ said Albelda.
‘Well, Amy doesn’t have a high opinion of him, from the looks of it. Says his presence there was “disgusting” and “an insult to the vast majority of Valencians who can’t afford health insurance”.’
‘Amen to that.’
‘She was getting more political, then,’ said Cámara.
‘Hard not to be when you’ve been in this city for a while,’ Albelda said.
‘What’s the last thing on her Facebook page?’ Cámara asked.
They waited while Castro scrolled up.
‘She posted something in the morning, around half-past nine. Something about going to meet someone who was going to give her a “scoop”. I’m not sure about that word. It means something like a big news story, right?’
‘Hey, listen to this!’
Lozano spun on his chair towards them, his fingers resting on the laptop. Cámara and Albelda both sat up.
‘Some ex-boyfriend of Amy’s is over from the US.’
‘Now?’ Cámara asked.
‘Right now,’ said Lozano. ‘Or I think so. Look, there are these emails from him over the past week. Over a dozen of them.’
Cámara stood up and walked over to see. Albelda followed.
‘He’s in Spain?’
‘Yes,’ said Lozano.
‘An ex-boyfriend from America?’
‘Yes. He’s called Ryan Cox.’
‘What do the emails say?’
‘Look, he got in touch just over a week ago.’
Lozano clicked open the email.
‘Says he’s sorry for not being in touch for so many years. But he’s coming to Spain – landing in Madrid the next day. And wants to meet.’
‘How do you know it’s an ex-boyfriend?’ Cámara asked.
‘Because look. This is Amy’s reply. She’s says it’s all over between them. She’s happy he’s coming to Spain, but she doesn’t think it would be good to meet. She’s started a new life, etc. etc.’
‘So she’s saying no.’
‘Kind of. The guy doesn’t stop emailing her. He sends another three emails before taking off. Then there’s a lull of almost a day. That must have been when he was flying. Then they pick up again. Seven more emails in one day. Once he lands in Madrid, presumably.’
‘Seven emails?’ Albelda whistled. Cámara could see the dark look developing in his eyes.
‘Did Amy always reply?’ he asked Lozano.
‘Not always. I think that’s why he keeps emailing her.’
‘What does she say?’
‘She’s still fond of him, but . . . here it is, that she can’t see him and doesn’t want him to come to Valencia. It’s too soon. That maybe one day they can be friends again, but not right now, not after what happened.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. I can’t find anything.’
‘Sounds bad,’ Albelda said in a low voice.
Cámara could feel the group adrenalin kicking in. And he could sense . . . something. Was this it?
‘How did they leave it?’ he asked. ‘What do the last emails say?’
‘She’s saying that she doesn’t want to see him, repeats it. And then here, two days ago, he says he’s coming anyway. Catching the train and coming to Valencia. She can’t stop him. It’s fate.’
‘He uses those words?’
‘Here,’ said Lozano, ‘see for yourself.’
Cámara leaned down to get a closer look. The sentence was small but clear on the screen.
It’s fate.
He stood up straight and turned to Albelda.
‘I’ll go and get Laura,’ Albelda said, walking to the door. ‘She needs to see this.’