‘YOU’VE GOT TO see this.’
Alicia was in the sitting room watching a twenty-four-hour news channel on television. Cámara shuffled over towards her, his limbs still heavy from the long walk from the hospital.
‘What’s going on?’
He sat on the arm of the sofa. On the screen he saw a familiar face.
‘Emilia?’
‘This happened earlier this afternoon,’ said Alicia. ‘They’ve been repeating it on a virtual loop ever since. Watch.’
The Mayoress of Valencia appeared to be holding a press conference in the centre of the city. Just behind he could make out the rose window of the cathedral and people making their way around the Plaza de la Virgen. Emilia Delgado was wearing a bright yellow dress with a red carnation buttoned to her collar. A former cabaret performer, she never did understatement when it came to make-up, and her eyelids sparkled with some golden glitter added to her thick dark blue mascara. The crow’s feet around her eyes and mouth were only partially disguised, however: she appeared to have aged since last he’d seen her. He was surprised she had not resorted to Botox injections or plastic surgery.
There was history between Cámara and Valencia’s longest-serving chief executive. Years back Emilia had tried to interfere in Cámara’s investigation of the murder of bullfighter Jorge Blanco. Cámara had done his best to sidestep her blocking tactics – there had been local elections at the time, which she went on to win for a record fifth time – but her sidekick Javier Flores came close to scuppering everything. Ambitious, unscrupulous and allegedly Emilia’s lover, Flores was now hovering in the background as Emilia spoke to the cameras. Wearing a peppermint green jacket with an orange-and-pink checked shirt and brown leather tie, he was hard not to notice.
Aunque la mona se viste de seda, Cámara thought to himself, mona se queda. Even when she wears silk, a monkey is still a monkey.
After the bullfighter case, Flores had played a part in a subsequent investigation: the kidnapping of Sofía Bodí, leading Cámara to the guilty party, but again, only for his own benefit. He was the worst kind of politician: self-obsessed, manipulative and drawn inexorably to power like a fly to shit. They said Emilia only allowed him into her bed on occasion, playing her councillors off one against another through sexual favours. Deep down, Flores probably hated her. Now he stood at her side as she spoke and displayed a grave, concerned face.
‘. . . which is why we must condemn these acts in the strongest possible terms.’
‘What’s she saying?’ Cámara asked.
‘It’s about the riots again,’ Alicia said, not taking her eyes off the screen. ‘They’re still going on about them. I hadn’t realised how bad it got – it all happened while we were busy with Hilario. There were fifty arrests, and fifteen demonstrators and three policemen were wounded. It turned into a pitched battle. Then earlier today Emilia showed up to make a statement where it all took place. Said she had to reclaim the streets for law-abiding citizens.’
‘. . . this cannot be allowed and the perpetrators will be brought to justice.’ Emilia’s voice sounded even huskier in real life, like a fully laden cement mixer, supposedly from too much drinking and smoking. A rumour went that she had worked as a prostitute when she had been in cabaret, but if anything the allegations only made her more popular. She was a maverick and knew that many Valencians supported her because she championed the city, wearing her identity as a Valenciana like a badge of honour. No scheme was too grand, no project too costly for Emilia and her home town, not even now, when the coffers were bare and the debts threatening to drown the place for generations to come. For all her faults – her tackiness and authoritarian instincts – the city had become almost her personal fiefdom: her position was never seriously threatened. Other local politicians came and went, some whisked off to Madrid, others shipwrecked by corruption and scandal, but Emilia was always there, as if she had become a permanent fixture. Valencia, soy yo went the joke. In the style of Louis XIV, Emilia believed that she was Valencia.
Cámara watched as she continued her speech, demonising the protestors, calling for law and order to be restored, and a counter-demonstration to be held to show the city’s respect and good wishes for the King. With the people’s prayers, she insisted, he would make a full recovery.
‘Prayers and a load of public money spent on his private healthcare,’ said Alicia.
‘So far, so predictable,’ Cámara said.
‘Wait. Watch this.’
He kept his eyes on the screen. Flores was the first to be hit, with what looked like an egg smashing into the side of his head. His closely cropped head jerked to the side as the projectile impacted. Cámara sat up in his seat.
‘Bloody hell!’
‘There’s more.’
There was something of a scuffle among Emilia’s entourage before more missiles came streaming in. The images were blurred as the cameraman had clearly moved and ducked for cover himself. As the image stabilised for a moment on the ground, stones and rocks – broken pieces of masonry or rubble – came into view. The camera then looked back up at Emilia’s group. The mayoress was holding the side of her head, doubling up, yet still on her feet. A cracking, thumping sound could be heard as other missiles rained down. More rocks and eggs, pieces of rubbish, what looked like the contents of someone’s shopping basket: cartons of fruit juice, half a lettuce and a packet of biscuits.
‘Get her out! Get her out!’ came a voice. A security man was finally reacting and the images went black just as arms were thrown around Emilia and she was led away from the crowd. The sounds of shouting and whistling carried on for a few seconds, with angry voices calling out against the mayoress.
‘Corrupt thieving bastards!’ said one, the only discernible voice. Then the recording stopped.
‘Wow,’ said Cámara, slipping off the arm of the sofa and down next to Alicia.
The footage cut to the news presenter. It was Canal 9, the local channel, sensationalist and heavily controlled by Emilia’s party. At the bottom of the screen a red banner appeared with the words: ‘Mayoress targeted by terrorists’.
Alicia hit the off button on the remote.
‘That’s big news,’ he said. ‘I would never have thought . . .’
‘Big news and a big lie to explain it away,’ said Alicia. ‘Terrorists? Those were ordinary people throwing stuff at her. She can’t understand how angry people are.’
‘Perhaps Hilario was right.’
Cámara stood up and walked to the kitchen. He was hit by an urge to get out. Suddenly the flat, the city, felt suffocating.
‘Do you fancy a picnic?’ he asked.
Alicia checked the time on the wall clock: it was almost half-past ten.
‘You’re not working tonight?’
Cámara shook his head. She got up from the sofa.
‘Come on.’
A quarter of an hour later they were on the motorbike and heading towards the sea, a rucksack of supplies on Alicia’s back. The Avenida del Puerto was empty and the traffic lights were on their side. A few thrilling moments passed and within minutes they reached the Cabanyal beach. They parked on the other side of Las Arenas and crossed the sand, taking off their shoes and feeling tiny soft grains sifting between their toes. It was the first properly warm night of the year.
The waters of the Mediterranean were calm, with small waves barely a few centimetres high gently stroking the shoreline. Cámara stared out at the horizon, the sky just half a shade lighter than the sea. Lights from a handful of scattered ships twinkled from afar. They ate some bread and cold tortilla that had been sitting in the fridge. Alicia opened a bottle of red wine, took a swig, and passed it over.
I love this woman, he thought, a calm certainty appearing within him like a slowly blossoming flower. And I always want to be with her.
The bottle top was wet with her saliva. He placed it against his mouth, lifted the wine and drank deeply.
‘I went to the metro earlier,’ she said. ‘They’re carrying on as usual. Daniel said not to worry, that they can manage. Got some new helpers.’
‘Good,’ he said.
Bereavement moved within him like a storm, sometimes waning, sometimes blowing so hard he thought he would be swept away. With time, he assumed – as everyone always said – it would lose some of its force. Yet now, so fresh, it had an energy that seemed entirely its own, as though he were merely a spectator caught up in its booming and grandiose performance. Mourning for his grandfather might consume him, he thought at times. And yet only now, sitting by the quiet waters of the sea, was he aware of how powerful and embracing his feelings for Alicia had become.
‘I should pop over and see them,’ he said.
‘They’re fine without you. You’ve got enough going on.’
They ate and drank in silence for a few moments, listening.
‘I don’t know if this is a good time to tell you,’ Alicia said. ‘But I’ve got to say it sometime.’
‘What’s up?’ he said, still looking out towards the dark.
‘I did some rummaging around about that American girl you mentioned. The one who was murdered.’
He dug his hand into the sand.
‘You’ve found something.’
‘Perhaps. I don’t know. I was looking at her Twitter account and saw that she had some friends who were also blogging and doing news stuff like she was. There’s this English guy who’s got a rolling news site on Spain for expats.’
‘What did he say?’
‘I got in touch. Said I was a friend of Amy’s. They’ve all heard about the murder now and are shocked, of course, and it seems that some are starting to speculate.’
‘Go on.’
‘The husband was being questioned, so most people are accepting that he did it. None of these people seem to have known Amy personally, just via the Internet.’
‘But the English guy?’
‘The English guy said something about Amy being on to a big story. He didn’t know what it was, but he said she was really excited about it.’
The scoop, Cámara thought.
‘Did he know what it was about?’
‘No. He just said the last thing she mentioned on Twitter was that she was going to meet some guy who had some info for her.’
‘That’s it?’
‘I checked out her Twitter feed,’ Alicia said. ‘To have a look, and it was there.’
She pulled out a piece of paper.
‘I jotted it down, her last tweet. Here.’
Cámara read.
‘V excited. Off to meet banker with scoop on high-level VLC corruption.’
He pursed his lips.
‘Banker?’
‘I copied it exactly.’
He looked back at the sea. The waves had died down completely now and the waters were so flat that the reflection of the night sky barely shimmered.
‘Pass me the bottle,’ he said.
It was well past midnight before they started heading home.
‘I’ve written an article,’ Alicia said as they traipsed back over the sand. ‘About – about what happened to Hilario.’
‘Oh?’
‘I think it says a lot about the way things are going at the moment.’
‘Yes. You’re probably right.’
‘It’s being picked up by some of the foreign press,’ she said. ‘People want to know. A human story that somehow sums up the situation in Spain.’
He pulled on his helmet and climbed on to the bike.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m pleased.’
They took a different route back, wending their way along side streets as they zigzagged towards the flat. Alicia wrapped her arms tightly around his waist: it was one of the most serenely pleasurable experiences for them both. The exhaust hummed deeply, echoing back at them from the buildings lining the traffic-less streets. The mood of the city had been volatile over the past days, veering from riotous to morbidly quiet almost by the hour, but from the looks of things tonight was calm.
Approaching the edge of the centre, they stopped at a red light. Ordinarily he would have jumped it, but he wanted the experience of the ride home to last as long as possible.
As they sat, waiting, something caught his eye.
‘What the hell’s that?’
Alicia popped her head round from behind him and looked. On the other side of the junction, perhaps a hundred metres away, a van with its engine running was parked at an awkward angle on the pavement. Behind, partially hidden from view, was a branch of Caja Levante. Three men were scuttling around, moving very lightly on their feet.
‘I don’t believe it,’ he said.
There was a small explosion, a cloud of smoke shot into the air and the bank alarm started ringing violently. A second later, two of the men hauled some metal boxes into the back of the van and climbed aboard. Then they set off, screeching down the road before they even closed the doors.
Cámara had not noticed that the lights had turned green. A bank robbery? In Valencia? As though pulling himself out of a dream, he opened out the throttle and made chase.
The van had gone in the direction of the old river bed. Now he was even more aware of Alicia behind him – their combined weight slowed the bike down and where normally he might expect to catch up quickly he struggled to keep the robbers in view. But curiosity more than a will to bring the men to justice was pushing him forwards. Robbing a bank? They should be given a medal.
They sped over a bridge and into the city centre. The streets were not so empty here and a few cars were cruising by. He thought that the van had gone straight over, but he could not be sure.
‘There!’ Alicia pointed to their right. At the third turning a van – their van? – was disappearing from view. Cámara pulled out, swerving to avoid the traffic, and pushed on.
‘It was Daniel,’ Alicia called out from behind. ‘I could swear it was Daniel.’
Daniel? From the metro? The men had been too far away to see properly. And it was dark.
They reached the corner and turned. The street was empty. Cámara slowed the bike down to glance along each junction as they reached it. If they could catch sight of the tail lights somewhere they might be able to give chase again. At the first crossroads there was no sign of them; at the second, nothing. The third . . . nothing. Cámara sped on to the end of the street and the final junction. Again, no sign of the van.
‘Me cago en la puta.’ Fucking hell.
He turned the bike around and went back to check, heading the wrong way along a one-way street. The van had vanished. In the distance they could hear sirens screeching into action. The police were on their way to the robbed bank.
‘Do you want to call it in?’ Alicia asked. ‘At least we got a sighting of them. Could give a description.’
‘Do you think it’s Daniel?’
‘I, er . . . I don’t know,’ she said. ‘You’re right. We can’t be sure.’
He sniffed, pulled the helmet strap tighter on his chin, and they shot off.
They had crossed six or seven blocks heading in the direction of the flat before they saw them. They were in one of the less affluent streets in the old part of town. A group of women was gathered at the far end. Some of them were screaming, others crying. As the motorbike rolled ahead, it became clear that tears of joy were rolling down their cheeks.
‘Look! Look!’ they cried.
Many of them were holding their hands up, bundles of paper clutched between their fingers.
The group was blocking the road, dancing, cheering, shrieking. One of the women approached Cámara and Alicia as they came close, forcing them to stop.
‘They told us to wait here,’ she cried. Her eyes were like flares. ‘They said a miracle would come. I couldn’t believe it but now it’s happened. Bless them, bless them.’
She waved her hand in front of their faces. A wad of fifty-euro notes was gripped tightly between her fingers.
‘We are saved!’
There was a screech of tyres and Cámara looked up. Over the women’s heads he could see the van disappearing from view once again as it sped away. The thieves – whoever they were – were not stealing the money for themselves; in Robin Hood fashion they were distributing it among the city’s poor.
‘You’re lucky,’ he said, turning back to the woman, a wide grin stretching over his face. ‘I’m very happy for you.’
Cámara and Alicia sat on the bike for a few minutes, soaking up the moment. The robber banks had finally been robbed themselves. And just one drop from the ocean of money that had been handed over to prop them up was now returning to the people who had been forced to hand it over in the first place. Justice? This was justice. Let the squad cars giving chase do their best. He would have no part in it.
Perhaps Daniel was involved. If so, he could imagine no one better for such a job.
‘It’s happening,’ Alicia said. ‘Whatever it is, it’s happening.’
His phone buzzed in his pocket. He reached down and pulled it out to see. The text was from Torres.
he read.
He closed his eyes and was about to put the phone away, when it buzzed again and a second message came through.