Cámara Max - Fatal Sunset

NON-FICTION

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THE MAX CMARA NOVELS

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A Death in Valencia

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Blood Med

A Body in Barcelona

This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the authors and publishers rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

Epub ISBN: 9781473512351

Version 1.0

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Chatto & Windus

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London SW1V 2SA

Chatto & Windus is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com.

Copyright Jason Webster 2017

Jason Webster has asserted his right to be identified as the author of this Work in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published by Chatto & Windus in 2017

penguin.co.uk/vintage

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

For Mary Chamberlain

He knew the detectives world is not the sunlit world of the eighteenth-century philosophers, but a nighttime world where hunch and chance are more important than ratiocinative acuity.

Josiah Thompson, Gumshoe

Hardly a sea of presents; only five. Left, as usual, outside his door. No cards: the game was to guess whom each was from.

He picked them up and walked back to his bed, throwing them down in a pile. He stared, then reached for the nearest one: a golden box wrapped in a turquoise ribbon tied with a bow. Jos Luis tugged at it. Would it be something specially chosen crafted even for his sixtieth birthday? It did not have to be big, of course; he was no child. Besides, the box was no larger than a cocktail shaker. But just then he required something of quality, and consideration.

The bow came undone and he slipped a finger under the lid to prise it open. He lifted out purple tissue paper that spewed from the top, tossing it on to the floor. Inside was a bottle of some kind, with a black plastic lid. Not so promising. His lips pursed: he felt certain he knew who this was from. Still, there was hope. Perhaps he was more of a child than he admitted to himself.

For the briefest moment he was with Mam again, clutching her single parcel with nervous anticipation, her eyes expressing so much tenderness, so much anxiety, so much desire that it would please him. He had learned quickly to shower her with kisses, no matter what the wrapping contained. It was never could never be just what he wanted: even supplemented by her night work, the pension of an airmans widow only just kept them alive. Lying alone in their bed, staring at the shadows moving across the ceiling with each passing car in the street and shooting them down through imaginary sights he had tried, on occasion, to remember his father, but his uniformed image only grew dimmer, outshone by the glow radiated by his mother. He would pretend to be asleep when she returned, analysing the smell she carried with her of alcohol, tobacco, and sharp, urgent sweat. She would wash herself at the sink in the corner of the room, splashing cold water over her face, neck, chest, and finally quickly underneath. Droplets of water would cascade down her thighs, catching the faintest reflection from the street lamps, and he would watch furtively as they hurried down her skin, racing towards the floor, before a towel extinguished them. Dry and freshened, she would plant a kiss on his restless forehead, slide under the sheets beside him and quickly fall into exhausted sleep. She worked hard, Mam. Harder than anyone knew. Except him.

He paused as he fingered the present sitting impatiently in the golden box. Nothing had compared since. The pretence to his mother had only been partial, and with the years became no pretence at all, for despite the disappointments he had treasured every gift she had given him every tin car, every wind-up train, every wooden whistle because he understood the sacrifices that she made to afford it. And he had never let them go, not even when he left for training college and she threatened to clear them out, make some space in their little apartment. Now they were his mascots, staring down every day from the mirror-backed glass cabinet made specially for his rooms. Mam had left him long before, but what she gave him, what she taught him, would stay for ever.

Sixty years old; he would have given anything to be with her today. Perhaps later, if there were time, he might visit the cemetery, put some flowers on her grave. It had been a while.

He closed his eyes, gripped the object inside the golden box, and extracted it. It was metallic, some kind of tin, with a liquid inside. Gritting his teeth, he peeped through one eye to see what it was.

A spray-on cologne. One of those advertised on the television, with a young man wearing a bright, white, too-tight shirt grinning knowingly at the camera while girls clung to his arm, trotting down a street on their way to a club. Or home from one. It wasnt always clear. What was clear was the message: one spray of this stuff and you were guaranteed a fuck. Simple, primitive and presumably, because he was being given it now effective. He was only glad no one was there to see his face: no need for pretence. There was something shocking, colossal even, about its inappropriateness.

He gave the thing a shake and pulled off the lid. What did this stuff smell like, anyway? He pushed the nozzle and particles shot out into the air near his face, lingering in the streaks of sunlight piercing the shutters. He sniffed, and coughed: it was sweet and earthy, like fresh tar sizzling on an empty road. Did people really wear this stuff? He laughed to himself. Perhaps he should give it a try. Perhaps, on his birthday, he might get lucky. The first clients would be arriving shortly after dark one of them, at least, could be tempted; he still had it in him.

With a silent prayer, he held his breath, closed his eyes and sprayed the cologne over himself, giggling. It was the last thing he would dream of wearing.

He coughed again and walked to the bathroom, placing the can on the shelf with the rest of his collection. The other presents could wait. Sweat was beginning to form around his neck as the sun rose and the heat became more intense. The air conditioning hadnt been working for a couple of weeks: he would have to get it fixed. June was just the beginning, a foretaste of the inferno that July and August brought. At least here in the mountains the nights were still cool. Down in the city the hours of darkness were already as sticky as the day. It was one thing that his nightclub had over the others: clearer, lighter air, and a sense of being elsewhere, away from the city and the usual faces: a place to lose yourself, become someone or something different.