Webster - A Death in Valencia UK

Contents

Also by Jason Webster

NON FICTION

Duende: A Journey in Search of Flamenco

Andalus: Unlocking the Secrets of Moorish Spain

Guerra: Living in the Shadows of the Spanish Civil War

Sacred Sierra: A Year on a Spanish Mountain

FICTION

Or the Bull Kills You

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Version 1.0

Epub ISBN 9781448139392

www.randomhouse.co.uk

Published by Chatto & Windus 2012

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Copyright 2012 by Jason Webster

Jason Webster has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publishers prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

First published in Great Britain in 2012 by
Chatto & Windus
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London SW1V 2SA
www.randomhouse.co.uk

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

ISBN 9780701185084

For Ollie, Nikki, Lena and Maddie
y en memoria de Javier Botella

You are a little soul, carrying a corpse.

Epictetus

Note

There are several police forces in Spain. Chief Inspector Max Cmara works for the Cuerpo Nacional de Polica, or Polica Nacional, which deals with major crimes in the larger towns and cities. The Guardia Civil is largely a rural police force, or gendarmerie, covering the countryside and smaller towns and villages, although it also carries out border duties and sea patrols, takes part in operations abroad, and has city-based headquarters. Both the Polica Nacional and Guardia Civil report to the Interior Ministry, although the Guardia Civil is paramilitary and has links with the Defence Ministry.

In addition to these national forces, towns and cities tend to have a local police force the Polica Local, also known as the Polica Municipal. This deals with smaller crimes, official engagements and traffic duties, and is under the control of each respective Town Hall. A member of the Polica Local may sometimes be referred to as a Municipal.

ONE

Sunday 5th July

THE GREEN-AND-WHITE GUARDIACivil patrol boat looked out of place so close to the shoreline. Its sharp-cut lines and metallic sheen spoke of thrust and speed in a place where people sought the softening embrace of sand, the gentle peal of waves and the caress of the sun. Sitting there motionless, an invasive presence, it was unclear what was causing the greater disturbance: its own arrival, or what it had come for.

A couple of Policas Nacionales from the squad car accompanied him as he found an alleyway cutting through the row of cafs and paella restaurants and headed towards the beach. Along the promenade a few heads turned towards the sea trying to make out what was going on, but the terraces were filled mostly with early-evening drinkers, children eating ice cream, and overheated waitresses carrying heavy, laden trays through a tide of discarded straws and paper serviettes. Above their heads, palm trees arched into the humid blue sky, while yellow-and-white flags from the lamp posts rippled as they caught an unlikely breeze.

Ignoring the main entrance to the beach a few yards away, he skipped over the low wall and on to the sand. The presence of uniformed policemen among the bystanders seemed to confirm to most that whatever was going on was serious, and needed to be witnessed. Yet already different types were discernible, like competing currents of water: those moving away, not wanting to see; others flowing in. From underneath their mirror sunglasses, he saw the eyes of the officers with him darting over the array of exposed flesh as they grimly maintained their expressions of serious business-at-hand. He, too, was conscious of rounded forms, of browning skin and wet black hair streaking over naked shoulders. But there was only ever one body for him.

A second group of Policas Nacionales was standing on the shoreline. He felt sand seeping into his shoes as the officer in charge saluted and held out a hand to shake.

Been there at least half an hour, he said, nodding in the direction of the Guardia Civil boat.

On the deck, he could make out the captain standing with his legs wide apart, a green cap on his head and his eyes shaded by the black binoculars he was holding up with both hands. They were so close that the two groups of law officers could almost talk to one another without needing to shout, but he knew that so far there had been no communication. A stand-off. Whoever was first to breach the silence would later get the paperwork load describing every step of protocol, every detail of what happened next.

And all the responsibility if things went wrong.

The police officer handed him a pair of binoculars, the same Interior Ministry standard issue that was being trained on him at that moment. Hed already seen the body as hed walked over the wide expanse of the beach, already sensed in his guts who it was, but nonetheless he focused the glasses on the floating, bloated form as it lay still in the tranquil Mediterranean waters, exactly halfway between the Guardia Civil boat and the Polica Nacional officers lining the shore, with a thousand sunbathers at their backs.

Half an hour, and still no one had made a move. The Guardia Civil captain would be wondering what would happen now that this more senior policeman had showed up. Hed be weighing him up, concluding, quite correctly, that being out of uniform he was a Judicial, an investigating cop. And from the way the others in his group deferred to him, he was almost certainly an inspector, perhaps even chief inspector, although on the young side. Still, superior enough to make a call on this, to break the impasse.

So whose was it? A body out at sea was Guardia Civil property. On land, here in the city, a stiff belonged to the Nacionales. And this one just couldnt decide which way it wanted to go. Caught between earth and water, floating in a legal grey area in the unmoving, shimmering blue. He glanced down at his feet: other detritus from the Mediterranean appeared to have less of a problem finding its way ashore. The usual collection of driftwood, scraps of plastic, seaweed and used contraceptives had found refuge on the pale brown sand, discarded rubbish and waste from the ships in the port just a few metres away.