Free The Anarchist Detective (Max Cámara) by Jason Webster Page A

great-grandfather.’
    ‘Yes, he was your great-grandfather. And a true anarchist. He helped many people, saved many lives . . .’
    Cámara held his hand out in time to stop Hilario from falling forwards on to the table. His eyes were heavy and half-closing.
    ‘I’m not feeling . . .’
    ‘It’s all right.’
    Cámara helped him across the corridor and into the bedroom. Hilario lay down on the bed and immediately turned on to his side, curling up into a foetal position, already asleep again.
    Cámara cleared up in the kitchen, then went into the living room. One lamp in the corner was switched on, casting a dark yellowish glow. He went to the windows, opened them, and stepped out on to the balcony. It was cold by now, the night air cooling rapidly as they moved towards winter, but he felt a need to breathe different air, something from outside the flat.
    The lights in the street were on, and apart from the parked cars below, it was empty. From behind curtains and blinds he caught the blue flicker of television screens, the clatter of dishes being washed, the sound of a teenage girl complaining to her parents. A couple of doors away a cat was chewing a piece of dirt-smeared bone that had fallen from the rubbish.
    Even here, in a city as small as Albacete, a background hum told you that life of a sort was carrying on, despite the wasteland all around. He felt a pang of desire to be somewhere else. Where? Anywhere but here.
    His phone rang and he slid it open.
    ‘I was thinking of you,’ she said.
    ‘Same here. I was just about to call.’
    ‘How is he?’
    ‘He’s here at home.’
    He hadn’t spoken to Alicia since he’d arrived, and now, hearing her voice, he felt something settling in him. He told her about Hilario, about how he’d found him, and his grandfather’s escape from hospital.
    ‘From what you’ve told me about him it doesn’t sound too surprising, somehow.’
    ‘It’s the kind of thing I’d expect him to do. Still, I’m not sure if it’s right, whether he should be back in hospital. You’d think they’d be wanting to do checks.’
    ‘Get someone to go round.’
    ‘I will. But I have to do it carefully, get the right person. If some interfering doctor or nurse comes in here ordering him about it might set him off again.’
    He stepped back into the living room and closed the windows behind him.
    ‘How are things there?’ he asked.
    ‘I’m missing you,’ she said. ‘I’m probably not supposed to say that, but it’s true.’
    ‘And I’m missing you. But I meant at work, at the paper.’
    ‘Oh, sorry. It’s fine. A bit quiet, strangely.’
    ‘I think I might have a story for you here,’ he said.
    ‘You’re joking.’
    ‘No, seriously.’
    ‘You’re just trying to be nice, to show how much you want me, get me down to Albacete, have a tumble . . .’
    ‘No, wait, really.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘I need your help. I need you.’
    He told her about Pozoblanco, and Yago’s suspicions about the local saffron trade, and how they might be related to the murder of the young girl Mirella in the city a few days before. Alicia listened silently.
    ‘Yes,’ she said at last. ‘It’s interesting. I’m interested. Let me talk to the boss, but I’m sure there won’t be a problem. I can make it down on the train tomorrow, all being well.’
    ‘Let me know what time you’re arriving. I’ll pick you up.’
    ‘OK.’
    This was new, he thought as they said their goodbyes. From lovers they had become like business partners in an instant: he the policeman; she the journalist. And the conversation had become drier, less affectionate.
    No matter. It would be good to see her again. It was true – he had been missing her. Being back in Albacete had somehow smothered that in him. Or drowned it out in so much other noise – noise blaring from several directions at once.
    Hilario had always kept it in neat little transparent plastic bags for Cámara to take back with him to Valencia. Now