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

that he hadn’t been smoking for a while, and with the new crop in, the supply of home-grown would have been enough to at least raise an eyebrow in the local narcotics squad, if not actually get them reaching for their handcuffs.
    Cámara plucked one of the bags down from the top shelf in the small room that gave off the living room, and settled down on the sofa, avoiding as best he could the loose spring in the middle. Hilario always kept a packet or two of blond tobacco handy for rolling with: black tobacco Ducados were too strong for making a decent joint.
    Cámara went through the motions like an old professional, licking the length of the cigarette to help pull off the paper, rubbing the tobacco in the palm of his hand as he mixed in the marihuana, squeezing the mixture into a sausage shape and then slapping a roll-up paper on top with the palm of his other hand before flipping both hands over while clasped together so that the mix now lay on top of the paper. Then he rolled it, glued it, stuck it in his mouth, lit it, and inhaled.
    Smoke poured down his nostrils as he let it out of his lungs, enjoying the cool rush beginning to work its way into the blood of his brain.
    Four months. There had been times when he’d wondered if he’d ever smoke again. Madrid felt different, his life there was different. He could even perceive a different way ahead.
    And now he was here, where he had begun, smoking more of his grandfather’s home-grown dope.
    It felt good. It felt very, very good.

NINE
Sunday 1st November
    HILARIO SLEPT FOR most of the morning. At midday, with Pilar’s insistent voice ringing in his ears, Cámara called the local doctor’s surgery.
    After a couple of hours’ wait, an ill-tempered middle-aged man rang the doorbell.
    Without a word, the doctor sat down on the bed to measure the unconscious Hilario’s blood pressure and pulse, checked the pills scattered over the bedside cabinet, then stood up and scowled.
    ‘This man should be in hospital.’
    They were wasting his time.
    Cámara explained that Hilario had already been in hospital and had discharged himself, but the doctor wasn’t listening.
    ‘He should be in hospital. There’s nothing to be done here. He needs constant medical attention. Otherwise he could die at any moment.’
    He clicked his fingers as though conjuring the spectre of an instant demise.
    It was pointless saying any more. Besides, he gave the impression that he was in a great hurry to get somewhere else.
    ‘The pills?’ Cámara said as he showed him to the door.
    ‘He must keep taking them. They’re very important.’
    He stepped out and wheezed down the stairs.
    ‘But he needs a hospital!’
    Pilar worked silently in the kitchen. She didn’t need to speak. Cámara knew what she was thinking: the doctor was right – they should call an ambulance and get Hilario transferred back to the hospital immediately. It might mean more vigils for her, more sitting by the bedside, but it was what was expected, what any ordinary person would do.
    Cámara resisted the unspoken pressure. If Hilario woke up to find himself back in the hospital he would never forgive him. And besides, he wasn’t convinced it was the best place for him.
Mala hierba nunca muere
, he thought. The bad grass – the weeds – never die. There was still too much fiery spark in the old man to think that he was truly close to dying.
    So he left Hilario where he was, ignoring Pilar, and sat at the computer to do some research on the Internet. He wished his old police colleague in Valencia, Inspector Torres, was around – he was always better with these things.
    Still, if he was going to start playing at freelance detective he would have to start doing this for himself.
    The wasteland where Mirella Faro’s body had been found was a short detour on his walk to the station to pick up Alicia. The whole empty block now had police tape around it, tied to street lamps and cordoning off an area of about fifty square