traces, part five.
Title: Traces
Part: 5 of 10
Characters: David Beckham, Martín Cáceres, Fabio Cannavaro, Iker Casillas, Royston Drenthe, Julien Faubert, Fernando Gago, Raúl González, Pep Guardiola, Thierry Henry, Guti Hernández, Xavi Hernández, Gonzalo Higuaín, Andrés Iniesta, Bojan Krkić, Lionel Messi, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Gerard Piqué, Carles Puyol, Sergio Ramos, Rubén de la Red, Michel Salgado, Miguel Torres. Not all characters appear in every chapter or in equal measure. Some characters' ages have been altered for the sake of coherence.
Genre: AU; murder mystery.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sex, drug use, and possibly distressing themes.
Summary: When corruption no longer shocks, drugs no longer numb, and darkness no longer soothes, men become desperate, reckless extremes of themselves. The secrets behind one man's life falling into another man's hands are revealed, exploited, and overlapped, and it falls to DCI Raúl González to trace the threads.
Disclaimer: One hundred percent fiction.
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism and questions are very welcome.
| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |
Part Five
Raúl's shoes slam loudly against the tiled floor with every step he takes down the corridor; it's all he hears as Guti's babbling struggles to compete. When they hit the outdoors, he doesn't register the question mark on the end of Guti's sentence and instead orders him to track down Julien Faubert and find out as much as possible about his boss.
Guti looks confused for a moment, before asking, "Iker Casillas? His alibi didn't check out? He wasn't at work?"
"The security cameras in his building are about as useful as the ones you find at schools and second-hand bookstores. Just there to scare people. I was trying to tell you earlier," he throws in somewhat accusingly.
"Scare people from what? Stealing a magazine from the waiting area outside his office?"
Raúl has walked off before Guti finishes the last of his questions.
He is on the phone to Gonzalo as he reaches his car and by the time he starts it up, he is anxiously waiting for his junior to call him back with an address. He drives distractedly towards the centre of the city, and having just missed the crowded traffic of the morning's peak hour, he finds himself already within sight of the High Court when Gonzalo, rushed and apologetically, tells him to head back a couple of streets.
Raúl is unsurprised to find the place totally lacking in security, as there is hardly anyone inside. It's not the kind of place with which young louts would even remotely want to associate themselves, anyway, which Raúl realises somewhat wryly when he finds himself deciding that he rather likes the dark, homey décor and the blissful quiet.
"What can I do for you today?"
Raúl looks up at the barman who looks back down at him questioningly a mere moment after the officer has sat down.
"A chardonnay, thanks. House is fine."
Another moment later and a trembling wine waits for him, and he sees the barman sit down opposite him, too close for conversation to be avoided.
"Not bad," Raúl says with surprised sort of pout after taking a sip.
The barman nods. "Only the best here."
"Evidently."
Through the silence that he would normally welcome but which feels strained and awkward today, Raúl observes the only other customers, who have claimed a small table near the doors to the kitchen. Suits, ties, reflections of the pub's yellow light in their shoes - Guti was right about the place attracting an unusual type of daytime desperado in need of a stiff one before ten o'clock meetings. From the window hovering above the table at which the men sit, Raúl can see a tall office building which resembles the feat of modern architecture that is the Casillas Tower. He supposes even the best need their vices, and here their vices are, within walking distance and in free flow. He doesn't notice that three of the men don't actually have drinks at all.
"Miserable weather out, hey?" the barman ventures. "Just a few days ago, it was so temperate. And now..."
"Yeah," Raúl agrees bluntly. 'Temperate'? We have a brain, he thinks to himself.
There is another pause, as Raúl sips his chardonnay again, and the barman's eyes wander around the space before him as though searching the blankness for something to say.
"Do you work around here?"
Screw this. Raúl places his glass squarely in the middle of the coaster laid out for it, and lines the coaster's edge up to the side of the bar before reaching for the warrant card in his inner jacket pocket. "I'm DCI Raúl González. I'm investigating the death of David Beckham." He doesn't look over to the other customers, as their muted muttering goes on in spite of him.
"Oh." The barman looks more surprised than concerned. "Well, uh -" He stretches out a false smile. "I've already spoken to your Sergeant, he was in here yesterday evening."
Raúl nods. "So you're - Leonardo?" he asks, remembering only the name 'Leo' from what Guti told him just over an hour ago.
"Lionel."
"Quite." He hesitated for a moment before deciding that it wasn't hesitation that had gotten him far enough to land this case, and it certainly wasn't worth banking on now. "Had Beckham ever been here?"
"Sure," Lionel shrugs. "A lot of people have been in here."
"Brass members?"
"Look, I don't know a whole lot about that. Not as much as -"
"Apparently you've got quite the pair of ears on you. Hear all sorts of interesting things. No?" Raúl raises his eyebrows in mock naïvety.
"If you're talking about heated conversations, and scandal, and -" Lionel smiles. "- secrets - well, it really depends on what you're interested in."
Raúl looks at him hard for a second, before softening and smiling back thinly. "Beckham, firstly. What do you know about him?"
Lionel feigns a grand pensiveness. "He... he had a lot of friends. Nobody got on his bad side, and he didn't get on anybody else's." He stops, and frowns a little, as though he's deciding if he should continue. Whether he does, Raúl isn't sure. "He was too forgiving and too nice."
"Too nice? Is there such a thing?" Raúl asks, knowing perfectly that there is.
"It doesn't do anyone well to be everybody's best friend. Unless you're a barman on the hunt for leverage." He smiles again.
"Did you hear anybody talking about him? Anybody who might have - I don't know - thought he was - insincere, or something?"
"Everybody here is insincere. But no, I never heard anybody accuse him of that. I think it went without saying," he adds with the tiniest of glints in his eye.
Raúl pauses. He can see a useful tidbit of information dancing behind Lionel's lips, behind the evasions and the tantalisations. He has all the time in the world, but he's not going to gently coax it out.
"Tell me what you know."
Lionel doesn't skip a beat. "Beckham was seeing Iker Casillas in a not-so-professional capacity - though I'm sure it started out all business, before it became play. The last time I saw either of them was a few months ago."
"In here."
Lionel doesn't even bother to nod. "They were talking very quietly, sitting over there, where those cheapskates are." He points to the suits. "Two drinks between five of them - can you believe that?"
"The nerve," Raúl says coldly. "What happened?"
"They broke up. David did what they do in the movies. Waited 'til the post-dinner moratorium when people find themselves packed to the walls in pubs and bars and restaurants, and they gorge - loudly and in company. Took him here, surrounded by a crowd, so that he wouldn't be able to make a scene, said goodbye, left his money on the table and skedaddled. Casillas sat there for about another hour, just staring into space."
"Why did he leave him?"
"I don't listen to people's conversations." Raúl looks at him skeptically. "Unless they're sitting a little closer," Lionel grins. "I honestly don't know."
"Could it have had something to do with the Brass Union? Beckham was in it, wasn't he?"
Lionel shakes his head. "He was, but I heard he quit it around the same time he left Casillas. Don't know why. He just - cut off all his ties, apparently. I guess the Casillas thing and the Union thing could have been related," Lionel says accommodatingly. "But more likely he just didn't want Casillas anymore. Have you met him? He's cold, officer."
Raúl says nothing, though he feels his cheeks darkening just slightly as he remembers his fondness of Casillas the day before. "Who else is Brass?"
Lionel looks somewhat taken aback; Raúl doesn't know why. "Well, there's Cannavaro, and his opposite number, Michel Salgado. Hate each other, apparently, so they're in the right jobs. There's Josep Guardiola, who runs Oxley. Sergio Ramos, an artist who lives out in suburbia and used to go to the school. Thierry Henry - I don't know if you'd know him. He's a music teacher there, holds a lot of sway in the Union; he used to be a student there, too. Uh..." Lionel stops, looking apologetic. "That's it, really. That's all I know. I mean, I'm sure there are others - I know there are others, but -"
"What kind of people are in it? It can't just be random selection."
"Oh no, survival of the fittest all the way," Lionel says vehemently. "Only the richest, or the most powerful people in the city. Who often happen to be the same."
"People who hold political sway?"
"People who make this city what it is," Lionel corrects Raúl. "People who keep the rich rich and the poor on the streets. People who are the best at what they do because nobody else is allowed to do it. Darwin would have a field day," he smiles again.
"Thank you," Raúl says softly before pausing. "Lionel - why are you telling me all this?"
Lionel's smile vanishes, and he hesitates. "Isn't it my job as a citizen to help the police out where I can?" he asks, retaining only a little of the cheekiness that has framed his every word.
"It is," Raúl agrees. "But that argument isn't generally very persuasive. You don't like the Brass Union."
Lionel shrugs. "Do you think it's worth liking?"
Raúl declines to respond. He polishes off his chardonnay and buys himself a few seconds to process what he's heard, the glass hiding the blank shock that was undoubtedly creeping onto his features despite his best efforts to suppress them. Once he's downed it all, and his inexperienced throat burns, he holds back a cough and says, "One last thing. Do you know anything about guns?"
Lionel looks surprised again, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he watches Raúl carefully. "Well, rumour has it that everyone in the Union gets a gun. They only have a limited number of them, of this one type of gun. And they pass them down to new members when they leave or retire or - well - die."
Raúl nods as he stands up and tugs his shirt-cuffs further out of his jacket sleeves. He's about to give Lionel far too abrupt and insincere a thanks than he deserves, when the barman leans forward and frowns as he speaks.
"But, officer - Guti should be able to tell you all this."
* * * * *
Bojan experiences his usual moments of nonsensical panic as he is lifted out of sleep and waits for the transition to wakefulness. He's gone, hasn't he? He's gone, he's gone. His right hand drifts out from under the blankets to feel the empty space next to him.
He decides that if Thierry is dressed already, he probably wants nothing more to do with him. A bathrobe or something equally homey would obviously be a better sign. If he is gone altogether, well - Bojan forces himself to stop thinking that far ahead.
As he twists slightly, he wonders if it matters whether Thierry has had a shower or not, or has made himself breakfast. What signifies a greater desire to stay: a bathrobe and toast, or underwear and juice drunk out of the carton? And how much an indicator that he wants to leave would pressed trousers and a thermos of coffee be?
His worried speculations vanish, however, when he turns onto his left side and sees that Thierry is still next to him, smiling softly, very much naked and with no breakfast in sight.
"Morning," he murmurs contentedly.
Bojan swallows. "Do you want coffee?"
"Oh, I won't be wanting for anything in a long while," Thierry smiles, his eyes closed. "But - oh, alright. Coffee would be good. Just don't take a century to make it," he adds with a teasing nudge of his elbow into Bojan's stomach. "I like looking at my art before I tear it up."
Bojan is sure that he throws Thierry a vaguely kittenish smile when he leaves the room, but as he heads toward the kitchen, he wonders whether it didn't resemble something more like trepidation, or weariness. His feet drag only slightly as he walks, but it's the kind of change in himself that incites the beginnings of concern. He needs a break from this.
His eyes flick to the innocuous tea cupboard in the farthest corner of Thierry's kitchen, its glass panels shielding packets of old caffeine and ugly crystalline tumblers and plates from the messiness of their owner's impassioned and haphazard cooking, the remnants of which faintly stain the walls and benchtops. Bojan reaches down to a lower cupboard for a couple of mugs and a coffee plunger, and after he wipes his now slightly sticky fingers on his shorts, he sets some water to boil and waits.
His eyelids are heavy, but his mind had started racing from the moment he woke up, and there's no stopping it - that is, until he can no longer handle consciousness and sleep claims him in the early hours of the next morning. The oven clock tells him that that won't be until at least twenty hours from now, before which he'll have to rush home, grab his uniform, somehow survive a day of mathematics and physics and other complications that he'll never need, before he is Thierry's again. Thierry's to watch, to encourage, to teach, to scold, to hold.
A sigh escapes his lips, but is drowned out by the whistling kettle. He has to open the tea cupboard to get the coffee, which he doesn't bother measuring out but tumbles unceremoniously into the plunger. Thierry wanted him to be quick, after all.
He thinks about all the practice he did the day before. "Did I improve at all?" A shrug. "Did I? Even a little? Because I felt like it was at least -" "Maybe five percent." ". . . What?" "You improved by maybe five percent." ". . . Only?" A murmur wheedles its way from the bedroom to the kitchen, and Bojan feels his skin crawl just slightly as Thierry's unimpressed face dances in his memory. If only he didn't need him so.
He sighs again, and reaches up to put the coffee packet away. At least Thierry needs him back.
Curiosity gets the better of him. He doesn't know why, since he doesn't expect to find anything. He has a gun of his own now. What he needs to see Thierry's for is beyond him. But something compels him. The murky idea that maybe Thierry's is different - bigger, or shinier, or surrounded by bullets, or totally bulletless - it drags him in.
And he finds himself pulling out the pile of ceramic plates that sit in front of a small compartment in that tea cupboard, and he looks inside to see two of what should only be one: the twin of Thierry's revolver, sitting innocently just behind it.
* * * * *
Sergio is a coffee man, but he has spent the past twenty-four hours jumping out of his skin and straining himself to keep his face still, and so now longs for nothing more than a quiet morning with his inks, and no footsteps echoing his own. He opts for tea and is rolling up the sleeves of the clean shirt he changed into last night when the phone rings.
The clinical voice of the answering machine makes way for Fernando's. Sergio couldn't have picked up the phone if he'd wanted to, anyway - it's buried under piles of paper and canvas and splattered clothing. He opens the fridge for some milk, and Fernando's apologetic breathiness sends him quickly into a dull panic.
"Listen, Sergio - uhm -" There is a sharp intake of breath, something Fernando usually does before heaving out a laughing sigh. "This is ridiculous, I shouldn't have to..." Cue the laughing sigh. "Look. I think it's time you and I... parted ways. I mean, I've done everything you need me to do, and - well - there isn't really anything left. I wouldn't mind staying on, but... I should get a job, or - or something. Maybe get back to sculpting. I don't know. I... Sergio. I hope you know that I - I probably wouldn't have done it for anyone else. I mean, I didn't - enjoy it, the work." He chuckles. "It's one thing to help someone make something; it's another thing to make something yourself, you know? You can find someone else to help you out with the driving and the lifting and whatnot. I... If Guardiola tries to give you shit, just tell him that I left you, and not the other way around, alright? Play him this message if you need to. Just - God." He sighs heavily, and Sergio feels something tug inside of him, a pull at the back of a throat that wants - just a little - to lament. "I hope you know that I'm really, really grateful for everything you taught me. Honest, I wouldn't have done it for anyone else. I would have left as soon as I saw the front door, you know? But you made it worth it. I actually - I learned a lot. Ha," he chuckles again. "You really should play this to Guardiola, he'd have a fucking field day, listening to his biggest brat praise his rehabilitation scheme. God." Another sigh. "I really like you, Sergio. You're a good man. But I'm not - I'm not worth troubling yourself for." There is a short silence, in which the stillness of Sergio's breath rests uneasily. "Goodbye." Another pause. "I..." But Fernando clicks his teeth together and the line drops.
There is a long nothingness as Sergio stands looking down at the kitchen benchtop replaying what he's just heard. The message flashes in fragments. It's another thing to make something yourself. You made it worth it. You're a good man. He feels anything but, as the only thing whirring through his head is, 'Oh, God, he's told someone.'
Lost in his quiet, numbed shock and entirely self-absorbed fear, knowing that he should be moved to more than just that, that selfish terror, he pours milk into his tea and blankly watches the white slowly billow, until he's tapped on the shoulder, and turns out of a learned, habitual politeness rather than any curiosity or surprise.
"Oh. Martín." His voice is flat. "I didn't hear you come in."
"Well, you asked me not to be heard," Martín replies, as Sergio's eyes flick toward the back door through which the boy just entered.
They look at each other blankly for a few seconds, until Sergio says, "Martín? I... It turns out that I... don't need you anymore."
"Oh."
"You've done great, you really have," Sergio continues, lifting his hand to rest it on Martín's shoulder, making no other pretence at condolence. "But you've done all you need to." Martín says nothing, but looks vaguely disappointed, which startles Sergio into a further commiseration of sorts. "Look - I haven't forgotten my side of the bargain. I'll give you a call within a week about what we're going to do," he lies. "I promise."
"I hope so," Martín replies softly, resignation leaking a sigh into his voice. "Uhm... I guess I'll speak to you soon, then," he says awkwardly, making for the back door again.
"Yeah." Sergio looks down, before adding, "Wait. Your ID."
"Oh - right." Martín fishes around in his wallet and gives a card to Sergio before he leaves.
Sergio watches the door shut with the quietest of clicks, and closes his eyes heavily as he sinks back against his counter. Needing that tea more than he wants it, he reaches for the cup with one hand and, with the other, puts down the card that reads 'Name: SERGIO RAMOS' underneath the photo of young Martín's face.
* * * * *
Miguel nearly jumps out of his seat when he looks up and sees that the person shutting the door behind him is Carles Puyol. "What are you doing here?" he yelps. "Do you realise that if anyone saw you -"
"Relax," Carles says dismissively, pulling out the chair opposite Miguel's desk and lounging in it, the recline of man who has sat there many times before. "The detective just left Leo Messi's, and Guti's lurking around Iker's. No one's on my tail."
"How do you know he was at Leo's?"
"I was there," Carles shrugs. "A bunch of us went. We need our vino in the morning."
"You're so fucking careless," Miguel mutters, glaring. "What do you have to say here that couldn't be said over the phone?"
"Well, firstly, you can't offer me any scotch if I'm my living room, can you?"
Miguel rolls his eyes. "I don't do that anymore."
"Oh, sure," Carles snorts. "And Ruud's veins are clean, and Iker's ass is untouched. Leopard. Spots. Etcetera."
"What do you want?" Miguel asks wearily, glancing at the door for any sign of his eleven o'clock. "I'm expecting clients. Some of us actually do our jobs, you know."
"Well, that's why I came," Carles says, his voice taking on a melodramatic hush. "I went to the office yesterday evening -"
"Oh? For the first time in - how long?"
"I'd tell you to ask the receptionist, but she's the third one since I was last there," Carles shrugs. "They go through them pretty quick. Rafa Marquez just took paternity leave, so I thought, maybe he's got a little something exciting in his desk drawer, just wasting away while he's changing diapers."
"Exciting?" Miguel looks skeptical. "You work insurance."
"Under any other cirumstances, touché," Carles concedes. "But, I found some stuff on Beckham. Bingo, man, you have no idea."
"Paternity guy is Beckham's insurance agent?"
"Yeah, bragged about it all the time. Until Beckham got his brains blown out."
Miguel winces.
"Anyway," Carles continues, "I found some fascinating documents with the Albiol logo in the corner."
"Albiol Real Estate?"
"Uh-huh," Carles nods. "Turns out Beckham was planning to sell his house - you know, the cosy little one in that cosy little richest neighbourhood in the city?"
"I do know where Beckham lived, yes," Miguel replies tersely.
"Well, he was planning to sell the place! Get this - the day after he died, he was due to sign the papers and take off to Italy."
"Italy?" Miguel frowns. "Are you sure?"
"I hear it's nice there."
Miguel shakes his head, staring blankly down at his desk. "He didn't - surely he would have mentioned it to me, if he'd been planning to take off."
Carles shrugs. "Maybe he didn't want you to know. Like, an active lack of want for you to know. Don't be offended; it happens to the best of us."
Miguel breathes out deeply. "Are you serious? The day after he died?"
Carles nods. "Listen - I was thinking that maybe it had something or a little or a lot or everything to do with those notes he got."
"How do you know about them?"
"You and your friend Mr. Daniels told me. Remember? Around three in the morning, next to the toilet, bad smell in the air."
Miguel groans. "Carles - focus."
"I'm focused, man."
"This is big."
"I know, that's what I'm trying to say!" Carles exclaims. "I'm so excited, aren't you excited?"
"Buzzing."
"You don't look like you're buzzing. Isn't my excitemment palpable?"
"Probably too palpable," Miguel reluctantly answers, looking stressed. "But, Jesus, Carles -"
"Well, yours isn't palpable enough. Palp up."
"The - the police or someone should know about this."
"Have they been to see you?"
"Yeah, I told them about the notes."
"Did Guti come?"
"No, just the detective," Miguel lies.
"Shame."
"Why?" "Because," Carles shrugs, "I would have thought you'd be happy to see him."
Miguel remembers the complete lack of recognition that Guti showed when he showed up with Raúl earlier in the week, and, his heart a little heavier, he changes the subject. "It's got to be someone in the Union. It just has to be. Who else would have had any kind of leverage over Beckham?"
"Yeah, I thought the same. That's why I'm here."
"You should call a meeting, Everyone should know about this."
"I tried," Carles sighs, "but I can't reach anyone. I had a speech prepared and everything. It's a god damn circus, and I want an invite. Fabio and Michel are untouchable as always, and my God, if I don't want to want to fucking murder their PAs. Thierry just cut me off. Pep's apparently dealing with some sort of budget crisis."
"Probably spent too much of his new-found moolah on that pretty little secretary of his."
"I don't know what he sees in her."
"You're just bitter because she's got better hair than you."
"Don't be ridiculous," Carles replies with a straight face. "I might be bitter because she has him, but those feathers on her head have nothing on -"
Carles is interrupted by a ringing, accompanied by a flashing 'Line 1' on Miguel's phone.
"Mr. Torres?" sounds the voice of his secretary through the crackling speakerphone. "The Lampards are here."
"Yeah, okay, I'll be done in a minute."
"Make it a quick minute; they're causing a scene. Again."
Miguel rolls his eyes at Puyol as he hangs up. "Messy divorce. You should get out of here."
"Gladly."
"Listen - Carles," Miguel says as Carles makes to leave. "Thanks."
"No problem," Carles replies, flashing him another grin. "We're in this together, man."
* * * * *
Gerard wishes he could throw something more debilitating than a glare in Thierry's direction, but he supposes that using the expensive paintings that he's been hired to move as weaponry would count against him on his first day at work. He settles for a "What the fuck are you doing here?" to accompany his glower.
Thierry holds up a house key. "I called your boss. He told me you'd be alone and - not too busy to be disturbed." He steps over a half-filled crate and allows himself a seat on the arm of a recliner, opposite the picture-perfect view of a back garden he thought he'd never see again.
Gerard frowns, signaling the walls lined with art and the cabinets filled with antiquities that he'll have to pile into his truck. "He was wrong. I'm pretty fucking busy."
"Gerard," Thierry says bluntly, "I'm not going to stand here and pretend that you don't owe me, because Lord knows you'd be lifting weights fifty times heavier than those" - he signals the heavy vases in the corner of David Beckham's living room, that Gerard is yet to move - "in a sunny prison yard if it weren't for me. You're eating out of my hand, so don't tell me you're busy. I can make your life a whole lot busier if need be."
Gerard stares for a second, before scoffing. "Okay, is there any way you could rephrase that to make yourself sound like more of an asshole?"
Thierry fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Look, I'm not here to be an asshole -"
"Really? Because I don't think your mouth got the memo."
"I just -" Thierry pauses, inhaling deeply before stretching his mouth into a smile at which Gerard fights the urge to shudder. "I'm going to need that favour."
* * * * *
Raúl remembers the smell of the dog that leapt onto him, its tongue searching for his cheek, as Guti, behind him, laughed. What was it that Ramos had told him? Takes him a few visits before he gets used to someone. Raúl remembers Guti grinning as Ramos called the dog away. He remembers Fernando Gago's sudden appearance at the entrance to the Ramos' living room, unannounced by the German Shepherd who'd apparently only known him for a day or two.
He shakes his head and grits his teeth, Ramos' address on the list that stares up at him from his desk. Raúl knows that he was the only stranger in that house that day.
The list is a compilation of names, occupations and addresses, put together more haphazardly than Raúl would allow from anyone other than Gonzalo. He has been sitting at his desk for about an hour now, and as he waits for Gonzalo to bring him some coffee, he looks down at the names and tries to figure out what a school music teacher could have to do with a politician, what a painter could have to do with a media tycoon, and how a few revolvers could possibly link them together. He can't help but marvel at some of his own speculations as to who else could be Brass: his own boss, the new Chief of Police; the city mayor; owners of hospitals, museums, and huge shopping complexes; local film directors... The idea of these people being 'in cahoots', as Guti so delicately put it - it's enough to make Raúl's head fall into his hands, overwhelmed at the sheer magnitude of what he could be dealing with.
His head, now rushing with blood, wanders messily over to the guns of which Lionel spoke. It was clear that it was an inside job - wasn't it? Someone in the Union? Raúl sighs into his wrists. There is so much he doesn't know. To what extent will they protect each other? Are they really allied, or are there rifts between them? He remembers Cannavaro and Salgado, opposing electoral candidates, and his doubts skyrocket again. How do you break into a group of the most powerful people in the city, when any one of them could silence you with a threat, a promise - a gun?
But - and, for what must have been the hundredth time in the day, Raúl's heart beats tumble over each other - perhaps he doesn't need to break into it at all. Perhaps Guti is already inside, holding the key.
There is a cough above him, and Raúl lifts his head to see Gonzalo slam down a bowl of pasta with salad onto the list of names.
"You didn't need to do that," Raúl mutters. "And I was reading that sheet."
"Sorry," Gonzalo mumbles. "But you have that I-haven't-eaten look."
"You mean a frown?"
"No, you frown all the time, sir." Gonzalo smiles. "I'd call it more of an aura than a look, then," he says with a simple sort of innocence.
"You don't need to feed me."
"It was no problem - my mother had leftovers," Gonzalo assures him, though he blushes as he speaks. "It was either pour it down my friends' throats or the throats of the cats outside the restaurant. And between you and me, sir, they're getting a little fat."
"I'm your boss," Raúl says, managing to sound disgruntled despite his immediate gratitude as the fragrances of meat and basil and oregano and sundried tomato - but mostly meat - wake him from his stunned depression. "Fucking Raúl González. You're supposed to revere me, not pity me."
"You're my senior, not my boss." Raúl gives him a look, and Gonzalo sheepishly adds, "Sir."
Raúl sighs. "It's not me you should be worried about, anyway. It's Hernández."
"The sergeant?"
"Can you do me a favour?"
"Well - I - I just brought you food -"
"Doesn't make you exempt from work, scamp. Listen, find out everything you can about him. His family, where he's lived, where he's worked, who he knows here."
Gonzalo looks weary. "Do you want me to have him followed, too?" he asks somewhat sarcastically, though Raúl remembers all the times he has actually sent Gonzalo to follow people, and can't blame him for looking trepid. He allows himself a wry smile at Gonzalo's daring attempt at humour in his company.
"No," he assures his junior. "I was planning on doing that myself."
As Gonzalo raises his eyebrows, Raúl's phone rings. His heart sinks when he sees that the number is Guti's. "Are you going to get that, or shall I?" Gonzalo asks.
Raúl shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand at him. "Nah, you get on with that research."
Gonzalo retreats with something of a resigned shrug, and Raúl picks up the phone. His decision to dive into his pasta at the same time leaves his mouth too full to say 'hello'.
"Raúl? It's me." Guti sounds as excitable as always. "Iker Casillas is all motive and no alibi. He wasn't in when I went there, but Faubert was all tense and stammery and - I'm tellin' you, Casillas needs to hire himself some better minions, because I squeezed a whole lot of info out of him. The lawyer we saw the other day - Miguel Torres? Brass member. Also a Ruud van Nistelrooy, former tennis prodigy, fell off the face of the earth. Brass member. We need to find Iker, as soon as possible, now that we know about this Union. You heard what Xavi said about the guns - it's one of these guys, there's no point looking outside."
Raúl swallows. "No, I know." He pauses, listening closely to Guti's breath on the end of the line. He says slowly, "Beckham was in the Union, after all."
"Exactly," Guti replies rapidly. "'Til the day he died."
I heard he left it recently. Cut off his ties. Raúl remembers Lionel's words with the same stark accuracy with which he remembers most things. "Right, well, moving on," Raúl says, adopting his characteristic briskness. "I want you to go and talk to this Miguel Torres again, this afternoon."
After he hangs up, ignoring Guti's "Oh, sure. So... have you missed me today?", Raúl lifts his bowl to check a number on the list, and dials.
"Miguel Torres' office, how may I help you?" a friendly female voice asks.
"Listen, my name is DCI Raúl Gonzalez, and I came in to see Torres three days ago, with my sergeant. He's going to come in to see Torres again in a couple of hours. I need you to do something for me. Do you remember what he looked like? Blonde, tanned, waifish -"
"Yeah, I remember you both from the elevator."
"Oh. Good, great. I - can you do me a favour? Watch him for me. Take note of how he acts around Torres."
"How he acts?" She sounds skeptical.
"Anything you pick up on will be helpful, trust me. Just - things like whether he calls him 'Miguel' or 'Torres'. Whether they seem to know each other. Can you do that?"
"What's in it for me?"
She works for a lawyer, of course she wants something. "I will... give you money. Five hundred, straight up."
There's a pause before she speaks again, her voice warmer now. "How about a date? I know a great Mexican place. You looked like the spicy type."
Raúl freezes, glancing over toward the empty desks in the room. "Uhm - well - how about six hundred?"
"Come on," she coos, her voice like honey now. "You can give me the five hundred at dinner tomorrow night, 8pm. I'll be in the lobby of the building."
Raúl fights the urge to groan. "Okay," he manages to squeeze out. "Deal."
* * * * *
United we stand, divided we fall. Rubén tosses a glance over at the cover of the comic-book that he doesn't even have to look at anymore - he knows it as well as he knows every inch of his refuge. He has spent hours, days, weeks running his eyes over the same walls, with nothing to distract him but himself and his body's meagre protests for outside contact.
He is so hungry that every time he exhales, a half-second passes before his stomach churns. He dreads each breath for the noise. Sleep becomes impossible with such a cacophony of a body. But if he eats, there'll be more of him to grab on to. And what is finally his own, his alone, will become the prey of others' starved and lusting eyes.
He breathes in the conditioned air that hums, lonely, as it tumbles through the space of his room. The house is quiet today, but for the occasional whine of the German Shephard that longs to be taken out for a walk. Sergio's practised mornings of grunting and groaning were punctuated, a few hours ago, by the slam of his studio door, behind which Rubén visualises his friend slapping betrayal onto consoling canvases.
Fernando runs from Sergio, and the comfort of their presence abandons Rubén as everything else has already done. The pounds drop off, his tears no longer emerge for acknowledgement, and, for the past few months, the only knocks on his door have been by hands that drag him away from the comfort of his dark solitude and into the white, blinding chaos of strangers, and the threats woven into their unfamiliarity.
United. The Brass Union. Rubén scoffs, his breath stark and rolling in the silence. Nobody is united. Those he expected to stand with him fell away into the warmth of their own happy self-servitude, and he hasn't the time to count all the ways they would crumble if they dared take each other's hands. Look at Sergio, he thinks sadly. He rescued me, and now he's the one who needs saving.
He could wait for the gentle tug of loneliness to drag him, slouching, toward Sergio, toward an obligated comfort that made paint smell like disinfectant, and a smile like condescension. He could watch as Sergio drops everything to lift him up, and pretend to ignore how the strain makes his grip shake, how the burden lays a blanket of grim, determined numbness on his once luminous face. Or he could stop playing the victim and be the hero instead.
And what do heroes do? he asks himself hazily, eyeing the backpack he'd brought to Sergio's in the middle of the night just over a month ago and hadn't touched since. They fly.
| Part 6 |
Part: 5 of 10
Characters: David Beckham, Martín Cáceres, Fabio Cannavaro, Iker Casillas, Royston Drenthe, Julien Faubert, Fernando Gago, Raúl González, Pep Guardiola, Thierry Henry, Guti Hernández, Xavi Hernández, Gonzalo Higuaín, Andrés Iniesta, Bojan Krkić, Lionel Messi, Ruud van Nistelrooy, Gerard Piqué, Carles Puyol, Sergio Ramos, Rubén de la Red, Michel Salgado, Miguel Torres. Not all characters appear in every chapter or in equal measure. Some characters' ages have been altered for the sake of coherence.
Genre: AU; murder mystery.
Rating: R
Warnings: Language, sex, drug use, and possibly distressing themes.
Summary: When corruption no longer shocks, drugs no longer numb, and darkness no longer soothes, men become desperate, reckless extremes of themselves. The secrets behind one man's life falling into another man's hands are revealed, exploited, and overlapped, and it falls to DCI Raúl González to trace the threads.
Disclaimer: One hundred percent fiction.
Feedback > life. Constructive criticism and questions are very welcome.
| Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 |
Part Five
Raúl's shoes slam loudly against the tiled floor with every step he takes down the corridor; it's all he hears as Guti's babbling struggles to compete. When they hit the outdoors, he doesn't register the question mark on the end of Guti's sentence and instead orders him to track down Julien Faubert and find out as much as possible about his boss.
Guti looks confused for a moment, before asking, "Iker Casillas? His alibi didn't check out? He wasn't at work?"
"The security cameras in his building are about as useful as the ones you find at schools and second-hand bookstores. Just there to scare people. I was trying to tell you earlier," he throws in somewhat accusingly.
"Scare people from what? Stealing a magazine from the waiting area outside his office?"
Raúl has walked off before Guti finishes the last of his questions.
He is on the phone to Gonzalo as he reaches his car and by the time he starts it up, he is anxiously waiting for his junior to call him back with an address. He drives distractedly towards the centre of the city, and having just missed the crowded traffic of the morning's peak hour, he finds himself already within sight of the High Court when Gonzalo, rushed and apologetically, tells him to head back a couple of streets.
Raúl is unsurprised to find the place totally lacking in security, as there is hardly anyone inside. It's not the kind of place with which young louts would even remotely want to associate themselves, anyway, which Raúl realises somewhat wryly when he finds himself deciding that he rather likes the dark, homey décor and the blissful quiet.
"What can I do for you today?"
Raúl looks up at the barman who looks back down at him questioningly a mere moment after the officer has sat down.
"A chardonnay, thanks. House is fine."
Another moment later and a trembling wine waits for him, and he sees the barman sit down opposite him, too close for conversation to be avoided.
"Not bad," Raúl says with surprised sort of pout after taking a sip.
The barman nods. "Only the best here."
"Evidently."
Through the silence that he would normally welcome but which feels strained and awkward today, Raúl observes the only other customers, who have claimed a small table near the doors to the kitchen. Suits, ties, reflections of the pub's yellow light in their shoes - Guti was right about the place attracting an unusual type of daytime desperado in need of a stiff one before ten o'clock meetings. From the window hovering above the table at which the men sit, Raúl can see a tall office building which resembles the feat of modern architecture that is the Casillas Tower. He supposes even the best need their vices, and here their vices are, within walking distance and in free flow. He doesn't notice that three of the men don't actually have drinks at all.
"Miserable weather out, hey?" the barman ventures. "Just a few days ago, it was so temperate. And now..."
"Yeah," Raúl agrees bluntly. 'Temperate'? We have a brain, he thinks to himself.
There is another pause, as Raúl sips his chardonnay again, and the barman's eyes wander around the space before him as though searching the blankness for something to say.
"Do you work around here?"
Screw this. Raúl places his glass squarely in the middle of the coaster laid out for it, and lines the coaster's edge up to the side of the bar before reaching for the warrant card in his inner jacket pocket. "I'm DCI Raúl González. I'm investigating the death of David Beckham." He doesn't look over to the other customers, as their muted muttering goes on in spite of him.
"Oh." The barman looks more surprised than concerned. "Well, uh -" He stretches out a false smile. "I've already spoken to your Sergeant, he was in here yesterday evening."
Raúl nods. "So you're - Leonardo?" he asks, remembering only the name 'Leo' from what Guti told him just over an hour ago.
"Lionel."
"Quite." He hesitated for a moment before deciding that it wasn't hesitation that had gotten him far enough to land this case, and it certainly wasn't worth banking on now. "Had Beckham ever been here?"
"Sure," Lionel shrugs. "A lot of people have been in here."
"Brass members?"
"Look, I don't know a whole lot about that. Not as much as -"
"Apparently you've got quite the pair of ears on you. Hear all sorts of interesting things. No?" Raúl raises his eyebrows in mock naïvety.
"If you're talking about heated conversations, and scandal, and -" Lionel smiles. "- secrets - well, it really depends on what you're interested in."
Raúl looks at him hard for a second, before softening and smiling back thinly. "Beckham, firstly. What do you know about him?"
Lionel feigns a grand pensiveness. "He... he had a lot of friends. Nobody got on his bad side, and he didn't get on anybody else's." He stops, and frowns a little, as though he's deciding if he should continue. Whether he does, Raúl isn't sure. "He was too forgiving and too nice."
"Too nice? Is there such a thing?" Raúl asks, knowing perfectly that there is.
"It doesn't do anyone well to be everybody's best friend. Unless you're a barman on the hunt for leverage." He smiles again.
"Did you hear anybody talking about him? Anybody who might have - I don't know - thought he was - insincere, or something?"
"Everybody here is insincere. But no, I never heard anybody accuse him of that. I think it went without saying," he adds with the tiniest of glints in his eye.
Raúl pauses. He can see a useful tidbit of information dancing behind Lionel's lips, behind the evasions and the tantalisations. He has all the time in the world, but he's not going to gently coax it out.
"Tell me what you know."
Lionel doesn't skip a beat. "Beckham was seeing Iker Casillas in a not-so-professional capacity - though I'm sure it started out all business, before it became play. The last time I saw either of them was a few months ago."
"In here."
Lionel doesn't even bother to nod. "They were talking very quietly, sitting over there, where those cheapskates are." He points to the suits. "Two drinks between five of them - can you believe that?"
"The nerve," Raúl says coldly. "What happened?"
"They broke up. David did what they do in the movies. Waited 'til the post-dinner moratorium when people find themselves packed to the walls in pubs and bars and restaurants, and they gorge - loudly and in company. Took him here, surrounded by a crowd, so that he wouldn't be able to make a scene, said goodbye, left his money on the table and skedaddled. Casillas sat there for about another hour, just staring into space."
"Why did he leave him?"
"I don't listen to people's conversations." Raúl looks at him skeptically. "Unless they're sitting a little closer," Lionel grins. "I honestly don't know."
"Could it have had something to do with the Brass Union? Beckham was in it, wasn't he?"
Lionel shakes his head. "He was, but I heard he quit it around the same time he left Casillas. Don't know why. He just - cut off all his ties, apparently. I guess the Casillas thing and the Union thing could have been related," Lionel says accommodatingly. "But more likely he just didn't want Casillas anymore. Have you met him? He's cold, officer."
Raúl says nothing, though he feels his cheeks darkening just slightly as he remembers his fondness of Casillas the day before. "Who else is Brass?"
Lionel looks somewhat taken aback; Raúl doesn't know why. "Well, there's Cannavaro, and his opposite number, Michel Salgado. Hate each other, apparently, so they're in the right jobs. There's Josep Guardiola, who runs Oxley. Sergio Ramos, an artist who lives out in suburbia and used to go to the school. Thierry Henry - I don't know if you'd know him. He's a music teacher there, holds a lot of sway in the Union; he used to be a student there, too. Uh..." Lionel stops, looking apologetic. "That's it, really. That's all I know. I mean, I'm sure there are others - I know there are others, but -"
"What kind of people are in it? It can't just be random selection."
"Oh no, survival of the fittest all the way," Lionel says vehemently. "Only the richest, or the most powerful people in the city. Who often happen to be the same."
"People who hold political sway?"
"People who make this city what it is," Lionel corrects Raúl. "People who keep the rich rich and the poor on the streets. People who are the best at what they do because nobody else is allowed to do it. Darwin would have a field day," he smiles again.
"Thank you," Raúl says softly before pausing. "Lionel - why are you telling me all this?"
Lionel's smile vanishes, and he hesitates. "Isn't it my job as a citizen to help the police out where I can?" he asks, retaining only a little of the cheekiness that has framed his every word.
"It is," Raúl agrees. "But that argument isn't generally very persuasive. You don't like the Brass Union."
Lionel shrugs. "Do you think it's worth liking?"
Raúl declines to respond. He polishes off his chardonnay and buys himself a few seconds to process what he's heard, the glass hiding the blank shock that was undoubtedly creeping onto his features despite his best efforts to suppress them. Once he's downed it all, and his inexperienced throat burns, he holds back a cough and says, "One last thing. Do you know anything about guns?"
Lionel looks surprised again, his eyebrows lifting slightly as he watches Raúl carefully. "Well, rumour has it that everyone in the Union gets a gun. They only have a limited number of them, of this one type of gun. And they pass them down to new members when they leave or retire or - well - die."
Raúl nods as he stands up and tugs his shirt-cuffs further out of his jacket sleeves. He's about to give Lionel far too abrupt and insincere a thanks than he deserves, when the barman leans forward and frowns as he speaks.
"But, officer - Guti should be able to tell you all this."
* * * * *
Bojan experiences his usual moments of nonsensical panic as he is lifted out of sleep and waits for the transition to wakefulness. He's gone, hasn't he? He's gone, he's gone. His right hand drifts out from under the blankets to feel the empty space next to him.
He decides that if Thierry is dressed already, he probably wants nothing more to do with him. A bathrobe or something equally homey would obviously be a better sign. If he is gone altogether, well - Bojan forces himself to stop thinking that far ahead.
As he twists slightly, he wonders if it matters whether Thierry has had a shower or not, or has made himself breakfast. What signifies a greater desire to stay: a bathrobe and toast, or underwear and juice drunk out of the carton? And how much an indicator that he wants to leave would pressed trousers and a thermos of coffee be?
His worried speculations vanish, however, when he turns onto his left side and sees that Thierry is still next to him, smiling softly, very much naked and with no breakfast in sight.
"Morning," he murmurs contentedly.
Bojan swallows. "Do you want coffee?"
"Oh, I won't be wanting for anything in a long while," Thierry smiles, his eyes closed. "But - oh, alright. Coffee would be good. Just don't take a century to make it," he adds with a teasing nudge of his elbow into Bojan's stomach. "I like looking at my art before I tear it up."
Bojan is sure that he throws Thierry a vaguely kittenish smile when he leaves the room, but as he heads toward the kitchen, he wonders whether it didn't resemble something more like trepidation, or weariness. His feet drag only slightly as he walks, but it's the kind of change in himself that incites the beginnings of concern. He needs a break from this.
His eyes flick to the innocuous tea cupboard in the farthest corner of Thierry's kitchen, its glass panels shielding packets of old caffeine and ugly crystalline tumblers and plates from the messiness of their owner's impassioned and haphazard cooking, the remnants of which faintly stain the walls and benchtops. Bojan reaches down to a lower cupboard for a couple of mugs and a coffee plunger, and after he wipes his now slightly sticky fingers on his shorts, he sets some water to boil and waits.
His eyelids are heavy, but his mind had started racing from the moment he woke up, and there's no stopping it - that is, until he can no longer handle consciousness and sleep claims him in the early hours of the next morning. The oven clock tells him that that won't be until at least twenty hours from now, before which he'll have to rush home, grab his uniform, somehow survive a day of mathematics and physics and other complications that he'll never need, before he is Thierry's again. Thierry's to watch, to encourage, to teach, to scold, to hold.
A sigh escapes his lips, but is drowned out by the whistling kettle. He has to open the tea cupboard to get the coffee, which he doesn't bother measuring out but tumbles unceremoniously into the plunger. Thierry wanted him to be quick, after all.
He thinks about all the practice he did the day before. "Did I improve at all?" A shrug. "Did I? Even a little? Because I felt like it was at least -" "Maybe five percent." ". . . What?" "You improved by maybe five percent." ". . . Only?" A murmur wheedles its way from the bedroom to the kitchen, and Bojan feels his skin crawl just slightly as Thierry's unimpressed face dances in his memory. If only he didn't need him so.
He sighs again, and reaches up to put the coffee packet away. At least Thierry needs him back.
Curiosity gets the better of him. He doesn't know why, since he doesn't expect to find anything. He has a gun of his own now. What he needs to see Thierry's for is beyond him. But something compels him. The murky idea that maybe Thierry's is different - bigger, or shinier, or surrounded by bullets, or totally bulletless - it drags him in.
And he finds himself pulling out the pile of ceramic plates that sit in front of a small compartment in that tea cupboard, and he looks inside to see two of what should only be one: the twin of Thierry's revolver, sitting innocently just behind it.
* * * * *
Sergio is a coffee man, but he has spent the past twenty-four hours jumping out of his skin and straining himself to keep his face still, and so now longs for nothing more than a quiet morning with his inks, and no footsteps echoing his own. He opts for tea and is rolling up the sleeves of the clean shirt he changed into last night when the phone rings.
The clinical voice of the answering machine makes way for Fernando's. Sergio couldn't have picked up the phone if he'd wanted to, anyway - it's buried under piles of paper and canvas and splattered clothing. He opens the fridge for some milk, and Fernando's apologetic breathiness sends him quickly into a dull panic.
"Listen, Sergio - uhm -" There is a sharp intake of breath, something Fernando usually does before heaving out a laughing sigh. "This is ridiculous, I shouldn't have to..." Cue the laughing sigh. "Look. I think it's time you and I... parted ways. I mean, I've done everything you need me to do, and - well - there isn't really anything left. I wouldn't mind staying on, but... I should get a job, or - or something. Maybe get back to sculpting. I don't know. I... Sergio. I hope you know that I - I probably wouldn't have done it for anyone else. I mean, I didn't - enjoy it, the work." He chuckles. "It's one thing to help someone make something; it's another thing to make something yourself, you know? You can find someone else to help you out with the driving and the lifting and whatnot. I... If Guardiola tries to give you shit, just tell him that I left you, and not the other way around, alright? Play him this message if you need to. Just - God." He sighs heavily, and Sergio feels something tug inside of him, a pull at the back of a throat that wants - just a little - to lament. "I hope you know that I'm really, really grateful for everything you taught me. Honest, I wouldn't have done it for anyone else. I would have left as soon as I saw the front door, you know? But you made it worth it. I actually - I learned a lot. Ha," he chuckles again. "You really should play this to Guardiola, he'd have a fucking field day, listening to his biggest brat praise his rehabilitation scheme. God." Another sigh. "I really like you, Sergio. You're a good man. But I'm not - I'm not worth troubling yourself for." There is a short silence, in which the stillness of Sergio's breath rests uneasily. "Goodbye." Another pause. "I..." But Fernando clicks his teeth together and the line drops.
There is a long nothingness as Sergio stands looking down at the kitchen benchtop replaying what he's just heard. The message flashes in fragments. It's another thing to make something yourself. You made it worth it. You're a good man. He feels anything but, as the only thing whirring through his head is, 'Oh, God, he's told someone.'
Lost in his quiet, numbed shock and entirely self-absorbed fear, knowing that he should be moved to more than just that, that selfish terror, he pours milk into his tea and blankly watches the white slowly billow, until he's tapped on the shoulder, and turns out of a learned, habitual politeness rather than any curiosity or surprise.
"Oh. Martín." His voice is flat. "I didn't hear you come in."
"Well, you asked me not to be heard," Martín replies, as Sergio's eyes flick toward the back door through which the boy just entered.
They look at each other blankly for a few seconds, until Sergio says, "Martín? I... It turns out that I... don't need you anymore."
"Oh."
"You've done great, you really have," Sergio continues, lifting his hand to rest it on Martín's shoulder, making no other pretence at condolence. "But you've done all you need to." Martín says nothing, but looks vaguely disappointed, which startles Sergio into a further commiseration of sorts. "Look - I haven't forgotten my side of the bargain. I'll give you a call within a week about what we're going to do," he lies. "I promise."
"I hope so," Martín replies softly, resignation leaking a sigh into his voice. "Uhm... I guess I'll speak to you soon, then," he says awkwardly, making for the back door again.
"Yeah." Sergio looks down, before adding, "Wait. Your ID."
"Oh - right." Martín fishes around in his wallet and gives a card to Sergio before he leaves.
Sergio watches the door shut with the quietest of clicks, and closes his eyes heavily as he sinks back against his counter. Needing that tea more than he wants it, he reaches for the cup with one hand and, with the other, puts down the card that reads 'Name: SERGIO RAMOS' underneath the photo of young Martín's face.
* * * * *
Miguel nearly jumps out of his seat when he looks up and sees that the person shutting the door behind him is Carles Puyol. "What are you doing here?" he yelps. "Do you realise that if anyone saw you -"
"Relax," Carles says dismissively, pulling out the chair opposite Miguel's desk and lounging in it, the recline of man who has sat there many times before. "The detective just left Leo Messi's, and Guti's lurking around Iker's. No one's on my tail."
"How do you know he was at Leo's?"
"I was there," Carles shrugs. "A bunch of us went. We need our vino in the morning."
"You're so fucking careless," Miguel mutters, glaring. "What do you have to say here that couldn't be said over the phone?"
"Well, firstly, you can't offer me any scotch if I'm my living room, can you?"
Miguel rolls his eyes. "I don't do that anymore."
"Oh, sure," Carles snorts. "And Ruud's veins are clean, and Iker's ass is untouched. Leopard. Spots. Etcetera."
"What do you want?" Miguel asks wearily, glancing at the door for any sign of his eleven o'clock. "I'm expecting clients. Some of us actually do our jobs, you know."
"Well, that's why I came," Carles says, his voice taking on a melodramatic hush. "I went to the office yesterday evening -"
"Oh? For the first time in - how long?"
"I'd tell you to ask the receptionist, but she's the third one since I was last there," Carles shrugs. "They go through them pretty quick. Rafa Marquez just took paternity leave, so I thought, maybe he's got a little something exciting in his desk drawer, just wasting away while he's changing diapers."
"Exciting?" Miguel looks skeptical. "You work insurance."
"Under any other cirumstances, touché," Carles concedes. "But, I found some stuff on Beckham. Bingo, man, you have no idea."
"Paternity guy is Beckham's insurance agent?"
"Yeah, bragged about it all the time. Until Beckham got his brains blown out."
Miguel winces.
"Anyway," Carles continues, "I found some fascinating documents with the Albiol logo in the corner."
"Albiol Real Estate?"
"Uh-huh," Carles nods. "Turns out Beckham was planning to sell his house - you know, the cosy little one in that cosy little richest neighbourhood in the city?"
"I do know where Beckham lived, yes," Miguel replies tersely.
"Well, he was planning to sell the place! Get this - the day after he died, he was due to sign the papers and take off to Italy."
"Italy?" Miguel frowns. "Are you sure?"
"I hear it's nice there."
Miguel shakes his head, staring blankly down at his desk. "He didn't - surely he would have mentioned it to me, if he'd been planning to take off."
Carles shrugs. "Maybe he didn't want you to know. Like, an active lack of want for you to know. Don't be offended; it happens to the best of us."
Miguel breathes out deeply. "Are you serious? The day after he died?"
Carles nods. "Listen - I was thinking that maybe it had something or a little or a lot or everything to do with those notes he got."
"How do you know about them?"
"You and your friend Mr. Daniels told me. Remember? Around three in the morning, next to the toilet, bad smell in the air."
Miguel groans. "Carles - focus."
"I'm focused, man."
"This is big."
"I know, that's what I'm trying to say!" Carles exclaims. "I'm so excited, aren't you excited?"
"Buzzing."
"You don't look like you're buzzing. Isn't my excitemment palpable?"
"Probably too palpable," Miguel reluctantly answers, looking stressed. "But, Jesus, Carles -"
"Well, yours isn't palpable enough. Palp up."
"The - the police or someone should know about this."
"Have they been to see you?"
"Yeah, I told them about the notes."
"Did Guti come?"
"No, just the detective," Miguel lies.
"Shame."
"Why?" "Because," Carles shrugs, "I would have thought you'd be happy to see him."
Miguel remembers the complete lack of recognition that Guti showed when he showed up with Raúl earlier in the week, and, his heart a little heavier, he changes the subject. "It's got to be someone in the Union. It just has to be. Who else would have had any kind of leverage over Beckham?"
"Yeah, I thought the same. That's why I'm here."
"You should call a meeting, Everyone should know about this."
"I tried," Carles sighs, "but I can't reach anyone. I had a speech prepared and everything. It's a god damn circus, and I want an invite. Fabio and Michel are untouchable as always, and my God, if I don't want to want to fucking murder their PAs. Thierry just cut me off. Pep's apparently dealing with some sort of budget crisis."
"Probably spent too much of his new-found moolah on that pretty little secretary of his."
"I don't know what he sees in her."
"You're just bitter because she's got better hair than you."
"Don't be ridiculous," Carles replies with a straight face. "I might be bitter because she has him, but those feathers on her head have nothing on -"
Carles is interrupted by a ringing, accompanied by a flashing 'Line 1' on Miguel's phone.
"Mr. Torres?" sounds the voice of his secretary through the crackling speakerphone. "The Lampards are here."
"Yeah, okay, I'll be done in a minute."
"Make it a quick minute; they're causing a scene. Again."
Miguel rolls his eyes at Puyol as he hangs up. "Messy divorce. You should get out of here."
"Gladly."
"Listen - Carles," Miguel says as Carles makes to leave. "Thanks."
"No problem," Carles replies, flashing him another grin. "We're in this together, man."
* * * * *
Gerard wishes he could throw something more debilitating than a glare in Thierry's direction, but he supposes that using the expensive paintings that he's been hired to move as weaponry would count against him on his first day at work. He settles for a "What the fuck are you doing here?" to accompany his glower.
Thierry holds up a house key. "I called your boss. He told me you'd be alone and - not too busy to be disturbed." He steps over a half-filled crate and allows himself a seat on the arm of a recliner, opposite the picture-perfect view of a back garden he thought he'd never see again.
Gerard frowns, signaling the walls lined with art and the cabinets filled with antiquities that he'll have to pile into his truck. "He was wrong. I'm pretty fucking busy."
"Gerard," Thierry says bluntly, "I'm not going to stand here and pretend that you don't owe me, because Lord knows you'd be lifting weights fifty times heavier than those" - he signals the heavy vases in the corner of David Beckham's living room, that Gerard is yet to move - "in a sunny prison yard if it weren't for me. You're eating out of my hand, so don't tell me you're busy. I can make your life a whole lot busier if need be."
Gerard stares for a second, before scoffing. "Okay, is there any way you could rephrase that to make yourself sound like more of an asshole?"
Thierry fights the urge to roll his eyes. "Look, I'm not here to be an asshole -"
"Really? Because I don't think your mouth got the memo."
"I just -" Thierry pauses, inhaling deeply before stretching his mouth into a smile at which Gerard fights the urge to shudder. "I'm going to need that favour."
* * * * *
Raúl remembers the smell of the dog that leapt onto him, its tongue searching for his cheek, as Guti, behind him, laughed. What was it that Ramos had told him? Takes him a few visits before he gets used to someone. Raúl remembers Guti grinning as Ramos called the dog away. He remembers Fernando Gago's sudden appearance at the entrance to the Ramos' living room, unannounced by the German Shepherd who'd apparently only known him for a day or two.
He shakes his head and grits his teeth, Ramos' address on the list that stares up at him from his desk. Raúl knows that he was the only stranger in that house that day.
The list is a compilation of names, occupations and addresses, put together more haphazardly than Raúl would allow from anyone other than Gonzalo. He has been sitting at his desk for about an hour now, and as he waits for Gonzalo to bring him some coffee, he looks down at the names and tries to figure out what a school music teacher could have to do with a politician, what a painter could have to do with a media tycoon, and how a few revolvers could possibly link them together. He can't help but marvel at some of his own speculations as to who else could be Brass: his own boss, the new Chief of Police; the city mayor; owners of hospitals, museums, and huge shopping complexes; local film directors... The idea of these people being 'in cahoots', as Guti so delicately put it - it's enough to make Raúl's head fall into his hands, overwhelmed at the sheer magnitude of what he could be dealing with.
His head, now rushing with blood, wanders messily over to the guns of which Lionel spoke. It was clear that it was an inside job - wasn't it? Someone in the Union? Raúl sighs into his wrists. There is so much he doesn't know. To what extent will they protect each other? Are they really allied, or are there rifts between them? He remembers Cannavaro and Salgado, opposing electoral candidates, and his doubts skyrocket again. How do you break into a group of the most powerful people in the city, when any one of them could silence you with a threat, a promise - a gun?
But - and, for what must have been the hundredth time in the day, Raúl's heart beats tumble over each other - perhaps he doesn't need to break into it at all. Perhaps Guti is already inside, holding the key.
There is a cough above him, and Raúl lifts his head to see Gonzalo slam down a bowl of pasta with salad onto the list of names.
"You didn't need to do that," Raúl mutters. "And I was reading that sheet."
"Sorry," Gonzalo mumbles. "But you have that I-haven't-eaten look."
"You mean a frown?"
"No, you frown all the time, sir." Gonzalo smiles. "I'd call it more of an aura than a look, then," he says with a simple sort of innocence.
"You don't need to feed me."
"It was no problem - my mother had leftovers," Gonzalo assures him, though he blushes as he speaks. "It was either pour it down my friends' throats or the throats of the cats outside the restaurant. And between you and me, sir, they're getting a little fat."
"I'm your boss," Raúl says, managing to sound disgruntled despite his immediate gratitude as the fragrances of meat and basil and oregano and sundried tomato - but mostly meat - wake him from his stunned depression. "Fucking Raúl González. You're supposed to revere me, not pity me."
"You're my senior, not my boss." Raúl gives him a look, and Gonzalo sheepishly adds, "Sir."
Raúl sighs. "It's not me you should be worried about, anyway. It's Hernández."
"The sergeant?"
"Can you do me a favour?"
"Well - I - I just brought you food -"
"Doesn't make you exempt from work, scamp. Listen, find out everything you can about him. His family, where he's lived, where he's worked, who he knows here."
Gonzalo looks weary. "Do you want me to have him followed, too?" he asks somewhat sarcastically, though Raúl remembers all the times he has actually sent Gonzalo to follow people, and can't blame him for looking trepid. He allows himself a wry smile at Gonzalo's daring attempt at humour in his company.
"No," he assures his junior. "I was planning on doing that myself."
As Gonzalo raises his eyebrows, Raúl's phone rings. His heart sinks when he sees that the number is Guti's. "Are you going to get that, or shall I?" Gonzalo asks.
Raúl shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand at him. "Nah, you get on with that research."
Gonzalo retreats with something of a resigned shrug, and Raúl picks up the phone. His decision to dive into his pasta at the same time leaves his mouth too full to say 'hello'.
"Raúl? It's me." Guti sounds as excitable as always. "Iker Casillas is all motive and no alibi. He wasn't in when I went there, but Faubert was all tense and stammery and - I'm tellin' you, Casillas needs to hire himself some better minions, because I squeezed a whole lot of info out of him. The lawyer we saw the other day - Miguel Torres? Brass member. Also a Ruud van Nistelrooy, former tennis prodigy, fell off the face of the earth. Brass member. We need to find Iker, as soon as possible, now that we know about this Union. You heard what Xavi said about the guns - it's one of these guys, there's no point looking outside."
Raúl swallows. "No, I know." He pauses, listening closely to Guti's breath on the end of the line. He says slowly, "Beckham was in the Union, after all."
"Exactly," Guti replies rapidly. "'Til the day he died."
I heard he left it recently. Cut off his ties. Raúl remembers Lionel's words with the same stark accuracy with which he remembers most things. "Right, well, moving on," Raúl says, adopting his characteristic briskness. "I want you to go and talk to this Miguel Torres again, this afternoon."
After he hangs up, ignoring Guti's "Oh, sure. So... have you missed me today?", Raúl lifts his bowl to check a number on the list, and dials.
"Miguel Torres' office, how may I help you?" a friendly female voice asks.
"Listen, my name is DCI Raúl Gonzalez, and I came in to see Torres three days ago, with my sergeant. He's going to come in to see Torres again in a couple of hours. I need you to do something for me. Do you remember what he looked like? Blonde, tanned, waifish -"
"Yeah, I remember you both from the elevator."
"Oh. Good, great. I - can you do me a favour? Watch him for me. Take note of how he acts around Torres."
"How he acts?" She sounds skeptical.
"Anything you pick up on will be helpful, trust me. Just - things like whether he calls him 'Miguel' or 'Torres'. Whether they seem to know each other. Can you do that?"
"What's in it for me?"
She works for a lawyer, of course she wants something. "I will... give you money. Five hundred, straight up."
There's a pause before she speaks again, her voice warmer now. "How about a date? I know a great Mexican place. You looked like the spicy type."
Raúl freezes, glancing over toward the empty desks in the room. "Uhm - well - how about six hundred?"
"Come on," she coos, her voice like honey now. "You can give me the five hundred at dinner tomorrow night, 8pm. I'll be in the lobby of the building."
Raúl fights the urge to groan. "Okay," he manages to squeeze out. "Deal."
* * * * *
United we stand, divided we fall. Rubén tosses a glance over at the cover of the comic-book that he doesn't even have to look at anymore - he knows it as well as he knows every inch of his refuge. He has spent hours, days, weeks running his eyes over the same walls, with nothing to distract him but himself and his body's meagre protests for outside contact.
He is so hungry that every time he exhales, a half-second passes before his stomach churns. He dreads each breath for the noise. Sleep becomes impossible with such a cacophony of a body. But if he eats, there'll be more of him to grab on to. And what is finally his own, his alone, will become the prey of others' starved and lusting eyes.
He breathes in the conditioned air that hums, lonely, as it tumbles through the space of his room. The house is quiet today, but for the occasional whine of the German Shephard that longs to be taken out for a walk. Sergio's practised mornings of grunting and groaning were punctuated, a few hours ago, by the slam of his studio door, behind which Rubén visualises his friend slapping betrayal onto consoling canvases.
Fernando runs from Sergio, and the comfort of their presence abandons Rubén as everything else has already done. The pounds drop off, his tears no longer emerge for acknowledgement, and, for the past few months, the only knocks on his door have been by hands that drag him away from the comfort of his dark solitude and into the white, blinding chaos of strangers, and the threats woven into their unfamiliarity.
United. The Brass Union. Rubén scoffs, his breath stark and rolling in the silence. Nobody is united. Those he expected to stand with him fell away into the warmth of their own happy self-servitude, and he hasn't the time to count all the ways they would crumble if they dared take each other's hands. Look at Sergio, he thinks sadly. He rescued me, and now he's the one who needs saving.
He could wait for the gentle tug of loneliness to drag him, slouching, toward Sergio, toward an obligated comfort that made paint smell like disinfectant, and a smile like condescension. He could watch as Sergio drops everything to lift him up, and pretend to ignore how the strain makes his grip shake, how the burden lays a blanket of grim, determined numbness on his once luminous face. Or he could stop playing the victim and be the hero instead.
And what do heroes do? he asks himself hazily, eyeing the backpack he'd brought to Sergio's in the middle of the night just over a month ago and hadn't touched since. They fly.
| Part 6 |