The Tunnel Killer

By Felix Gomez Cabrita

Valverde del Camino, 2019. A serial killer leaves a third corpse with the same note in Huelva. It's the police's only lead. Three weeks and nothing.

Ángela Ramírez left Valverde after her mother's death, and now, convinced by her partner and her best friend from her youth, she will have to return to face her most difficult case, and not only that, but also her past. A past she thought she had left behind.

With the help of the Guardia Civil, Angela and Julieta, who dreams of becoming famous as a private detective, will have to find the murderer who has been tormenting the hitherto quiet Huelva for almost a month. And all this while solving something even more complicated than the crimes they're investigating - their own relationship.

From Huelva to Valverde and throughout the province, Angela and Julieta will have to trust each other more than ever to unravel the identity and motives that have led someone to murder three people with no apparent connection.

• Language: English
• Publisher: APS Books
• Release date: Dec 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223238423

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APS Books,

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United Kingdom

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Copyright ©2023 Felix Gomez

All rights reserved.

Felix Gomez 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 worldwide by APS Books in 2023

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the written permission of the publisher except that brief selections may be quoted or copied without permission, provided that full credit is given.

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

Prologue

The street lights fitfully stab the dark autumn night. Absolute silence reigns. All the neighbours sleep peacefully, oblivious to the event that will change the life of at least one of them, and perhaps the whole village.

In the early hours of the morning, the sound of a car engine breaks that silence. When the car, a grey family saloon barely noticeable because of the poor lighting, enters the small tunnel at the end of La Charca, it brakes, and a man, who could not readily be identified even if anyone was awake, sighs deeply. With the light inside the tunnel shining on him, - which bothers him enough that he has to narrow his eyes - the man steps out of the car, leaving the door open, walks slowly towards the back and opens the trunk door. A foul smell floods his nostrils, but he does not move, as if he were already accustomed to the stink. Inside the trunk can just about be seen a large lump, which the man unwraps with agile gloved hands, observes for a moment and lets it fall on the cold autumn asphalt with complete indifference. He then takes a small, square piece of paper out of the pocket of his brown jacket, bends down, folds it, and places it right underneath the package.

He gets up as if moved by a spring, climbs quickly into the car, starts the engine again and in less time than he took to sigh he has already left the tunnel, taking a last look through the rear-view mirror at the lump left behind on the ground.

The village of Valverde del Camino sees the dawns quietly, without much noise on one of those cold October mornings when nothing remarkable should happen. In the distance, you can hear the howling of an owl as the young people of the village wake up or are awakened to go to school, not knowing what will happen that day. Some wake with hope and others with fear and insecurity.

One of the second group is Santiago, a sophomore at ESO. Since last year a group of students two years older than him have mocked him almost every day because he wears glasses and braces. He has heard on TV and seen on the Internet that what they are doing is clearly bullying but he has not told his parents because they are always arguing with each other and sometimes he has seen his mother driven to tears so he doesn't want to worry her any more He has also thought about telling his teachers or those who watch the yard during recess, but the truth is that some of them have already witnessed situations that were uncomfortable for him and none of them did anything then to help him.

The only person who sometimes helps is Gloria, a third-grade girl who had herself worn braces until the previous year and been harassed for it. Gloria does what she an to defend him from the bullies and thanks to her, Santiago has felt a little safer in that place called the Institute, which for him has become a prison.

That day Santiago gets up discouraged, hoping only that those who bother him would pass the course and leave the Institute as soon as possible, for somewhere they could take the baccalaureate.

He races through his breakfast to see if he can catch Gloria on the way to class and leaves almost without saying goodbye to his parents, who are having breakfast without looking at each other.

wrong with the kid? the father asks in a low voice when he hears the door close.

I don't know, replies the mother, staring at her cup of coffee.

Santiago leaves the house well-wrapped against the autumnal chill in a black coat that looks a little big and a hat of the same colour that protects his ears from the cold. He looks to both sides of the street as he walks slowly, hoping to spot his protector, who lives on the same street. His heart pounds when he hears someone approaching and a few seconds later he runs into Gloria.

Good morning, Santi, says Gloria. Her voice is wetness to his ears.

Good morning, Gloria.

Is something wrong with you? the girl asks.

Behind her are the voices of the boys who have bullied Santiago and Gloria understood what was happening without him having to say anything. She told the boy to move faster, and when they reach La Charca, which they had to cross every day to go to school, they decide to cross through the dark tunnel so as to save time, Gloria holding Santiago's hand to encourage him to go faster. The young man feels a tingling in his hands and does not know if it is from fear or because a girl is holding his hand and he accelerates the pace of their walk.

Halfway through the tunnel, Santiago, staring at the ground, sees a human-shaped lump lying on the ground and both he and Gloria smell something strange, something seemingly rotten.

What's that? asks Santiago, pointing to the lump from which emanated such a foul stench.

He'll be homeless. Don't speak so loudly and let's get out of here, she whispers urgently.

To Santiago this is no place for a homeless man, and in any event there’s  no movement as they pass him. He lets go of Gloria's hand and touches the body of the man lying on the ground and sees that he isn't breathing.

I don't think he's alive, says Santiago.

What? Are you sure? Gloria looks into Santiago's big eyes, which keep staring at the body at their feet, and bends down to check if what her friend was saying is true.

As she does so, she realises too late that the smell, the stench of death, is much, much stronger than she had thought, and Gloria faints.

I

In a forest in the Maceda Valley, in the province of Orense, two women, seemed to be just strolling among the oaks and chestnut trees in their path, but as they walked they were looking for something. One of the women, the tallest of the two, is Ángela Ramírez, a name that, as Julieta said, is so ordinary for a person who is not ordinary at all. Ángela looks up all the time - it’s unimportant that strands of her long chestnut mane get blown into her big eyes green eyes - towards something that only she seems to see and, from time to time, she sniffs here and there, hoping to catch a scent that escapes her partner, Julieta, the private detective.

The detective, on the other hand, focusses on the gound, her own striking red mane partly masking  her face. She is looking for prints using the magnifying glass in her hand, which has the effect of making her small brown eyes look bigger than they are.

Julieta has been working with Ángela for several years now, solving crimes together.

This time, it’s a woman who called them in desperation, wishing to hire them to find her father, a 73-year-old man with Alzheimer's, a disease he was diagnosed with many months ago. The man went out for a walk a few days ago and hasn't been seen since. The daughter spoke to them the night before, distressed at the lack of clues to her father's whereabouts, promising to pay them for all the hours needed until they found him. Since their economic situation was not exactly buoyant, they agreed immediately and the next day, with the first few hours of daylight, they drove from the capital Orense, where they live, to the valley of Maceda, where the man was last seen and where, according to her daughter, he went for walks every day.

It is already past noon when Ángela thinks she detects something strange, albeit oddly familiar. Do you smell that? she asks trying to remember where she might have come across something like this before. Her voice sounds hoarse because they have been walking for a long time and had not brought water with them, assuming that they would find something sooner rather than later. Before the distinctive smell assailed her, she had been trying to find a place where there was a pond or a stream.

To Julieta, Ángela's voice sounds strange, accustomed as she is to her singing voice - that light Andalusian accent that she likes so much.

Ángela shivers and coughs.

No, I don't get anything, replies Julieta, looking up and sniffing, hoping to smell anything other than the forest vegetation.

You really don’t? You don't notice much, but there must be something there. Ángela is pointing to a road to the right of where they are. Are we going to look?

Sure, the only thing we have to lose is time, says Julieta.

They are about a hundred metres from the road when Julieta spots a clear set of footprints of a size that could correspond to those of the missing man. She bends down to take a closer look at them with the magnifying glass and is immediately fairly certain that they are a 43, the same size worn by the missing man as she had been able to verify earlier that morning when they had searched the old man’s room.

They did not normally deal with such cases as disappearances, but on the few previous occasions they had, they employed quite a unique methodology to search the room of the missing person. While Julieta focused on facts - what shoes the person was wearing and if the person had a diary or had mentioned talking to strangers or strange people in the days leading up to her disappearance, Ángela would smell any perfume in the room and handle any objects that had been in contact with the person before closing her eyes for a moment, tapping into an unusual wellspring of talent.

Ángela, look! Julieta points out the footprints.

Do you think they're from Justo? asks Ángela, carefully pronouncing the name of the missing man. It gives her a kind of prickle in her chest, although she doesn’t know why.

I think so. At least the person who left these has the same size foot as he does, and this doesn’t seem a very busy road.

You checked that when we were in his room? The shoes? Ángela doesn’t really need to ask. She already knows what the answer will be.

It seemed a very important when we have to look for a man in a forest and it hasn't rained in the last few days, Julieta says, pointing to the sun shining in the sky directly above them. I hope we find him soon. I can't walk much longer in this heat. She’s wearing short sleeves but jeans that she wishes she could cut off at knee level. She silently curses all those who deny climate change.

Heat? It must be twenty-five degrees. Well, let's follow the footprints; they seem to be taking us towards that strange smell.

Sometimes I forget that you’re Andalusian. I still don't smell anything other than the spruce or whatever's around here. Are you sure those little nostrils of yours aren't letting you down?

Ángela touches her nose, which seems suddenly larger than it was thanks to Julieta’s words.

Sure, as the morning precedes the night. Since we follow the footprints you saw on the floor, I’ve noticed it more... Ángela stops, without finishing the sentence. She has finally remembered where and when she last smelled something similar. It’s a memory she has tried to blot out.

What's wrong? Why are you stopping?

Ángela had hoped she'd never smell anything like this again. It’s the smell of death. Despite working with Julieta, she has never had to find a body again since leaving Andalusia several years ago but death had been the reason why she abandoned her home and the family she had left in the south; everything there reminded her of the loss of the person she had loved most in her life and of her killer. Traumatised she had fled as far north as she could, to a haven where she had hoped she would never have to go through anything like that ever again. Now here it was once more - death.

She can suddenly hear the strange screams in her head, bringing her back to what most people would wish never to see; her mother's lifeless body.

It takes her moments to recover her composure. To remind herself that this time it’s the body of a stranger, someone she has not known and will now never know. All that goes through Ángela's head while she’s standing, without even moving or blinking and it’s Julieta who pulls her out of her trance by gently shaking her.

Ángela, are you all right? Julieta’s right hand is on her friend’s shoulder, moving gently in a massaging motion.

He's...he's...I think he's dead, says Ángela, very quietly.

Are you sure? How can you know that?

I know because I just remembered where I smelled what you can't smell. It was a few years ago - before I met you. I think you know what I mean.

Despite the passing of the years, she still can't say it out loud. It hurts her to even think about it.

Yes, I know, says Julieta. She only knows the story because she read it in the papers long before she ever met Ángela in person. Do you know where the smell is coming from? Can you follow the trail? As she asks the question she’s looking closely at the ground but there are no more footprints, and even with the magnifying glass, she cannot see anything meaningful.

Yes, I can follow him, wherever he is. It shouldn't be too far.

As they walk, Ángela can’t stop herself thinking about everything that’s happened since her mother's tragic death.

Finding the body, she had immediately known who had done it and why and told the Civil Guard. A couple of officers questioned the person she named and cornered, he had ended up confessing under her watchful eye behind protective glass. With his confession and all the physical evidence they had against him, he would be in prison a lot longer yet which hardly mattered to Ángela. She had just wanted to get away from there, from the people who congratulated her for how brave she had been, from those who felt sorry for what she had suffered. She had just wanted to start over, to take her inheritance and go as far away as possible, leaving behind her home and her father, who she blamed for not being there when she needed him most.

She had gone north thinking that everything would be different; removed from the town where she had grown up and lived most of her life and where everyone knew her and recognised her as she walked the streets. The first few weeks it seemed like everything was going well, but soon she realised her mistake. With no one knowing her story and no qualifications beyond the Baccalaureate - she had left her degree course halfway through - she could not find a job and, having no income, would have soon run out of what little she had saved, which was not much.

One day, while walking aimlessly down the street, she saw a woman with a daughter who looked just like her. They had the same flat nose and an almost identical hairstyle - except for the colour. The woman was asking people passing by if they had seen their dog, a German Shepherd puppy, showing a picture of him she had on her mobile phone. At that moment, Ángela brought to mind a few words her mother used to say to her; Always use what you have to help others. Since she had left Valverde del Camino, she had so far refused to do so. She believed that what she had, what the women of her family had had for generations, was not a gift, but a curse, which had led her mother to her death and could lead her down the same path but seeing the grieving face of that poor little girl close to tears the ominous thoughts vanished and she decided to help especially as she had seen on the news that morning, that a storm was approaching the city, and if the dog was not found soon, something might happen to him.

So, Ángela went up to the woman and her daughter and told them that she might be able to help them.

Do you know where Tobby is? asked the woman. She had hair of a shade that Ángela had never seen before.

No, but I might be able to help. If you give me something the dog usually uses, I'll find him, Ángela said with all the confidence she could summon, trying not to look crazy.

Is this a joke? We don't have time for this, the woman protested.

I know you don't have time. It's going to rain soon and who knows what could happen to your dog. That's why I'm offering you my help. I know it's hard to believe, but I have certain skills...

Yes, of course you're psychic, aren’t you? I'm sorry, but I don't believe any of that crap.

I don't use that word. I don't like it at all. While we're here arguing, someone could be taking your dog far away. Don't you want me to help you find him? asked Ángela, this time addressing the little blonde-haired girl who was about to cry. Convincing the girl would make it easier to convince the mother as well. Young people always seem more open-minded to believing strange and different things, and she was offering something that was both.

Of course. Mom, let this girl help us, please! the girl implored her mother.

The mother turned with blank eyes, resigning herself to the stranger helping them.

Okay, you can do it. But even if you find the dog, I'm not giving you a euro, and I hope this isn't a joke.

Don't worry, madam, I'm not doing it for money. I just want to help, said Ángela very calmly. Do you have anything from the dog, anything he's touched recently?

The daughter went to her mother's car and came back with a small plastic toy shaped like a bone.

How long have you had it? asked Ángela.

He hasn't let it go since I bought it for him two months ago, the daughter replied.

I think that'll do very well.

She took the toy to her nose, smelled it, pulled it away, raised his head and smelled the street air deeply. She closed her eyes, turning in each direction until at one point the smell of the toy, which was that of the dog, became stronger. She saw in her mind how the first time they gave it to the dog he had bitten it very hard. She also saw that it had been buried several times.

Both the mother and daughter looked at the Andalusian woman as if she were a strange creature, but that was something Ángela was used to. I see the dog likes to bury it, she said.

Yes, that's true. How did you know that? asked the mother.

I just do, Ángela said

And did you see where Tobby is?

No, but I know which way he's going. Will you come with me, or would you like me to bring your dog here?

The mother hesitated for a few seconds before answering. I prefer to accompany you, and I warn you for the last time that if this is a joke you will have to deal with my husband; he’s a civil guard.

Don't worry, ma'am. I assure you it's no joke. We better get in the car; it might be a little too far to walk.

The three of them got into the woman’s car, with Ángela in the backseat right behind the mother guiding her, telling her which direction to take, when to turn and when to go straight. They'd been driving for ten minutes when Ángela told her to park because they were close to where the dog was and could walk the rest of the way.

The three of them got out. They were in an area just outside the city and mother and daughter looked at her without really knowing what to say. Ángela took the initiative and headed towards a house of humble appearance, with a rather old door, the windows a little dirty and the blinds on the second floor lowered. She knocked on the door and it was opened by a woman wearing a blue apron.

Hello. Good morning. You wouldn't happen to have found a dog this morning and brought it here? On the collar must be its name. It’s Tobby, said Ángela.

Yes. Are you the owner? asked the woman, who was about seventy years old, irritably. She had been preparing lunch before the bell interrupted her.

No, he’s not mine. It's this woman here and her daughter. Ángela pointed to the girl, looking expectantly at the old woman who had opened the door.

The daughter stepped forward, her cell phone in her hand.

Hello, I'm Rebecca. The dog you found could be mine. Does it look like this one? She showed the woman a picture of herself with the dog and the woman looked at it intently, as if she couldn't see very well. He ran away this morning while I was walking him.

Look, I told you not to look so much at the phone while you walk him. I'm Marta, her mother.

The old lady looked at the phone for a couple of seconds before nodding, confirming that she had Rebecca's dog. It's okay; today's girls are all like that; all day with their faces glued to a screen. Then she shouted Manolo, go get the dog!

I'm on my way! The voice came inside the house.

You'll have your dog here in a moment, darling.

Rebecca smiled from ear to ear, happy as never before at the thought of being able to get her dog back. Thank you very much, ma'am, she said to the old woman.

Oh, you don't have to. We thought we'd have to take it to the kennels this afternoon. So thank God you showed up now. What I don't know is how you found us so fast.

Just then Manolo appeared, a man about the same age as his wife, chubby and bald, with the dog tied to a leash. And indeed it was Tobby.

Remembering Rebecca's happy face at seeing her dog again, Ángela returns to reality, to the present, to the face of the woman who asked them to find her father. A very different face from that of the girl she had helped five years before.

Ángela and Julieta follow the path indicated by the smell, which seems to be taking them towards the ruined remains of  small house which looks as if it has been abandoned for many years. As they get closer the smell becomes stronger and stronger until Julieta is aware of it too.

Is this what you've been smelling? Shit, I don't know how you stand it.

I don't know either. I guess you get used to it, like everything else in this life, Ángela replies. Even death you can get used to, she thinks, although she has never wanted to get used to it.

Beside the house, they slow down, already sure what they will