Bacchus

By Esteban Navarro Soriano

A businessman from Barcelona is murdered in the town of Canfranc, near the French border, with a gunshot to the head. The police arrest an immigrant from Somalia, who is caught with the gun inside the house. The corpse has a wine glass with the word "Bacchus" tattooed on its abdomen.

Drago, the public defender, who is called to defend the Somali, suspects that the accused is innocent and that in reality he has been framed for the crime. And, drawing on his experience as an ex-cop, he embarks on an adventure through Barcelona, trying to find out who was the man who was murdered and why someone would want to kill him.

In the first inquiries he discovers that since 2016, every year, without fail, someone dies with a tattoo identical to the one on the man from Canfranc. And, in every case, an immigrant has always been arrested as the perpetrator of the crime

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Apr 4, 2024
• ISBN: 9781667472539

Book preview

BACO

Esteban Navarro Soriano

Esteban Navarro Soriano. June 2023

https://relinks.me/EstebanNavarro

Correction: Ester Soteras

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events or facts are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to reality is merely coincidental.

To Ester and Raul

To cousin Leo

Always in our memory

Always in our hearts

Chapter 1

Barcelona. Year 2016

His name is Biel. He was born in 1974, is 42 years old and comes from Badalona, a town in the province of Barcelona. But it is so big - two hundred thousand inhabitants - that it looks like a city. It is Monday, February 8 and, like every weekday, for several years he has been walking from Cervantes street in Badalona, where he lives, to Muntaner street in Barcelona, where the bank office where he works is located.

He lives with his family in a two-story house that he inherited from his father. His comfortable economy could allow him to live in another house and on another street, but he feels comfortable in the neighborhood where he was born, with the neighbors he has always known, since he was a child. Biel is, as everyone says, a family person and a homebody. When he's not working, he shops in the neighborhood stores, frequents the restaurants and cafes where he lives, visits the library and the two bookstores across the street from each other, and has been seen accompanying his daughters to school, where he talks with other parents.

He is tall, six feet five inches, and plays sports regularly. His torso is athletic and he has no belly. He looks tanned, since he likes the beach and the swimming pool, when the good weather arrives. He has short, black hair, matching his eyes. He is a successful man. He   finished university and graduated in Business   Administration and Management. His father, now deceased, left him the house in Badalona, a chalet in Malaga and a block of apartments in Punta Umbria, which he has rented out and which produce substantial profits for him. He also left him a large current account, with a sufficient balance to live comfortably. The tycoon knew how to be equitable in the distribution of the inheritance and placed his four children. But of all of them, Biel is the only one who has followed in his footsteps, working in the bank founded by his father, although the board of directors is different. But they appreciate him because he is a man who, for as long as they have known him, has never been in trouble. They have said of him that he doesn't even have parking tickets.

This morning he is dressed in his navy blue suit and black tie with matching yellow lines. Since he cut his shaggy hair, he doesn't waste as much time as he used to soaking it in cologne to comb it. She   drives an Audi Q7, which she parks in the garage on the first floor of her house. It is a car with a powerful engine, which he bought in cash with part of his father's inheritance. He drives slowly, because he doesn't want to exceed the speed limit on the route between Badalona and Barcelona. At fifteen minutes past eight, if there are no setbacks, he has to open the BielBank office for the public, where he has been the director for the last twelve years, when his father, the then president of the bank, appointed him. He owes everything, or almost everything he is, to his father.

But it was not always like that. Years ago, when he turned twenty and learned that he was exempt from military service due to a quota surplus, he got a tattoo that he later regretted. The tattoo is in the middle of the back of his neck, right between the collar of his shirt and his hair. It is a glass of wine, simulating, with red ink, that is half full, in whose mouth is written the word Bacchus. His wife asked him the reason for this tattoo and he did not know how to answer her. Or he didn't want to. Or he thought the answer would upset her. He told her that when we are young we all do crazy things and that tattoo was one of them. They didn't talk anymore, because it meant talking about something he wanted to bury in oblivion, in that place where things that should never have happened are. The tattoo is the only trace that remains of his most forgettable past, an ink stain that tarnishes the back of his neck like a bad omen. It has become a shadow hovering over his head, like a black raven that flies over the battlefield, where rotting corpses wait for the rain to wash away the remnants of barbarism. A doctor from Via Augusta, whom he knows well, asked him if he could remove it. And he told him that erasing it in that area was not exempt from leaving a scar. Nor did he think it was a good idea to cover it with a different tattoo. He had become accustomed to it, because it was only visible in the summer or at the gym, since the collar of his shirt or coat covered it up. People who knew him rarely asked him about the tattoo, but he knew it was there, on the back of his neck, on his back, on his conscience.

Those years, from the age of eighteen to twenty-four, were turbulent for a restless  personality, such as hers was. And the company was not good either. She stopped seeing her friends a long time ago. He doesn't even know anything about them. Nor what they do. Nor what they do. Nor if things are going well for them. He does not want to meet them again because he does not want the past to catch up with him and contaminate the good relationship he has with his wife and daughters. His wife, if she were to find out the truth, would hardly forgive him. Things like this are difficult to forget, especially for a woman.

Immersed in his thoughts, he has just joined the Gran Vía de las Cortes Catalanas, which will take him to the Muntaner street branch. On the radio he listens to his favorite program, where the news is on. The announcer says that it will be very cold and that drivers should take precautions on the road, as there is danger of heavy frost. They are talking about the earthquake in Taiwan, where more than 120 people have died. The arrest of Chapo Guzmán, after his escape from prison. And the investiture of the new president of the Generalitat of Catalonia, number 130, Carles Puigdemont.

He hasn't noticed, but two cars behind him, about twenty meters away in a straight line, is a red Ducati Multistrada 1200   motorcycle. That motorcycle has been following him for some time now, ever since Biel left his garage. It is not the first time he has followed it, although each time he follows it with a different motorcycle. It has been following him for several weeks. It started in December last year and, since then, he has been doing the same route almost every day, from Monday to Friday, behind the Audi Q7. The motorcycle zigzags between several cars, changing lanes frequently, to follow behind Biel. It has nearly collided with a delivery van. The driver has put his left hand out of the window and extended his middle finger. From the motorcycle there is no response, only a look hidden behind the opaque screen of the helmet. A soulless look that says much more than any scream.

The two vehicles, the Audi Q7 and the Ducati, have stopped in parallel in front of a traffic light on Muntaner street. On the left is the turning lane to Paris street. On the right is the bus lane. In the center, the drivers wait for the traffic light to turn green. Biel caresses the steering wheel with both hands. He has a lot on his mind, because there are two meetings today, and one is very important. But he's happy, because it's been a good weekend with his wife and daughters. Behind them so many vehicles are piling up that they even reach the previous intersection. There are many pedestrians on the sidewalk. It is rush hour and the street is full of cars, cabs, delivery trucks and buses. And it is very cold.

In that instant there is one thing Biel doesn't know. In fact, nobody knows it. And that is that the Ducati was stolen the day before. The rightful owner is not yet aware that someone took it from the garage where he has parked it since he bought it. It is a good motorcycle, with a powerful engine, that can run, if it is necessary to do so. The owner won't know until nine o'clock, when he goes to get the Ducati and sees it's gone. But by then, the thief will be long gone and Biel will be dead.

From the motorcycle he watches it with the corner of his eye, while he calculates how much time he will need to start and ride in a hurry to Calle de la Cera. During off-peak hours he knows he can get there in fifteen minutes, or even less. But with so many cars on the road, he can just slip between the cars. In that street there is a garage on the first floor of a house, in a state of ruin, where he can shelter the Ducati without arousing suspicion. Nobody lives upstairs. And on both sides there are houses, also abandoned. It is a neighborhood of silences.

With his right hand he pulls a Beretta 92FS from inside his leather jacket. He makes sure that his gloved finger rests firmly on the trigger. The gun is mounted and all he has to do is aim and fire. He tilts the motorcycle slightly to the left to get as close as possible to the passenger window of the Audi Q7. The height is practically the same, so the shot will be fired in a straight line. He knows he runs the risk that the projectile, once through his head, will shoot out the other side and hit a pedestrian. But this does not worry him, because he is aware that he will not miss the shot. He has experience in handling firearms and to date has rarely missed a shot, much less at such a short distance.

The pedestrian traffic light starts flashing. A few more seconds and the Audi Q7 will dart off and miss an opportunity, which he believes will take time to happen again. That's the day, that's the place and that's the moment he's been waiting for weeks. The gun builds a right angle between hand, arm and shoulder. And the driver of the Audi has twisted his head slightly to the left, to gaze raptly at two young girls walking hurriedly as they wave their hands. A line is drawn between the barrel and the back of Biel's neck. The biker pulls the trigger and the projectile impacts against the glass of the passenger window and hits the back of the banker's neck, right in the middle of the tattoo. The color of the gushing blood mixes with the red of the wine glass. The driver's window and a window of a store on the other side are fractured. But the Ducati doesn't stop to check for collateral damage. The objective, the one he has been planning for weeks, has been achieved. He accelerates and makes his getaway, just as he had planned. By the time the police reach the intersection where the man in the Audi lost his life, he is already far away.

It has only taken him seventeen minutes to reach the garage. He gets off the motorcycle and, without turning off the engine, raises the shutter, which is not closed. He makes so much noise that he can be heard from the store across the street, a bazaar run by an Algerian who sells telephone accessories. At that moment, inside the store, there is a nineteen year old boy, rickety, with short hair, a wide nose, with jagged teeth, who looks with devotion at the motorcycle hidden in the garage, while the shutter descends rapidly.

His name is Jamil and he crosses the street with the speed of hunger and withdrawal. He checks that the shutter has no lock or padlock. Whoever was driving the Ducati has already walked away and is lost at the first corner. He hasn't even looked back. Jamil bends down. He grabs the knob of the shutter with both hands and lifts it to the height of his knees. His build is slim enough that he will be able to get under it without too much effort. He rests his hands on the concrete and crawls inside.

In  the dim light from the street, he contemplates the splendor of a magnificent Ducati Multistrada 1200. He knows it's a very expensive bike, perhaps worth around twenty thousand euros. And he can get a good deal on it second hand, which would solve his problems for the next few weeks. He approaches with the intention of looking in the cases. He notices that there is something on the saddle, although he can't quite make it out. It is a lump of metallic color, which gives off a shine so strong that it looks like steel. Too big to be the magnetic key with which he should be able to start the engine.

-What the hell is this! -he exclaims when he sees what it is.

He reaches out his hand, which trembles, and picks up a pistol. He lifts it up. He contemplates it as if it were a relic. He has never seen one like it, it is beautiful. At that moment he does not know that it is a Beretta 92FS, one of the best pistols in existence. The inside of the garage, which is barely five square meters, where only the Ducati fits, is darkened. The reason is because there are several legs on the sidewalk that prevent light from entering. The shutter is suddenly raised and several guns are pointed directly at his chest.

-One move and we shoot," says one.

Jamil recognizes the police uniforms and leaves the gun where it was: on the seat of the Ducati. They throw him to the ground, turn him upside down and place the shackles on his wrists.

-You are under arrest for murder! -shouts the one who looks like the boss.

Chapter 2

I met Nuria the same year of the Olympic Games in Barcelona, 1992, when our families met for the first time during a few summer days in the same hotel in Cambrils, where we all went to spend the summer. At that time, she was twelve years old and already stood out as an introverted and sad girl. I confess that, despite the age difference, I was fifteen, I saw her beautiful.

His family was from Barcelona. His father, at the time, was stationed as a city guard, and his mother ran a small perfume shop on Aribau   Street. We were from Huesca, my father worked at the court as an administrative assistant and my mother was a civil servant in the Government of Aragon.

For the people of Huesca, our beach is Salou or Cambrils, because both towns are just over two hundred kilometers from Huesca, about two and a half hours by car, and they are the closest beaches we have. It is common for many families, who do not have the resources to stay in a hotel, to travel in a single day. They leave in the morning, spend the day on the coast, and return in the late afternoon. But this was not our case, as we went to the beach two weeks in a row, usually in the second half of July.

Our first contact with Nuria's family was at the hotel restaurant, when the six of us sat at the same buffet table. We had so many things in common that we immediately hit it off: similar ages of the parents; only child, in both cases; similar jobs and social and economic level. My mother sat across from Nuria's mother. My father, in front of hers. And I, in front of her. Our parents were talking in a relaxed way, while I only managed to get out of the girl some clear, okay or aha, aha, while she was swinging her small head without much encouragement and covered with two black pigtails, which were lost in a smooth and brown back. It seemed that this spoiled child had not the slightest interest in what I could tell her. In the meantime, she would take little bites of the little spine book and put it in her mouth, chewing it slowly. On one occasion, when our eyes met, he made a sort of grimace on his lips. As if he wanted to smile, but couldn't bring himself to do it. His eyes were huge, compared to his delicate face, and gave off a kind of dull glow, as if the crystalline was matte. There was something sad in her eyes that I could not interpret, as if she would never achieve happiness, no matter what she did. After lunch, in the bedroom, my parents said that the girl seemed to lack a boil. And I agreed with them in their assessment.

The following year, 1993, our respective families stayed at the same hotel again. They arrived a couple of days earlier and we met them in the dining room, since we all had the habit of eating first thing in the morning, to avoid the queues that formed later. I had turned sixteen and was immersed in a stupid adolescence, the one where you think you can eat the world. In this second year I looked at Nuria with a mischievous look, as if she were that summer fling that high school classmates talked so much about. Even my father noted the girl's growth over the last year, when in the room he said:

Phew! These babies grow tits before they grow teeth.

Nuria had become a very attractive woman, who exuded sensuality from every dark pore of her skin. I admit that seeing her constantly dressed only in shorts, a bikini top, and flip-flops, gave me a euphoria that I had to mitigate daily in the shower room.

Our families began not only to coincide at lunch and dinner, but we also shared moments on the beach in the morning and on the promenade in the evening. I remember that, after dinner, the six of us would walk towards Salou, mingling with the huge number of tourists that populated the streets. Before starting the way back, we used to sit on a terrace run by some Englishmen and our parents would have a cocktail while we had a soft drink.

One morning, my father gave me money to rent a pedal skate, which was shaped like a car and, together with Nuria, we were pedaling until we reached a rocky breakwater that was about a hundred meters from the shore.

Don't go too far away, my mother warned.

But we ignored him and moved so far out that the people on the sand looked like little specks of dust on a pane of glass. We anchored the skate between two rocks, careful not to be carried away by the few waves, and sat down on a huge, flat rock. It was there, under the scorching July sun, when Nuria, out of the blue, kissed me on the lips. The girl came closer, caressed my chin with her right hand and, without a word, plunged her mouth into mine. I was surprised by this unexpected outburst of passion from a thirteen-year-old teenager. I had barely kissed two girls before, and I had no experience, although to kiss you only need the desire to do it and the heat of the moment. But Nuria kissed me as if I had kissed a lot before. Just imagining that her experience came from having kissed other girls her age gave me a rush that plunged me into unbridled passion.

The next two days I was looking for her to catch her alone and go further in that first kiss, but she was stubborn and avoided me, as if she could distinguish my intentions. I felt as if she regretted that momentum she put into the first and only kiss we had. Even the last night, when our families went on a trip to Salou, she didn't come. Her mother excused her, saying she was feeling unwell and had stayed in the hotel room. I began to think that the experience for her was not a good one and she did not want to continue with me.

The next day we all said goodbye in the parking lot, next to our respective cars, with a see you next year. Our fathers shared a cigarette, commenting on the work that awaited them when they returned, while our mothers exchanged phone numbers. Nuria and I remained silent, without looking at each other's faces, ashamed, as if that kiss on the rocks had been an impure act of which we were not proud. We must remember that at that time she was thirteen years old and any relationship we had had would have had legal costs. But I, with the heat of adolescence, did not even think about the legal consequences that a romp with her could have.

During practically the whole winter I was thinking about that moment of pleasure on the rocks and about what could have been and what was not. My only thought was for the next summer to come so I could have my first sexual intercourse with her. But that year, unfortunately, was the last I saw of her. The following year they did not return to the hotel where we met. A pity, because that girl attracted me enormously.

Chapter 3

In 2018, twenty-five years after that fleeting encounter on the beach, I met again with Nuria at the police station in Jaca, in the province of Huesca. And not only had the years passed, but the circumstances of our lives had changed: at that time she was a national police inspector and I was a public defender.

It was strange to see her there because, from what I knew about her, her parents were from Barcelona, three hundred and forty kilometers from where we were, and I didn't know how long she had been in the police force, but there were so many cities with police stations between Barcelona and Jaca that she would have gone there voluntarily. But I knew, from my experience in the police, that sometimes promotions entailed the annoying transfers and all that they entailed: distance from the family, a different environment than usual and, depending on which cities, exorbitant prices of rents or, as the case may be, of the purchase of housing.

I recognized her immediately, just by glancing at her. Her hair was short and black, with a fringe that covered her eyebrows, as if she were an actress from the eighties. And I couldn't remember ever seeing a woman who looked so good in jeans tucked into high boots, almost covering her knees, which looked beautiful. But among all the virtues that I perceived in her, I would highlight her rejuvenated appearance. There was no way she looked like she was thirty-eight years old.

-Nuria? -I asked with astonishment, when I saw her crossing the lobby of the police station with a hurried step.

At that moment I remembered the famous expression that the world is a handkerchief, which dates back to the time when the first world maps were mapped on cloth. The fact that the whole planet could fit on a small piece of cloth gave rise to a phrase that was repeated every time we coincidentally met someone with whom we should not meet.

She slowed down, but without stopping her pace, showing that she was in a hurry, and gave me a sidelong glance, wrinkling her forehead.

-Cambrils? -was his answer, barely turning slightly to run his brown eyes over my straight hair.

I felt a kind of pang in my side when I realized that Nuria might not remember my name, but she remembered the place where we had met a quarter of a century before. I was as cold as the regional road linking Huesca and Jaca, where I drove for almost an hour, while the tires of the Opel Astra tore noisy clicks to the whitish frost of that Saturday, November 24, every time I took a curve.

Then he finally stopped, unfolding his silhouette in front of me.

-Are you the boy from Huesca?

-Yes, it's Drago, I said emphatically, How long has it been? 25 years?

Nuria wrinkled her eyes, as if she was mentally locating why after so many years the two of us were back together in a situation so different from the one we met when we were teenagers.

-Are you in Jaca?

-No, in Huesca. Are you a policeman? -I asked with a goofy look.

She stopped her gaze on my bushy, if somewhat unkempt, beard. And she ran her eyes over my long, tousled hair.

-Inspector, he said smugly, And you, are you a lawyer?

-Guilty! -I forced a smile.

-Are you here for Musa?

I knew that Musa was the name of the detainee I had to assist, because I was told so by the Bar Association when they called me in the early hours of the morning. And, since there was probably only one, it was clear that I was there for him.

-Right, I said, Did you stop it?

-We have stopped it, yes.

-I didn't know you were stationed in Jaca," I said, looking for a bit of conversation with her. To tell the truth, I didn't even know you were a policeman.

-And why did you need to know? -he asked in turn, his expression as cold as an iceberg. His gaze reminded me of the sharks in documentaries when they corner their prey.

I understood that I had to measure my next words well, at the risk of sounding like an asshole.