The look was gone a moment later when her features quickly softened again. ‘Come on, let me show you around.’
The security guard on the door smiled for Eva then moved to the side to let her and Ryker through. They walked along narrow corridors before coming out into the stands of the theatre itself. Despite Ryker’s scepticism, he felt slightly awestruck as he looked out across the arena. It was every bit what he would expect to see of a gladiator’s amphitheatre from ancient Rome: bright yellow dust bowl in the middle, steep, sweeping terraces all around, with a strutted and tiled roof overhead.
‘See,’ Eva said with a warm smile. ‘I told you it was worth seeing.’
Ryker looked out into the middle of the bullring. Several boys – teenagers – were there, dressed up as matadors in tight-fitting and sequinned outfits. There were also two men. One was barking instructions. The other was standing by what looked like an oversized wooden wheelbarrow with bulls’ horns attached to the end.
‘They’re from the local bullfighting school,’ Eva said, answering Ryker’s unspoken question. He and Eva moved away from the stairwell and took a seat in the shade on the stone bleachers. ‘Usually they train in the school, on the farms. As a special treat every now and then I organise for them to come here and experience what it’s like to be inside the bullring.’
‘You organise it?’
Eva shrugged. ‘My father’s friend owns the bullring now. And more than one of the ranches in the region where the fighting bulls are reared.’
Ryker huffed but didn’t say anything in response.
‘I like to help people,’ Eva said.
It was as though the more times she said it, the more she truly convinced herself of those words.
‘And what about your father? And his friends? They like to help people too?’
‘They do good things. They make a lot of money for this region.’
‘Yeah. In the end it always comes down to money.’
Ryker watched as one of the young matadors moved away from the group. He was taking deep breaths, readying himself for action. The man with the cart moved to one side, giving himself some space from the young man who let down his red cloth that was attached to a long stick. In his other hand was a mock spear.
Seconds later, the man with the cart charged. Dust billowed upwards from behind. The boy stood, his spine straight like a dancer in pose, not a hint of movement in his legs, his arms, his torso. It looked like the cart was about to mow him down. Ryker found himself holding his breath.
At the last moment, the boy swept to the side, drew back the spear and went to stab it onto the top of the fast-moving cart. But he moved too late. The wheel of the cart caught his leg and sent him spinning into the air. There was an explosion of dust as the boy landed in a crumpled heap on the ground. One of his friends raced up to him to see if he was all right. The teacher simply bellowed at the young matador’s mistake.
‘Tough schooling,’ Ryker said.
‘Of course. A matador has to be prepared to risk his life.’
‘They don’t train with animals?’
‘They do. But not with fighting bulls. Every fighting bull only fights once. In the arena.’
Ryker raised an eyebrow.
‘The bulls are sent for tienta, testing, when they are about two years old, to test their aggression. Some are selected to fight. Others for breeding. Others are simply slaughtered for meat. But the ones selected for fighting, they never meet a man on foot until the day they fight. The mothers on the other hand, they are regularly tested with men to determine which will give the most aggressive bulls. It’s always said a bull’s fighting instinct comes from its mother.’
‘Not much fun for the bulls, though, right?’ Ryker said. ‘And the best ones, the ones selected for fighting, suffer the most.’
‘The bulls are treated very well their whole lives. Some people don’t like bullfighting. They say it’s cruel. But I think there’s far worse cruelty in the world than bullfighting. I admire the tradition. I admire the training the matadors go through, the way they put their lives on the line to entertain others. And if you’d ever seen a live fight, I’m sure you’d admire it too. It’s not just a sport, it’s an art form.’
As she spoke, the next boy in line had his turn against the cart. He fared much better, pirouetting on the spot as the cart sped past and landing a solid blow with his spear as he turned. Ryker had to admit the confidence and poise in the boy’s movements impressed him. The other students erupted in applause.
‘Do you want to see them?’ Eva said.
‘See what?’
‘The bulls. They’re here already. There’s a fight later today.’
‘I’d rather we got to the point. Cardo.’
Eva ignored him and got to her feet. Ryker followed, his irritation building. He was also feeling increasingly edgy, and stayed focused and wary as he followed Eva, keeping on the lookout for any hint that he was being set up.
They walked back to the stairwell and took a left, away from where they’d earlier entered. More corridors took them into a holding area. A narrow raised walkway ran along the middle, below which were various gated pens. The stench of piss and faeces filled the air, and the noise of several aggressive bulls – snorting, rustling, banging – echoed against the stone walls.
Ryker stepped to the edge and looked down at the sorry beast below him. It was massive, far bigger than he'd imagined. He certainly wouldn’t fancy standing nose to nose in the ring with that thing. Even worse would be to fall into the enclosed pen...
Ryker’s suspicion grew. He straightened up and instinctively brushed his hand against the Colt in his waistband.
‘Quite something, aren’t they?’ Eva said. ‘Before the fight, men will stand up here, shouting at them, poking them with sticks, making them angry.’
‘One last humiliation before it’s time to die.’
‘You’re still not convinced about this?’
‘No. I’m not. I think I’ve had enough of the tour now. You said you needed to talk.’
‘Your snooping is putting you in danger,’ Eva said, her sudden, blunt statement surprising Ryker.
‘In danger of who?’
‘I’m not the problem here. Nor is my father. We’re a good family.’
‘Eva, I’ve been in this game long enough to tell the good guys from the bad. You’re young, you’re impressionable, I’m sure you’ve got a good heart. But you do know more than you’re letting on – about whom your father is working for and why Kim Walker was killed. And why Inspector Cardo was killed.’
‘That’s the thing, though. Cardo really was a shock.’
‘How so?’
‘I’m telling you what I heard. This isn’t my world. I wish I didn’t know anything.’
‘You keep saying that. I don’t care. Just tell me what you know.’
‘Cardo was dirty.’
‘I guessed that.’
‘He had been for years.’
‘And I’m sure there are many more like him.’