Read Online Or the Bull Kills You by Jason Webster - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jason Webster
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come to an end. Valencia, rich, clean and prosperous, wanted to put forward a different face to the new wave of visitors, usually exploring the city for the first time. The bullring, that temple of death at its heart, would be converted into a shopping complex and open-air concert hall for some of the worldâs top rock bands, front-men with bug-eyed spectacles and spiky hair all too happy to promise an appearance in the name of humanity once the killing had officially been stopped.
Of course it had been easier to make this promise a couple of years back, when the policy was first presented. Bullrings across Spain appeared to be in terminal decline then; ticket sales had never been so low. Some bullrings were even talking of closing for good. Back then some had seen Mayoress Delgadoâs move as bold and cutting edge, a certain vote winner among those most lethargic of voters, the under-thirty-fives, whose support she would need if she were to hold on to power. Others commented that she was merely killing off an already moribund tradition.
But all that had changed when Blanco made his dramatic comeback. Seats high up in Sol â the sunny part of the bullring, and hence the cheapest â usually sold for around twenty euro. Now they were changing hands on the black market for as much as six hundred.
Cámara only read newspapers once in a while, and he avoided the TV news if he could, but the proposed ban on bullfighting had been one of those stories that was hard to miss. Would the plan work to help Mayoress Delgado win a record fifth term?
Cámara glanced at the slowly moving hands on the wall. It was almost one oâclock. The girl was tapping her fingers on the desk and sucking at a biro while concentrating on her papers. A fly had found its way up to the hall from outside and was buzzing above their heads with a steady, monotonous drone. Cámara watched its triangular flight pattern as it stayed in a central patch of space, never moving from an invisible cage it seemed to have constructed for itself, flying and flying around the same point: following a straight line for a second or two, then turning sharply and cutting back â the same pattern repeating itself again and again. It was odd: neither food, nor water, nor searching for other flies appeared to be on its mind, preferring instead to remain trapped in a world of its own making.
Cámara moved towards a small sofa nearby to sit down; he felt his body sink into the cushions, the weight easing from his back as he crossed his fingers over his stomach and stared up at the high ceiling. As he relaxed he realised that for a moment he had almost allowed himself to be rushed, as though much depended on him getting through this and heading back to the Jefatura as fast as he could. In fact, when he thought about it, he was sure that was far from true. Seeing how late it was now, and how close to lunchtime they were, he allowed himself to slip into a late-morning lull, listening to the sound of the Town Hall clock bell as it chimed. Torres could take care of things with Aguado. If Pardo was right, heâd be singing his confession in full any time now. Just another crime of passion, like the others.
He closed his eyes as a door opened and the sound of footsteps came from across the hall.
âChief Inspector?â
He stood up and saw the familiar face of Emilia Delgado beaming at him, with just the slightest of reactions when she caught sight of his split lip. Her face was blotchier than in the photos, Cámara noticed. Perhaps the rumours of her heavy drinking and smoking were as true as the ones about her private life.
She stood where she was, waiting for him to walk over to her, then held out a hand framed by heavy gold bracelets; Cámara shook it, and they gave a self-satisfied rattle.
âIâm so glad you came, Chief Inspector,â Emilia said, her voice deep and husky. âThis is my campaign manager, Javier
Of course it had been easier to make this promise a couple of years back, when the policy was first presented. Bullrings across Spain appeared to be in terminal decline then; ticket sales had never been so low. Some bullrings were even talking of closing for good. Back then some had seen Mayoress Delgadoâs move as bold and cutting edge, a certain vote winner among those most lethargic of voters, the under-thirty-fives, whose support she would need if she were to hold on to power. Others commented that she was merely killing off an already moribund tradition.
But all that had changed when Blanco made his dramatic comeback. Seats high up in Sol â the sunny part of the bullring, and hence the cheapest â usually sold for around twenty euro. Now they were changing hands on the black market for as much as six hundred.
Cámara only read newspapers once in a while, and he avoided the TV news if he could, but the proposed ban on bullfighting had been one of those stories that was hard to miss. Would the plan work to help Mayoress Delgado win a record fifth term?
Cámara glanced at the slowly moving hands on the wall. It was almost one oâclock. The girl was tapping her fingers on the desk and sucking at a biro while concentrating on her papers. A fly had found its way up to the hall from outside and was buzzing above their heads with a steady, monotonous drone. Cámara watched its triangular flight pattern as it stayed in a central patch of space, never moving from an invisible cage it seemed to have constructed for itself, flying and flying around the same point: following a straight line for a second or two, then turning sharply and cutting back â the same pattern repeating itself again and again. It was odd: neither food, nor water, nor searching for other flies appeared to be on its mind, preferring instead to remain trapped in a world of its own making.
Cámara moved towards a small sofa nearby to sit down; he felt his body sink into the cushions, the weight easing from his back as he crossed his fingers over his stomach and stared up at the high ceiling. As he relaxed he realised that for a moment he had almost allowed himself to be rushed, as though much depended on him getting through this and heading back to the Jefatura as fast as he could. In fact, when he thought about it, he was sure that was far from true. Seeing how late it was now, and how close to lunchtime they were, he allowed himself to slip into a late-morning lull, listening to the sound of the Town Hall clock bell as it chimed. Torres could take care of things with Aguado. If Pardo was right, heâd be singing his confession in full any time now. Just another crime of passion, like the others.
He closed his eyes as a door opened and the sound of footsteps came from across the hall.
âChief Inspector?â
He stood up and saw the familiar face of Emilia Delgado beaming at him, with just the slightest of reactions when she caught sight of his split lip. Her face was blotchier than in the photos, Cámara noticed. Perhaps the rumours of her heavy drinking and smoking were as true as the ones about her private life.
She stood where she was, waiting for him to walk over to her, then held out a hand framed by heavy gold bracelets; Cámara shook it, and they gave a self-satisfied rattle.
âIâm so glad you came, Chief Inspector,â Emilia said, her voice deep and husky. âThis is my campaign manager, Javier
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