Read Online Or the Bull Kills You by Jason Webster - Free Book Online Page B

Flores.’
    Flores looked the same as he had on the TV news the night before: heavily overweight, the kind of man who hadn’t seen his own penis without the aid of a mirror since the age of twenty-five. He was wearing a black suit with a pale green shirt and bright pink tie with a wide knot. His clean-shaven face was covered with a thin film of grease. He gave Cámara a limp handshake.
    â€˜I hope we didn’t wake you,’ he said.
    Ever since she’d been in power there had been stories about which one of her underlings the famously single Emilia was sleeping with. All part of an image that the former cabaret singer never seemed at pains to play down. These days her bed partner was Flores. Allegedly.
    â€˜Step inside,’ Emilia said.
    Cámara was shown into a large room with high windows looking out on to the main square outside. A Valencian flag – red, yellow and blue – was draped on the back wall, while photos of Emilia with visiting dignitaries were placed on all available tabletops and shelves: Emilia with King Juan Carlos, Emilia with the Pope, Emilia towering over the boss of Formula 1. Next to them were other shots of girls in traditional Valencian eighteenth-century costume, their hair in tight flat rolls on the sides of their heads, a golden comb placed at the back: the fallera beauty queens for each year Emilia had been mayoress of the city.
    Emilia walked round to behind her desk. Cámara sat down in one of the green tapestry chairs. Flores remained standing, his arms crossed.
    â€˜Drink?’ Emilia asked as she placed her large, skirted behind down on her black leather executive chair. She waved an arm at a cabinet where Cámara caught sight of at least a dozen bottles of malt whisky. He tried to make out if there was any brandy.
    â€˜1866,’ he said. ‘If you’ve got it.’
    Emilia motioned to Flores, who uncrossed his arms and paced over to the drinks cabinet. He poured a large measure, then brought it over, the brandy sloshing inside the glass as though desperate to get out.
    Emilia cleared her throat.
    â€˜Chief Inspector, I suspect you’ve guessed why I asked you to come.’
    Cámara nodded.
    â€˜The situation is…delicate,’ Emilia said.
    â€˜Because of the elections?’ Cámara asked, momentarily surprised at how innocent he could sound when he wanted to.
    Emilia smiled.
    â€˜That’s part of it,’ she said.
    â€˜Surely Blanco out of the way makes things easier for you,’ Cámara said more sharply this time. ‘He was, after all, the main reason behind the recent rise in bullfighting’s popularity.’
    There was a pause.
    â€˜Chief Inspector,’ Emilia started, ‘I hope you’re not insinuating—’
    â€˜You misunderstand me, Mayoress,’ Cámara said. ‘But perhaps we can clear something up: am I here to talk about the police investigation, or the politics of Blanco’s murder?’
    From the side of the room Flores seemed to twitch.
    â€˜You’re right,’ Emilia said after a pause. ‘We need to make ourselves clear.’
    She stood up and walked over to one of the windows, pulling back the blinds to gaze at the crowds quickly filling the square outside.
    â€˜We’ve got television crews here from CNN, the BBC, and channels I’m ashamed to say I’ve never even heard of. All sitting on our doorstep, all desperate for news about this killing,’ she said. ‘And while we appreciate the coverage the city is getting,’ she turned back to face Cámara, ‘this is hardly the image of Valencia we’re trying to get across. I’m sure you understand.’
    Cámara took another mouthful of brandy, and felt the ache in his ribs from the night before losing its edge for a few precious moments. The perfume and delicacy of an 1866 put it above the ones he usually drank – a Carlos III, or a Torres 10 – but it