Free Or the Bull Kills You by Jason Webster

felt wasted here; it was best savoured alone, at home listening to Enrique Morente singing a Seguirilla , finding gaps between notes that no one else even knew existed. For Cámara he was still the greatest flamenco singer alive – one of the very best there’d ever been.
    Emilia continued.
    â€˜All eyes are on whether we – or rather you – can resolve this as…painlessly as possible.’
    Cámara stared down into his brandy, not wanting them to see into his eyes. Did they know that Aguado had been picked up? If so, why all this?
    â€˜Reputations are at stake,’ Emilia said.
    From his position near the drinks cabinet, Flores spoke up.
    â€˜All we’re asking, Cámara, is that you don’t screw it up.’
    Cámara looked at him. He’d been trying to work out what kind of animal the man reminded him of, and now he could see it: an overfed bull terrier.
    â€˜I appreciate your concerns, but there seems to be some mistake,’ Cámara said, turning to Emilia. ‘This is a Policía Nacional case. We take orders from the Ministry, not the Town Hall.’
    â€˜It’s my job to think about what’s best for Valencia,’ the mayoress said, ‘and it’s yours to solve crimes, Chief Inspector. What we’re hoping for is a degree of…harmony between those two objectives. I know I can count on you. I am a very good judge of character.’
    â€˜We’re watching this case,’ Flores barked.
    â€˜Now I would offer to refill your glass,’ Emilia said, ‘but we are rather busy, as you’ll appreciate.’ She looked at the gold watch on her wrist. ‘The mascletà will be starting soon.’
    Cámara got up to leave: he had a murder case to solve; she had to oversee the lunchtime firecracker display. Emilia stood up, smiled and shook his hand firmly from behind her table. Flores stayed where he was.
    Cámara walked to the door and let himself out.

Five
    A bullfighter is never a coward, although, sometimes, he can experience an indescribable sensation of fear
    Victoriano de la Serna
    Cámara walked down the white cement steps to an annex section of the building. When Montesa had been designing the place, this area had been intended as storage space for the art museum. Now it served as the interrogation rooms of the new Jefatura.
    Aguado was being interviewed in Room 2/N. Cámara peered in through the small, wired glass window at the top of the door and saw a youngish man, perhaps in his late twenties, slightly built with a pale face and straight black hair, wearing jeans and a white shirt, a black belt with a silver eagle buckle shining from the reflection of the strip light above. He looked wounded, but resolute.
    Torres had his back to the door. From the shape of his shoulders, Cámara could tell things weren’t going well. He knocked twice, and without looking round, Torres got up and came outside.
    â€˜I need a smoke,’ Torres said, stepping into the corridor and closing the door behind him. ‘What the fuck happened to your face?’ he added, catching sight of Cámara’s lip.
    â€˜Nothing.’
    Cámara grabbed Torres’s arm as he tried to step away.
    â€˜Wait,’ he said.
    He reached over to Torres’s hand and took his packet of cigarettes off him. Then he unlocked the door and stepped into the interrogation room.
    The place already stank of lost, rotting humanity despite only having been in use for days at most. Instead of leaving the walls bare, as they had been in Fernando el Católico, these had originally been painted in a soft off-white. Now they were scarred and scraped, the marks from backs of chairs, dirty shoes and occasionally rougher interrogation techniques already mapped out on the smooth surfaces.
    Aguado didn’t look up as Cámara walked in, keeping his gaze fixed on his hands pressed between his knees. His hair was falling over his eyes, the