Free A Death in Valencia by Jason Webster Page B

lime green jacket. Emilia Delgado, the mayoress herself, had come to inspect.
    â€˜Looks like the cavalry’s arrived,’ Vicent said. ‘Oh, and they’ve announced the Pope is swinging round when he’s here–to bless the rubble.’
    â€˜Thoughtful of him.’
    Cámara scanned the faces, looking for Javier Flores, Emilia’s right-hand man. He was usually easy to spot, with his clashing dress sense, but he seemed to be absent. Cámara gave a sigh of relief; he could do without Flores’s sneering grin on a day like this.
    â€˜That’s the new one,’ Vicent said, nodding at the group of journalists and politicians.
    Cámara saw that the TV crew was focusing on a second politician hovering next to Emilia as the group looked for the best place to do a piece to camera. The man’s dress style was clearly one up from Flores; he’d opted for a well-cut grey suit with a black tie. He was tall and well built, and although he was a few years older than Cámara, perhaps close to fifty, his face was smooth and shiny, as though he’d just shaved. He was looking down at Emilia over a crooked nose with slightly dreamy, glassy eyes. Emilia appeared to be briefing him for the interview he was about to give the local TV station, Canal 9.
    â€˜New one?’ Cámara asked.
    â€˜New councillor in charge of building projects,’ Vicent explained. ‘Mezquita. Only been in the job for a couple of months. And now he’s got to wriggle his way out of this mess. But there’s something non-stick about him. Can’t see it making him sweat too much.’
    â€˜What happened to his predecessor?’
    â€˜You really don’t follow the news, do you?’ Vicent said, rubbing the grey stubble on his cheek. ‘García Ramos. Big scandal. The guy was fucking the wife of the Valencia goalkeeper. I tell you–they can steal as much as they like, this lot, and no one bats an eyelid. But start messing with the wife of a football player and you’re finished. No matter how powerful your friends are.’
    Mezquita had started the interview by this point, and they could hear him talking in a slow but assured fashion about all the measures they were taking to ensure nothing like this ever happened again, and that every effort was being made to rehouse those who had lost their homes.
    â€˜Will there be any legal action taken over what has happened?’ the interviewer asked tamely.
    â€˜An inquest will be held in due course and in the proper way,’ Mezquita purred.
    Cámara’s eyes wandered back to Emilia: she rarely gave interviews herself, preferring her team of men to do them for her. It was all part of an image she liked to project of herself as a sort of high priestess overseeing the affairs of the city–an icon or a goddess. All the more reason why the former cabaret singer had never got married.
    Emilia caught sight of the two of them watching her from the other side of the street, and gave them a professional smile. Then she did a double take: there was something familiar about one of them. Yes, it was Cámara, the policeman who had caused them so much trouble with the Blanco case.
    The smile dropped as she turned away. Cámara shrugged and ducked into the bar. Vicent followed after him, walked over to the beer tap and started pouring them a couple of cañas .
    â€˜ Salud ,’ he said as he raised his glass.
    â€˜Cheers.’

Eight
    The offices of the department of Urbanismo were about to close for lunch by the time he arrived, wondering about finding someone who could fill him in on rehousing possibilities, and whether he could make a claim for compensation. Eventually, after queuing twice for the wrong desk, he was hurriedly told that they were aware of the problem and were working on a solution for the remaining residents of his former block of flats. They took his name and mobile phone number, and promised to call