A Death in Valencia by Jason Webster

that?’
    â€˜It seems quite clear to me that the murderer didn’t row out very far to dump the body. The currents generally move from north to south along the coast. In ordinary circumstances, Roures could have been found anywhere from El Saler to Gandía. But leaving him so close to the shore, the harbour wall prevented him from being pushed southwards; there was nowhere else he could go.’
    â€˜Perhaps the idea was for him simply to disappear out at sea, make it look like an accident. Everyone knew about his fishing lines, it seems.’
    â€˜Perhaps,’ Quintero said. ‘But for that harbour wall you might be wondering if this really was a murder on your hands, or a case for Missing Persons.’

    Cámara’s phone rang as he stepped outside into the heat, and he could already feel his skin prickling from his shirt clinging to his back with the humidity.
    He didn’t recognise the number, but answered anyway.
    â€˜Maximiliano Cámara Reyes?’ came an official-sounding voice.
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Resident of number 6 Calle Luis Santángel?’
    â€˜Who is this?’
    â€˜I’m calling from the Policía Local ,’ said the voice.
    Cámara cursed under his breath. Another parking fine? Someone had broken into his car?
    â€˜You have to come immediately to the Ruzafa office.’
    â€˜Look, what the hell’s going on?’ He was about to tell the official who he was: a chief inspector in the Policía Nacional , with a murder case on his hands. But the voice interrupted him.
    â€˜There’s been an incident. It’s urgent…Your block of flats has collapsed.’

Six
    Pulsating orange lights were reflecting off the shiny metal crane towers soaring high above the gaping holes of the new metro line. Approaching from a side alley, Cámara could sense a wailing, billowing crowd of people at the far end, on the corner of his street. Heavy, pale grey brick dust wrapped itself around him, clinging to the sweat on his arms and chest, and sticking at the back of his throat. In the fog, people pushed backwards and forwards like shadows, many with their hands over their faces, others with dirty streaks lashing their cheeks where the tears had stained.
    He edged closer, feeling his way along by leaning on the parked cars, his eyes fixed on the steady rhythm of the flashing sirens. The crowd around him grew tighter, but rather than holding him back, it seemed to push him forwards, as though aware of who he was, that he should be allowed to see this.
    Eventually he reached the front of the throng. A police tape had been strung across the top end of his street and a couple of Policías Locales were keeping watch. Behind them, blocking most of the view, were a couple of fire engines and an ambulance. He could just see the crushed back end of a car, its tail crumpled by lumps of misshapen masonry.
    But he couldn’t see his building–there were too many things in the way, too many men in suits shouting at their walkie-talkies, too many uniforms. The crowd itself shunted him a few feet to one side. Only then did the emptiness come into view, the space where once his block of flats had stood. The place where he had slept that night, had slept almost every night for the last decade or so. The world that had taken him in, given him refuge, a shelter, a place to wash, rest, and forget–if only for a short time–had vanished for ever.
    For a moment he tried to imagine what it might feel like to be someone who had lost their home like this, to show up suddenly one day and discover the place you lived had gone, had simply ceased to exist while you were out. Perhaps only then could he connect with what was happening in front of him. Right now it was as if all this was taking place in another world, to someone other than himself.
    He heard a name coming from his mouth, as though issuing from some other being: ‘Tomás.’
    He felt