A Death in Valencia by Jason Webster Page B

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    Night had fallen, and although the street lights on one side were no longer working, there was enough of a pink glow from the remaining lamps to illuminate the scene, while powerful white beams were being shone on the rubble itself to aid the rescue workers.
    Cámara sat on the pavement opposite, his arms wrapped around his knees, waiting. The earlier crowds had gone, but still a core of neighbours and other locals stayed behind, staring at the destroyed block of flats, watching the firemen coming and going, the trail of Town Hall officials slipping under the police cordon, and leaving again with loosened ties and anguished looks on their faces. Already calculations were being made about the flows of responsibility from an event like this–where they were headed, and how they could be diverted.
    The only noise came from the cars passing along the avenue at the top of the street. Many slowed to catch a glimpse of what they had already seen on the television news before speeding away. Here, in front of it, no one dared break the silent, hopeful vigil.
    Above them, painted walls where the building had abutted the neighbouring houses stared out in shock. Pictures still hung in a couple of places from dusty hooks, while a bathroom sink was perched on the first floor on a lip of masonry, with a bright red-and-yellow child’s towel draped over the edge next to the taps.
    Below, smashed, destroyed brickwork was heaped in front of them. The pile was, Cámara thought, about a storey high. Take away the space, the lives that had filled this once, and that was all you were left with–a formless heap of mortar, plaster and splintered furniture measuring about three metres when compressed into this concentrated, if irregular, shape.
    Someone had towed away the cars that had been crushed in the building collapse. On average he managed to park right in front of his block of flats about five or six times a year, what with all the cars cramped into the narrow streets. The previous Wednesday had been one of those occasions, and he’d almost leapt for joy at the time. But his old Seat had been the worst hit by the falling masonry, smashed into a dense little parcel. The insurance didn’t cover events like this. Right now he didn’t care.
    He sat, silently smoking cigarette after cigarette as the sounds of people bedding down and preparing to sleep in the school behind him echoed out through the open windows. Ahead, a dog from the rescue team was scuttling about on top of the rubble, trying to find a scent. Most of them were local men–a team on permanent standby for flying out to disaster zones around the world in search of earthquake survivors. No one had thought they would have work to do so close to home.
    Some had remained hopeful for a while. Susana had often taken Tomás out for walks down in the old river-bed-turned-park in the afternoons, playing in the shade of the mulberry trees, or in the spray of a fountain. Either that or to the beach, where the cooler breeze took the sting out of the burning sun. But they would have returned home by now; it was too late. Still, even if they had been caught by the collapse, there was hope that they might be alive. They’d seen the images on the television, when someone was dragged out from under an earthquake-hit house, shaken, dirty, but smiling. The same could happen here, couldn’t it? Certainly the small group of women holding candles at the far end of the street thought so.
    A piece of paper was fluttering towards him, caught in the light wind that had blown up, momentarily cooling their overheated, grimy bodies. Cámara watched as it skipped along the tarmac. It seemed familiar, somehow. As it drew nearer, he realised it was the sleeve notes from one of his flamenco CDs– Omega , by Enrique Morente. It was one of his favourite albums, and the black, white and red lettering seemed to call up to him, appealing for him to reclaim it, to