‘Fine,’ I agreed.
‘That’s confirmed, then.’
He raised his sugar-filled cup as if he were drinking a toast and downed the contents in one.
‘How about you?’ he asked casually. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I was looking for someone.’
‘Someone I know?’
‘No.’
‘And have you found the person?’
‘No.’
The boss savoured my silence.
‘I get the impression that I’m keeping you here against your will, dear friend.’
‘I’m just a little tired, that’s all.’
‘Then I won’t take up any more of your time. Sometimes I forget that although I enjoy your company, perhaps mine is not to your liking.’
I smiled meekly and took the opportunity to stand up. I saw myself reflected in his pupils, a pale doll trapped in a dark well.
‘Take care of yourself, Martín. Please.’
‘I will.’
I took my leave with a quick nod and headed for the exit. As I walked away I heard him putting another sugar lump in his mouth and crunching it between his teeth.
When I turned into the Ramblas I noticed that the canopies outside the Liceo were lit up and a long row of cars, guarded by a small regiment of chauffeurs in uniform, was waiting by the pavement. The posters announced Così fan tutte and I wondered if Vidal had felt like forsaking his castle to go along. I scanned the circle of drivers that had formed on the central pavement and soon spotted Pep among them. I beckoned him over.
‘What are you doing here, Señor Martín?’
‘Where is she?’
‘Señor Vidal is inside, watching the performance.’
‘Not “he”. “She”. Cristina. Señora de Vidal. Where is she?’
Poor Pep swallowed hard.
‘I don’t know. Nobody knows.’
He told me that Vidal had spent weeks attempting to find her and that his father, the patriarch of the clan, had even hired various members of the police force to try to discover where she was.
‘At first, Señor Vidal thought she was with you…’
‘Hasn’t she called, or sent a letter, a telegram…? ’
‘No, Señor Martín. I swear. We’re all very worried, and Señor Vidal, well… I’ve never seen him like this in all the years I’ve known him. This is the first time he’s gone out since Señorita Cristina, I mean Señora Cristina…’
‘Do you remember whether Cristina said something, anything, before she left Villa Helius?’
‘Well…’ said Pep, lowering his voice to a whisper. ‘You could hear her arguing with Señor Vidal. She seemed sad to me. She spent a lot of time by herself. She wrote letters and every day she went to the post office in Paseo Reina Elisenda to post them.’
‘Did you ever speak to her alone?’
‘One day, shortly before she left, Señor Vidal asked me to drive her to the doctor.’
‘Was she ill?’
‘She couldn’t sleep. The doctor prescribed laudanum.’
‘Did she say anything to you on the way there?’
Pep hesitated.
‘She asked after you, in case I’d heard from you or seen you.’
‘Is that all?’
‘She just seemed very sad. She started to cry, and when I asked her what was the matter she said she missed her father – Señor Manuel…’
I suddenly understood and cursed myself for not having thought of it sooner. Pep looked at me in surprise and asked me why I was smiling.
‘Do you know where she is?’ he asked.
‘I think so,’ I murmured.
I thought I could hear a voice calling from the other side of the street and glimpsed a familiar figure in the Liceo foyer. Vidal hadn’t even managed to last the first act. Pep turned to attend to his master’s call, and before he had time to tell me to hide, I had already disappeared into the night.
6
Even from afar it looked like bad news: the ember of a cigarette in the blue of the night, silhouettes leaning against a dark wall, the spiralling breath of three figures lying in wait by the main door of the tower house. Inspector Víctor Grandes, accompanied by his two guard dogs Marcos and Castelo, led the welcome committee. It wasn’t hard to work out that they’d found Alicia Marlasca’s body at the bottom of her pool in Sarriá and that my place on their blacklist had gone up a few points. The minute I caught sight of them I stopped and melted into the shadows, observing them for a few seconds to make sure they hadn’t noticed me – I was only some fifty metres away. I could distinguish Grandes’s profile in the thin light shed by the street lamp on the wall. Retreating into the darkness, I slipped into the first alleyway I could find, disappearing into the mass of passages and arches of the Ribera quarter.
Ten minutes later I reached the main entrance to the Estación de Francia. The ticket offices were closed, but I could still see a few trains lined up by the platforms under the large vault of glass and steel. I checked the timetables. Just as I had feared, there were no departures scheduled until the following day and I couldn’t risk returning home and bumping into Grandes and Co. Something told me that on this occasion my visit to police headquarters would include full board, and not even the good offices of the lawyer Señor Valera would get me out of there as easily as the last time.
I decided to spend the night in a cheap hotel opposite the old Stock Exchange, in Plaza Palacio. Legend had it that the building was inhabited by a number of walking cadavers, one-time speculators whose greed and poor arithmetic skills had exploded in their faces. I chose this dump because I imagined that not even the Fates would come looking for me there. I registered under the name of Antonio Miranda and paid for the room in advance. The receptionist, who looked like a mollusc, seemed to be embedded in his cubbyhole, which also served as a towel rack and souvenir shop. He handed me the key, a bar of El Cid soap that stank of bleach and looked as if it had already been used, and informed me that if I wanted female company he could send up a serving girl nicknamed Cock-Eye as soon as she returned from a home visit.
‘She’ll make you as good as new,’ he assured me.
I turned down the offer, claiming the onset of lumbago, and hurried up the stairs wishing him goodnight. The room had the appearance and shape of a sarcophagus. One quick look was enough to persuade me that I should lie on the old bed fully clothed rather than getting under the sheets to fraternise with whatever was growing there. I covered myself with a threadbare blanket I found in the wardrobe – which at least smelled of mothballs – and turned off the light, trying to imagine that I was actually in the sort of suite that someone with a hundred thousand francs in the bank could afford. I barely slept all night.
I left the hotel halfway through the morning and made my way to the station, where I bought a first-class ticket, hoping I’d be able to sleep on the train to make up for the dreadful night I’d spent in that dive. Seeing that there were still twenty minutes to go before the train’s departure, I went over to the row of public telephones. I gave the operator the number Ricardo Salvador had given me – that of his downstairs neighbour.
‘I’d like to speak to Don Emilio, please.’
‘Speaking.’
‘My name is David Martín. I’m a friend of Señor Ricardo Salvador. He told me I could call him at this number in an emergency.’
‘Let’s see… Can you wait a moment while we get him?’
I looked at the station clock.
‘Yes. I’ll wait. Thanks.’
More than three minutes went by before I heard the sound of footsteps and then Ricardo Salvador’s voice.
‘Martín? Are you all right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Thank goodness. I read about Roures in the newspaper and was very concerned about you. Where are you?’
‘Señor Salvador, I don’t have much time now. I need to leave Barcelona.’
‘Are you sure you’re all right?’
‘Yes. Listen: Alicia Marlasca is dead.’