MIDNIGHT FIRE IN THE RAVAL QUARTER ONE DEAD AND TWO BADLY INJURED
Joan Marc Huguet/Barcelona
A serious fire started in the early hours of Friday morning at 6, Plaza dels Àngels, head office of the publishing firm Barrido & Escobillas. The firm’s director, Don José Barrido, died in the blaze, and his partner, Don José Luis López Escobillas, was seriously injured. An employee, Don Ramón Guzmán, was also badly injured, trapped by the flames as he attempted to rescue the other two men. Firefighters are speculating that the blaze may have been started by a chemical product that was being used for renovation work in the offices. Other causes are not being ruled out, however, as eyewitnesses claim to have seen a man leaving the building moments before the fire began. The victims were taken to the Clínico hospital, where one was pronounced dead on arrival. The other two remain in a critical condition.
I got there as quickly as I could. The smell of burning reached as far as the Ramblas. A group of neighbours and onlookers had congregated in the square opposite the building, and plumes of white smoke rose from the rubble by the entrance. I saw some of the firm’s employees trying to salvage what little remained from the ruins. Boxes of scorched books and furniture bitten by flames were piled up in the street. The facade of the building was blackened and the windows had been blasted out by the fire. I broke through the circle of bystanders and went in. A powerful stench stuck in my throat. Some of the staff from the publishing house who were busy rescuing their belongings recognised me and mumbled a greeting, their heads bowed.
‘Señor Martín… what a tragedy.’
I crossed what had once been the reception and went into Barrido’s office. The flames had devoured the carpets and reduced the furniture to glowing skeletons. In one corner, the coffered ceiling had collapsed, opening a pathway of light towards the rear patio along which floated a bright beam of ashes. One chair had miraculously survived the fire. It was in the middle of the room and sitting on it was Lady Venom, crying, her eyes downcast. I knelt down in front of her. She recognised me and smiled between her tears.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
She nodded.
‘He told me to go home, you know? He said it was late and I should get some rest because today was going to be a very long day. We were finishing the monthly accounts… If I’d stayed another minute…’
‘What happened, Herminia?’
‘We were working late. It was almost midnight when Señor Barrido told me to go home. The publishers were expecting a gentleman…’
‘At midnight? Which gentleman?’
‘A foreigner, I think. It had something to do with a proposal. I’m not sure. I would happily have stayed on, but Señor Barrido told me-’
‘Herminia, that gentleman, do you remember his name?’
She gave me a puzzled look.
‘I’ve already told the inspector who came here this morning everything I can remember. He asked for you.’
‘An inspector? For me?’
‘They’re talking to everyone.’
‘Of course.’
Lady Venom looked straight at me, eying me with distrust, as if she were trying to read my thoughts.
‘They don’t know whether he’ll come out of this alive,’ she murmured, referring to Escobillas. ‘We’ve lost everything, the archives, the contracts… everything. The publishing house is finished.’
‘I’m sorry, Herminia.’
A crooked, malicious smile appeared.
‘You’re sorry? Isn’t this what you wanted?’
‘How can you think that?’
She looked at me suspiciously.
‘Now you’re free.’
I was about to touch her arm but Herminia stood up and took a step back, as if my presence scared her.
‘Herminia-’
‘Go away,’ she said.
I left Herminia among the smoking ruins. When I went back outside I bumped into a group of children rummaging through the rubble. One of them had disinterred a book from the ashes and was examining it with a mixture of curiosity and disdain. The cover had been disfigured by the fire and the edges of the pages were charred, but otherwise the book was unspoilt. From the lettering on the spine, I knew that it was one of the instalments of City of the Damned.
‘Señor Martín?’
I turned to find three men wearing cheap suits that were at odds with the humid, sticky air. One of them, who seemed to be in charge, stepped forward and proffered me the friendly smile of an expert salesman. The other two, who seemed as rigid and unyielding as a hydraulic press, glued their openly hostile eyes on mine.
‘Señor Martín, I’m Inspector Víctor Grandes and these are my colleagues Officers Marcos and Castelo from the investigation and security squad. I wonder if you would be kind enough to spare us a few minutes.’
‘Of course,’ I replied.
The name Víctor Grandes rang a bell from my days as a reporter. Vidal had devoted some of his columns to him, and I particularly recalled one in which he described Grandes as a revelation, a solid figure whose presence in the squad confirmed the arrival of a new generation of elite professionals, better prepared than their predecessors, incorruptible and tough as steel. The adjectives and the hyperbole were Vidal’s, not mine. I imagined that Inspector Grandes would have moved up the ranks since then, and his presence was proof that the police were taking the fire at Barrido & Escobillas seriously.
‘If you don’t mind we can go to a nearby café so that we can talk undisturbed,’ said Grandes, his obliging smile not diminishing one inch.
‘As you wish.’
Grandes took me to a small bar on the corner of Calle Doctor Dou and Calle Pintor Fortuny. Marcos and Castelo walked behind us, never taking their eyes off me. Grandes offered me a cigarette, which I refused. He put the packet back in his pocket and didn’t open his mouth again until we reached the café and I was escorted to a table at the back, where the three men positioned themselves around me. Had they taken me to a dark, damp dungeon the meeting would have seemed more friendly.
‘Señor Martín, you must already know what happened early this morning.’
‘Only what I’ve read in the paper. And what Lady Venom told me…’
‘Lady Venom?’
‘I’m sorry. Miss Herminia Duaso, the directors’ assistant.’
Marcos and Castelo exchanged glances that were priceless. Grandes smiled.
‘Interesting nickname. Tell me, Señor Martín, where were you last night?’
How naive of me; the question caught me by surprise.
‘It’s a routine question,’ Grandes explained. ‘We’re trying to establish the whereabouts of anyone who might have been in touch with the victims during the last few days. Employees, suppliers, family…’
‘I was with a friend.’
As soon as I opened my mouth I regretted my choice of words. Grandes noticed it.
‘A friend?’
‘Well he’s really someone connected to my work. A publisher. Last night I’d arranged a meeting with him.’
‘Can you tell me until what time you were with this person?’
‘Until late. In fact, I ended up sleeping at his house.’