‘I see. And this person you describe as being connected to your work, what is his name?’
‘Corelli. Andreas Corelli. A French publisher.’
Grandes wrote the name down in a little notebook.
‘The surname sounds Italian,’ he remarked.
‘As a matter of fact, I don’t really know what his nationality is.’
‘That’s understandable. And this Señor Corelli, whatever his citizenship may be, would he be able to corroborate the fact that last night you were with him?’
I shrugged my shoulders.
‘I suppose so.’
‘You suppose so?’
‘I’m sure he would. Why wouldn’t he?’
‘I don’t know, Señor Martín. Is there any reason why you would think he might not?’
‘No.’
‘That’s settled then.’
Marcos and Castelo were looking at me as if I’d done nothing but tell lies since we sat down.
‘One last thing. Could you explain the nature of the meeting you had last night with this publisher of indeterminate nationality?’
‘Señor Corelli had arranged to meet me because he wanted to make me an offer.’
‘What type of offer?’
‘A professional one.’
‘I see. To write a book, perhaps?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Tell me, is it usual after a business meeting to spend the night in the house of, how shall I put it, the contracting party?’
‘No.’
‘But you say you spent the night in this publisher’s house.’
‘I stayed because I wasn’t feeling well and I didn’t think I’d be able to get back to my house.’
‘The dinner upset you, perhaps?’
‘I’ve had some health problems recently.’
Grandes nodded, looking duly concerned.
‘Dizzy spells, headaches…’ I added.
‘But it’s reasonable to assume that now you’re feeling better?’
‘Yes. Much better.’
‘I’m glad to hear it. In fact, you’re looking enviably well. Don’t you agree?’
Castelo and Marcos nodded.
‘Anyone would think you’ve had a great weight taken off your shoulders,’ the inspector pointed out.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m talking about the dizzy spells and the aches and pains.’
Grandes was handling this farce with an exasperating sense of timing.
‘Forgive my ignorance regarding your professional life, Señor Martín, but isn’t it true that you signed an agreement with the two publishers that didn’t expire for another six years?’
‘Five.’
‘And didn’t this agreement tie you, so to speak, exclusively to Barrido & Escobillas?’
‘Those were the terms.’
‘Then why would you need to discuss an offer with a competitor if your agreement didn’t allow you to accept it?’
‘It was just a conversation. Nothing more.’
‘Which nevertheless turned into a soirée at this gentleman’s house.’
‘My agreement doesn’t forbid me to speak to third parties. Or spend the night away from home. I’m free to sleep wherever I wish and to speak to whomever I want.’
‘Of course. I wasn’t trying to imply that you weren’t, but thank you for clarifying that point.’
‘Can I clarify anything else?’
‘Just one small detail. Now that Señor Barrido has passed away, and supposing that, God forbid, Señor Escobillas does not recover from his injuries and also dies, the publishing house would be dissolved and so would your contract. Am I wrong?’
‘I’m not sure. I don’t really know how the company was set up.’
‘But would you say that it was likely?’
‘Possibly. You’d have to ask the publishers’ lawyer.’
‘In fact, I already have. And he has confirmed that, if what nobody wants to happen does happen and Señor Escobillas passes away, that is exactly how things will stand.’
‘Then you already have the answer.’
‘And you would have complete freedom to accept the offer of Señor…’
‘Corelli.’
‘Tell me, have you accepted it already?’
‘May I ask what this has to do with the cause of the fire?’ I snapped.
‘Nothing. Simple curiosity.’
‘Is that all?’ I asked.
Grandes looked at his colleagues and then at me.
‘As far as I’m concerned, yes.’
I made as if to stand up, but the three policemen remained glued to their seats.
‘Señor Martín, before I forget,’ said Grandes. ‘Can you confirm whether you remember that a week ago Señor Barrido and Señor Escobillas paid you a visit at your home, at number 30, Calle Flassaders, in the company of the aforementioned lawyer?’
‘They did.’
‘Was it a social or a courtesy call?’
‘The publishers came to express their wish that I should return to my work on a series of books I’d put aside for a few months while I devoted myself to another project.’
‘Would you describe the conversation as friendly and relaxed?’
‘I don’t remember anyone raising his voice.’
‘And do you remember replying to them, and I quote, “In a week you and that idiot partner of yours will be dead”? Without raising your voice, of course.’
I sighed.
‘Yes,’ I admitted.
‘What were you referring to?’
‘I was angry and said the first thing that came into my head, inspector. That doesn’t mean that I was serious. Sometimes one says things one doesn’t mean.’
‘Thank you for your candour, Señor Martín. You have been very helpful. Good afternoon.’
I walked away from that place with all three sets of eyes fixed like daggers on my back, and with the firm belief that if I’d replied to every one of the inspector’s questions with a lie I wouldn’t have felt as guilty.
2
The meeting with Víctor Grandes and the couple of basilisks he used as escorts left a nasty taste in my mouth, but it had gone by the time I’d walked in the sun for a hundred metres or so, in a body I hardly recognised: strong, free of pain and nausea, with no ringing in my ears or agonising pinpricks in my skull, no weariness or cold sweats. No recollection of that certainty of death that had suffocated me only twenty-four hours ago. Something told me that the tragedy of the previous night, including the death of Barrido and the very likely demise of Escobillas, should have filled me with grief and anguish, but neither I nor my conscience was able to feel anything other than a pleasant indifference. That July morning, the Ramblas were in party mood and I was their prince.
I took a stroll as far as Calle Santa Ana, with the idea of paying a surprise visit to Señor Sempere. When I walked into the bookshop, Sempere senior was behind the counter settling accounts; his son had climbed a ladder and was rearranging the bookshelves. The bookseller gave me a friendly smile and I realised that for a moment he hadn’t recognised me. A second later his smile disappeared, his mouth dropped and he came round the counter to embrace me.
‘Martín? Is it really you? Holy Mother of God… you look completely different! I was so worried. We went round to your house a few times, but you didn’t answer the door. I’ve even been to the hospitals and police stations.’
His son stared at me in disbelief from the top of the ladder. I had to remind myself that only a week before they had seen me looking like one of the inmates of the local morgue.
‘I’m sorry I gave you a fright. I was away for a few days on a work-related matter.’
‘But you did listen to me and go to the doctor, didn’t you?’
I nodded.
‘It turned out to be something very minor, to do with my blood pressure. I took a tonic for a few days and now I’m as good as new.’