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 Se?or 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 Se?or 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?’
‘Se?or 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.’
‘The widow? Dead?’
A long silence. I thought I could hear Salvador sobbing and cursed myself for having broken the news to him so bluntly.
‘Are you still there?’
‘Yes . . .’
‘I’m calling to warn you. You must be careful. Irene Sabino is alive and she’s been following me. There is someone with her. I think it’s Jaco.’
‘Jaco Corbera?’
‘I’m not sure it’s him. I think they know I’m on their trail and they’re trying to silence all the people I’ve been speaking to. I think you were right . . .’
‘Why would Jaco return now?’ Salvador asked. ‘It doesn’t make sense.’
‘I don’t know. I have to go now. I just wanted to warn you.’
‘Don’t worry about me. If that bastard comes to visit me, I’ll be ready for him. I’ve been ready for twenty-five years.’
The stationmaster blew the whistle: the train was about to leave.
‘Don’t trust anyone. Do you hear me? I’ll call you as soon as I get back.’
‘Thanks for calling, Martín. Be careful.’