22
I awoke to hear Víctor Grandes saying my name. I sat bolt upright, not recognising where I was - if anything, the place looked like a suite in a luxury hotel. The shooting pain from the dozens of cuts that streaked my torso brought me back to reality. I was in Vidal’s bedroom in Villa Helius. Through the closed shutters, a hint of mid-afternoon light. A fire was blazing in the grate and the room was warm. The voices came from the floor below. Pedro Vidal and Víctor Grandes.
Ignoring the stinging of my skin, I got out of bed. My dirty, bloodstained clothes had been thrown onto an armchair. I looked for the coat. The gun was still in the pocket. I drew back the hammer and left the room, following the trail of voices as far as the stairs. I went down a few steps, keeping close to the wall.
‘I’m very sorry about your men, inspector,’ I heard Vidal saying. ‘Rest assured that if David gets in touch with me, or if I hear of his whereabouts, I’ll let you know immediately.’
‘I’m grateful for your help, Se?or Vidal. I’m sorry to bother you in the circumstances, but the situation is extremely serious.’
‘I understand. Thank you for your visit.’
The sound of the front door closing. Vidal’s laboured breathing at the foot of the staircase. I went down a few more steps and found him leaning his forehead against the door. When he heard me he opened his eyes and turned round.
He didn’t say anything, just looked at the gun I held in my hands. I put it down on the small table at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Come on, let’s see if we can find you some clean clothes,’ he said.
I followed him to a huge dressing room that looked more like a costume museum. All the exquisite suits I remembered from Vidal’s years of glory were there. Dozens of ties, shoes, and cufflinks in red velvet boxes.
‘This is all from when I was young. It should fit you.’
Vidal chose for me. He handed me a shirt that was probably worth as much as a small plot of land, a three-piece suit made to measure in London and a pair of Italian shoes that would not have disgraced the boss’s wardrobe. I dressed in silence while Vidal observed me with a pensive look.
‘A bit wide on the shoulders, but you’ll have to make do,’ he said, handing me a pair of sapphire cufflinks.
‘What did the inspector tell you?’
‘Everything.’
‘And you believed him?’
‘What does it matter?’
‘It matters to me.’
Vidal sat on a stool by a wall that was covered in mirrors from ceiling to floor.
‘He says you know where Cristina is,’ he said.
I did not deny it.
‘Is she alive?’
I looked him in the eye and, very slowly, nodded my head. Vidal gave a weak smile, eluding my eyes. Then he burst into tears, emitting a deep groan that came from his very soul. I sat down next to him and hugged him.
‘Forgive me, Don Pedro, forgive me . . .’
Later, as the sun began to drop over the horizon, Vidal gathered my old clothes and threw them into the fire. Before he abandoned my coat to the flames he pulled out the copy of The Steps of Heaven and handed it to me.
‘Of the two books you wrote last year, this was the good one,’ he said.
I watched him poking my clothes about in the fire.
‘When did you realise?’
Vidal shrugged.
‘Even a conceited idiot can’t be fooled forever, David.’
I couldn’t make out whether there was resentment in his tone, or just sadness.
‘I did it because I thought I was helping you, Don Pedro.’
‘I know.’
He smiled.
‘Forgive me,’ I murmured.
‘You must leave the city. There’s a cargo ship moored in the San Sebastián dock that sets sail tonight. It’s all arranged. Ask for Captain Olmo. He’s expecting you. Take one of the cars from the garage. You can leave it at the port. Pep will fetch it tomorrow. Don’t speak to anyone. Don’t go back to your house. You’ll need money.’
‘I have enough money,’ I lied.
‘There’s never enough. When you disembark in Marseilles, Olmo will go with you to a bank and will give you fifty thousand francs.’
‘Don Pedro—’
‘Listen to me. Those two men that Grandes says you’ve killed . . .’
‘Marcos and Castelo. I think they worked for your father, Don Pedro.’
Vidal shook his head.
‘My father and his lawyers only ever deal with the top people, David. How do you think those two knew where to find you thirty minutes after you left the police station?’
A cold feeling of certainty washed over me.
‘Through my friend, Inspector Víctor Grandes.’
Vidal agreed.
‘Grandes let you go because he didn’t want to dirty his hands in the police station. As soon as he got you out of there, his two men were on your trail. Your death was to read like a telegram: escaping murder suspect dies while resisting arrest.’
‘Just like the old days on the news,’ I said.
‘Some things never change, David. You should know better than anyone.’
He opened his wardrobe and handed me a brand new coat. I accepted it and put the book in the inside pocket. Vidal smiled at me.
‘For once in your life you’re well dressed.’
‘It suited you better, Don Pedro.’
‘That goes without saying.’
‘Don Pedro, there are a lot of things—’
‘They don’t matter any more, David. You don’t owe me an explanation.’
‘I owe you much more than an explanation . . .’
‘Then tell me about her.’
Vidal looked at me with desperate eyes that begged me to lie to him. We sat in the sitting room, facing the French windows with their view over the whole of Barcelona, and I lied to him with all my heart. I told him that Cristina had rented a small attic in Rue de Soufflot, under the name of Madame Vidal, and had said that she’d wait for me every day, in the middle of the afternoon, by the fountain in the Luxembourg Gardens. I told him that she spoke about him constantly, that she would never forget him and that I knew that however many years I spent by her side I’d never be able to fill the void he had left. Don Pedro’s gaze was lost in the distance.
‘You must promise me you’ll look after her, David. That you’ll never leave her. Whatever happens, you’ll stay by her side.’
‘I promise, Don Pedro.’
In the pale light of evening all I could see was a defeated old man, sick with memories and guilt; a man who had never believed and whose only balm now was to believe.
‘I wish I’d been a better friend to you, David.’
‘You’ve been the best of friends, Don Pedro. You’ve been much more than that.’
Vidal stretched out his arm and took my hand. He was trembling.
‘Grandes spoke to me about that man, the one you call the boss . . . He says you are in debt to him and you think the only way of paying him back is by giving him a pure soul . . .’
‘That’s nonsense, Don Pedro. Don’t pay any attention.’
‘Would a dirty, tired soul like mine be of any use to you?’
‘I know of no purer soul than yours, Don Pedro.’
Vidal smiled.
‘If I could have changed places with your father, I would have, David.’
‘I know.’
He stood up and gazed at the evening swooping over the city.
‘You should be on your way,’ he said. ‘Go to the garage and take a car. Whichever you like. I’ll see if I have some cash.’
I picked up the coat, then went into the garden and walked over to the coach house. The Villa Helius garage was home to two automobiles that gleamed like royal carriages. I chose the smaller, more discreet car, a black Hispano-Suiza that looked as if it had not been used more than two or three times and still smelled new. I sat at the steering wheel and started the engine, then drove the car out of the garage and waited in the yard. A minute went by, and still Vidal hadn’t come out. I got out of the car, leaving the engine running. I went back into the house to say goodbye to him and tell him not to worry about the money, I would manage. As I walked across the entrance hall I remembered I’d left the gun on the table. When I went to pick it up it wasn’t there.
‘Don Pedro?’
The door to the sitting room was ajar. I looked in and could see him standing in the middle of the room. He raised my father’s revolver to his chest, placing the barrel at his heart. I rushed towards him but the roar of the shot drowned my shouts. The weapon fell from his hands. His body slumped over and he fell to the floor, leaving a scarlet trail on the marble tiles. I dropped to my knees beside him and supported him in my arms. Dark, thick blood gushed from the hole where the bullet had pierced his clothes. Don Pedro’s eyes locked on mine while his smile filled with blood, and his body stopped trembling, and he collapsed. The room was filled with the scent of gunpowder and misery.