The Angel's Game (The Cemetery of Forgotten 2)

“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 who were 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 unspoiled. From the lettering on the spine, I knew that it was one of the installments of City of the Damned.

“Señor Martín?”

I turned to find three men wearing cheap suits that were a bad choice for a humid, sticky day. 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 stood 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 harbinger, 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 pack 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 naïve 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?”