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

“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 in 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 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’ll both 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 candor, 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 meters or so, in a body I hardly recognized: strong, free of pain and nausea, with no ringing in my ears or agonizing 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. 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 a 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 realized that for a moment he hadn’t recognized 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 corpses in 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.”

“Give me the name of the tonic—I might take a shower with it. What a joy it is, and a relief, to see you looking so well!”

These high spirits were soon punctured when he turned to the news of the day.

“Did you hear about Barrido and Escobillas?” he asked.

“I’ve just come from there. It’s hard to believe.”