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

I pointed my gun at the door and kicked it open. There was no trace of Marlasca inside, just the mountain of boxes and old objects piled up in a corner. Again I noticed the odd smell that seemed to filter through the walls. I went over to the wardrobe that covered the back wall and opened its doors wide, removing all the old clothes from the hangers. The cold, damp draft that came from the hole behind it caressed my face. Whatever it was that Marlasca had hidden in the house, it was on the other side of that wall.

I put the weapon in my coat pocket and removed my coat. Stan

ding by a rear corner of the wardrobe, I put my arm into the space between the frame and the wall. I managed to grab the back of the wardrobe with my hand and I pulled it forward hard. The first pull allowed me to gain a few centimeters and secure my hold. I pulled it forward again. The wardrobe now moved almost a hand’s width. I kept on pulling the end of the wardrobe until the wall behind it became visible and there was enough room for me to slip in. Once I was behind the wardrobe I pushed it with my shoulder, moving it against the adjacent wall. I stopped to recover my breath and examine my work. The wall was painted an ocher color, different from the rest of the room. Beneath the paint I could feel some sort of claylike mass. I rapped on it with my knuckles. The echo left no room for doubt. This was not a supporting wall. There was something on the other side. I leaned my head against the wall and listened carefully. Then I heard a noise. Steps along the corridor, approaching. I moved away and stretched out my hand toward the coat I had left on a chair, in order to grab the gun. A shadow filled the doorway. I held my breath. It peered into the room.

“Inspector,” I whispered.

Víctor Grandes smiled at me coldly. I imagined he must have spent hours waiting for me, hiding in some doorway in the street.

“Are you refurbishing the house, Martín?”

“Just tidying up.”

The inspector looked at the pile of clothes and boxes thrown on the floor and the displaced wardrobe.

“I’ve asked Marcos and Castelo to wait downstairs. I was going to knock, but the door was open so I took the liberty of coming straight in. I said to myself, This must mean that my friend Martín is expecting me.”

“What can I do for you, Inspector?”

“Come along with me to the police station, if you’d be so kind.”

“Am I being arrested?”

“I’m afraid so. Are you going to make it easy for me or are we going to have to do this the hard way?”

“No, I’ll come,” I assured him.

“I appreciate that.”

“May I get my coat?”

Grandes stared straight at me for a moment. Then I picked up the coat and he helped me put it on. I felt the weight of the revolver against my thigh. Before leaving the room, the inspector cast a last glance at the wall that had been revealed. Then he told me to go on out into the corridor. Marcos and Castelo had come up to the landing and were waiting for me with triumphant smiles. Just as we were about to leave I stopped for a second to look back inside the house, which seemed to withdraw into a well of shadows. I wondered if I would ever see it again. Castelo pulled out handcuffs, but Grandes stopped him.

“That won’t be necessary, will it, Martín?”

I shook my head. Grandes closed the door and pushed me gently but firmly toward the stairs.

18

This time there were no dramatic effects, no sinister setting, no echoes of damp, dark dungeons. The room was large and full of light, with a high ceiling. It reminded me of a classroom in an exclusive religious school, crucifix on the wall included. It was on the first floor of police headquarters, with large French windows that offered views of people and trams beginning their morning procession along Vía Layetana. In the middle of the room were two chairs and a metal table that looked tiny stranded in such a large, empty space. Grandes led me to the table and told Marcos and Castelo to leave us. The two policemen took their time following the order. I could practically smell their anger in the air. Grandes waited for them to leave and then relaxed.

“I thought you were going to throw me to the lions,” I said.

“Sit down.”

I did as I was told. Had it not been for the expression on the faces of Marcos and Castelo as they left, the metal door, and the iron bars on the other side of the windowpanes, nobody would have guessed that my situation was grave. What finally convinced me was the thermos flask of hot coffee and the packet of cigarettes that Grandes left on the table, but above all his warm, confident smile. This time the inspector was deadly serious.

He sat opposite me, opened a file, and produced a few photographs that he proceeded to place on the table, one next to the other. The first picture was of Valera, the lawyer, seated in the armchair in his sitting room. Next to that was a photograph of the dead body of Marlasca’s widow, or what remained of it, shortly after they pulled it out of the swimming pool at her house on Carretera de Vallvidrera. A third picture showed a little man with his throat slit open who looked like Damián Roures. The fourth picture was of Cristina Sagnier, taken on the day she married Pedro Vidal. The last two were studio portraits of my former publishers, Barrido and Escobillas. Once he had neatly lined up all six photographs, Grandes gave me an inscrutable look and let a couple of minutes go by, studying my reaction to the images, or the absence of one. Then he calmly poured two cups of coffee and pushed one toward me.

“Before we begin I’d like to give you the opportunity to tell me the whole story, Martín. In your own way, and no rush,” he said at last.

“It won’t be any use,” I replied. “It won’t change anything.”

“Would you prefer us to interview the other people we think might be implicated? Your assistant, for example? What was her name? Isabella?”

“Leave her alone. She doesn’t know anything.”

“Convince me.”