The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘Some other day, my darling,’ he replied, stepping further into the Raval quarter.

I followed him for a hundred more metres or so, until I saw him stop in front of a narrow, dark doorway, nearly opposite the Hotel Europa. He disappeared into the building and I waited half a minute before going in after him.

Inside, a dark staircase seemed to trail off into the bowels of the building. The building itself looked as if it were listing to port, or perhaps were even on the point of sinking into the catacombs of the Raval district, judging from the stench of damp and a faulty sewerage system. On one side of the hallway stood some sort of porter’s lodge where a greasy-looking individual in a sleeveless vest, with a toothpick between his lips and a transistor radio, cast me a look somewhere between inquisitive and plainly hostile.

‘You’re on your own?’ he asked, vaguely intrigued.

It didn’t take a genius to realise I was in the lobby of an establishment that rented out rooms by the hour and that the only discordant note about my visit was the fact that I wasn’t holding the hand of one of the cut-price Venuses on patrol round the corner.

‘If you like, I’ll get a nice girl for you,’ he offered, preparing a parcel with a towel, a bar of soap and what I guessed must be a rubber or some other prophylactic device to be used as a last resort.

‘Actually, I just wanted to ask you a question,’ I began.

The porter rolled his eyes.

‘It’s twenty pesetas for half an hour and you provide the filly.’

‘Tempting. Perhaps some other day. What I wanted to ask you was whether a gentleman has just gone upstairs, a couple of minutes ago. An older man. Not in the best shape. On his own. Filly-less.’

The porter frowned. I realised from his expression that he was instantly downgrading me from potential client to pesky fly.

‘I haven’t seen anyone. Go on, beat it before I call Tonet.’

I gathered Tonet could not be a very endearing character. I placed my few remaining coins on the counter and gave the porter a conciliatory smile. In a flash, the money vanished as if it were an insect and the porter’s hands – with their plastic thimbles – the darting tongue of a chameleon.

‘What do you want to know?’

‘Does the man I described to you live here?’

‘He’s been renting a room for a week.’

‘Do you know his name?’

‘He paid a month in advance, so I didn’t ask.’

‘Do you know where he comes from, what he does for a living …?’

‘This isn’t a phone-in programme. People come here to fornicate and I don’t ask any questions. And this one doesn’t even fornicate. So you do the sums.’

I reconsidered the matter.

‘All I know is that every now and then he goes out and then comes back. Sometimes he asks me to send up a bottle of wine, bread and a bit of honey. He pays well and doesn’t say a word.’

‘And you’re sure you don’t remember any names?’

He shook his head.

‘All right. Thanks and I’m sorry I bothered you.’

I was about to leave when the porter’s voice called me back.

‘Romero,’ he said.

‘Pardon?’

‘I think he said he’s called Romero or something like that …’

‘Romero de Torres?’