The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘I know, Isabella. But it’s the filth like me that always rules in this country and the people like you who are always left in the shadow. It makes no difference which side is holding the reins.’

‘Not this time. This time your superiors will know what you’re doing.’

‘What makes you think they’ll care, or that they don’t do the same or much worse? After all, I’m only an amateur.’

Valls smiled and pulled a folded sheet of paper out of his jacket pocket.

‘Isabella, I want you to know I’m not the sort of person you think I am. And to prove it, here is the order for freeing David Martín, effective tomorrow.’

Valls showed her the document. Isabella examined it in disbelief. Valls pulled out his pen and, without further ado, signed it.

‘’There you are. David Martín is, technically, a free man. Thanks to you, Isabella. Thanks to you …’

When Isabella looked at him again her eyes had glazed over. Valls noticed how her pupils were slowly dilating and a film of perspiration appeared over her upper lip.

‘Are you all right? You look pale …’

Isabella staggered to her feet and held on to the chair.

‘Are you feeling dizzy, Isabella? Can I take you somewhere?’

Isabella retreated a few steps and bumped into the waiter as she made her way to the door. Valls remained seated, sipping his camomile tea until the clock said ten forty-five. Then he left a few coins on the table and slowly walked towards the exit. The car was waiting for him on the pavement. The chauffeur stood next to it, holding the door open for him.

‘Would the governor like to go home or back to the castle?’

‘Home. But first we’re going to make a stop in Pueblo Nuevo, in the old Vilardell factory,’ he ordered.

On his way to pick up the promised bounty, Mauricio Valls, the illustrious future of Spanish letters, gazed at the procession of black, deserted streets in that accursed Barcelona he so detested, and shed a few tears for Isabella, and for what might have been.

19

When Salgado awoke from his stupor and opened his eyes, the first thing he noticed was that there was someone standing motionless at the foot of his bunk, watching him. He felt a slight panic and for a moment thought he was still in the basement room. A flickering light from the oil lamps in the corridor outlined familiar contours.

‘Fermín, is that you?’ he asked.

The figure in the shadows nodded and Salgado breathed deeply.

‘My mouth is dry. Is there any water left?’

Slowly, Fermín drew closer. He had something in his hand: a cloth and a small glass bottle.

Salgado saw Fermín pour the liquid from the bottle on to the cloth.

‘What’s that, Fermín?’

Fermín didn’t reply. His face showed no expression. He leaned over Salgado and looked him in the eye.

‘Fermín, no …’

Before Salgado was able to utter another syllable, Fermín placed the cloth over his mouth and nose and pressed hard, holding Salgado’s head down on the bed. Salgado tossed about with what little strength he had left, while Fermín kept the cloth over his face. Salgado looked at him, terror-stricken. Seconds later he lost consciousness. Fermín didn’t lift the cloth. He counted five more seconds and only then did he remove it. Sitting on the bunk with his back to Salgado, he waited a few minutes. Then, just as Martín had told him to do, he walked over to the door of the cell.

‘Jailer!’ he called.

He heard the new boy’s footsteps approaching down the corridor. In Martín’s plan it was supposed to be Bebo doing the night shift, not that moron.

‘What’s the matter now?’ asked the jailer.

‘It’s Salgado. He’s had it.’