Valls stepped hurriedly out of the back seat of the Studebaker and took the wheel. Holding his revolver against the dashboard and pointing it towards the factory entrance with his left hand, he put the car into reverse and pressed down on the accelerator. The car reversed into the darkness, bumping over potholes and puddles that peppered the road. As he drove backwards he was able to see the glare of a few shots hitting the gate, but none of them reached the car. Only when he’d reversed some two hundred metres did he turn the Studebaker around. Then, accelerating fully, he drove away from that place, biting his lips with rage.
21
Tied up inside the sack, Fermín could only hear their voices approaching the cell.
‘Hey, we’ve been lucky,’ cried the novice jailer.
‘Fermín has fallen asleep,’ said Dr Sanahuja from his cell.
‘Some have it easy,’ said the jailer. ‘There it is, you can take it away.’
Fermín heard footsteps around him and felt a sudden jerk when one of the two gravediggers firmly retied the knot. Then they picked up the sack between them and, without any care, dragged him along the stone corridor like a dead weight. Fermín didn’t dare move a single muscle.
The knocks he received from steps, corners and doors stabbed him without mercy. He put a fist in his mouth and bit it to stop himself from screaming. After what seemed like a long roundabout route Fermín noticed a sudden drop in the temperature and the absence of the claustrophobic echo that resounded throughout the castle. They were outdoors. He was hauled for a few metres over a paved surface spattered with puddles that soaked the canvas. The cold air soon pierced the sack.
Finally, he felt he was being lifted and thrown into space. He landed on what seemed to be a hard wooden surface, then heard footsteps moving away. Fermín took a deep breath. The inside of the sack was damp and reeked of excrement, putrid flesh and diesel. Fermín heard a lorry engine start and after a jolt, the vehicle began to move. Soon the downward pull of a slope made the sack roll forward and Fermín deduced that the lorry was trundling down the same road that had brought him to the prison months before. He remembered how the climb up the mountain had been long and full of bends. After a short while, however, he noticed that the vehicle was turning and heading in a new direction, along flat, rough, unpaved ground. They had left the main road and Fermín was sure they were advancing further into the mountain instead of driving down towards the city. Something had gone wrong.
Only then did it occur to him that perhaps Martín had not worked everything out, that he’d missed a key detail. After all, nobody knew for certain what they did with the prisoners’ dead bodies. Martín may not have stopped to consider that perhaps they got rid of them by throwing them into a furnace. He imagined Salgado, waking up from his heavy chloroform-induced sleep, laughing and saying that Fermín Romero de Torres, or whatever the hell he was called, before burning in Hell, had burned in Life.
The journey continued for a few minutes. Then, as the vehicle began to slow down, Fermín noticed it for the first time. Never in his life had he smelled anything so revolting. His heart shrank and as an indescribable stench brought on waves of nausea, he wished he’d never listened to that madman, Martín, and had remained in his cell.
22
When the governor arrived at Montjuïc Castle, he stepped out of the car and rushed into his office. His secretary was ensconced behind his small desk near the door, typing the day’s correspondence with two fingers.
‘Leave that and get that son-of-a-bitch Salgado brought here at once,’ he ordered.
The secretary looked at him, disconcerted, wondering whether he should open his mouth.
‘Don’t just sit there like a halfwit. Get moving.’
The secretary stood up, looking flustered, avoiding the governor’s furious eyes.
‘Salgado has died, Governor. Just tonight …’
Valls closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
‘Governor … sir …’
Without bothering to explain, Valls ran off and didn’t stop until he reached cell number 13. When he saw him, the young jailer snapped out of his drowsiness and gave him a military salute.
‘Your Excellency, what …’
‘Open up. Quick.’
The jailer opened the cell and Valls charged in. He walked over to the bunk and, grabbing the shoulder of the body lying on it, pulled hard. Salgado was left face up. Valls leaned over him and smelled his breath. He then turned towards the jailer, who was looking at him terror-stricken.
‘Where’s the body?’
‘The men from the undertaker’s took it …’
Valls slapped him so hard he knocked him over. Two guards had turned up in the corridor, waiting for instructions from the governor.
‘I want him alive,’ he told them.
The two guards nodded and left at a brisk pace. Valls stayed there, leaning against the bars of the cell shared by Martín and Dr Sanahuja. The jailer, who had got to his feet and hardly dared breathe, thought he saw the governor laughing.
‘Your idea, Martín, I suppose?’ Valls asked at last.