The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

Fermín followed him into the cubicle.

‘What a night, eh?’ said the lawyer. He sounded nervous.

‘It’s only water.’

Fermín looked around him and noticed only one chair. Brians offered it to him and sat on a pile of volumes on criminal and civil law.

‘I’m still waiting for the furniture.’

Fermín could see there wasn’t even room for a pencil sharpener in that place, but thought it best not to open his mouth. On the table was a plate with a grilled-meat sandwich and a beer. A paper napkin informed him that the sumptuous dinner came from the café on the ground floor.

‘I was about to eat. I’ll be happy to share it with you.’

‘No, no, go ahead, you young ones need to grow and besides, I’ve had my dinner.’

‘Can’t I offer you anything? Coffee?’

‘If you have a Sugus …’

Brians rummaged in a drawer that held just about everything except Sugus sweets.

‘A liquorice lozenge?’

‘I’m fine, thanks.’

‘Then, if you don’t mind …’

Brians gave the sandwich a hearty bite, munching with gusto. Fermín wondered which of them looked more famished. Next to the desk, the door to an adjoining room stood ajar. Fermín caught a glimpse of an unmade folding bed, a coat stand with crumpled shirts and a pile of books.

‘Do you live here?’ asked Fermín.

Clearly the lawyer Isabella had been able to afford for Martín was not a high flyer. Brians followed Fermín’s eyes and gave him a modest smile.

‘This is, temporarily, my office and my home, yes,’ Brians replied, leaning over to close his bedroom door.

‘You must think I don’t look much like a lawyer. You’re not the only one. So does my father.’

‘Pay no attention. My father was always fond of telling us we were nothing but a useless lot of imbeciles who would end up lifting rocks at a quarry, if we were lucky. And look at me now, as cool as they come. Succeeding in life when your family believes in you and supports you, what’s the merit in that?’

Brians nodded reluctantly.

‘If you look at it that way … Truth be told, I only established myself on my own a short time ago. Before that I used to work for a well-known lawyer’s practice just round the corner, on Paseo de Gracia. But we fell out over a number of things. It hasn’t been easy since then.’

‘Don’t tell me. Valls?’

Brians nodded, finishing off his beer in three gulps.

‘From the moment I accepted Señor Martín’s case, Valls didn’t stop until he’d got almost all my clients to leave me and I was laid off. The few who followed me are the ones who don’t have a céntimo and can’t pay my fees.’

‘And Señora Isabella?’

A shadow fell over the lawyer’s face. He left the beer glass on the desk and looked hesitantly at Fermín.

‘Don’t you know?’

‘Know what?’

‘Isabella Sempere is dead.’