The Prisoner of Heaven (The Cemetery of Forgotten 3)

‘I’ll be late,’ she said.

I watched her leave.

‘Bea …’

She stopped halfway down the corridor and turned round.

‘Do you love me?’ I asked.

‘Of course I love you. Don’t be silly.’

I heard the door close and then Bea’s feline footsteps in her stiletto heels going down the stairs. I picked up the phone and waited for the operator to speak.

‘The Ritz Hotel, please.’

The line took a few seconds to connect.

‘Ritz Hotel, good afternoon, how can I help you?’

‘Could you check whether you have someone staying at the hotel, please?’

‘May I have the name of the guest?’

‘Cascos. Pablo Cascos Buendía. I think he must have arrived yesterday …’

‘Just a minute please …’

A long minute’s wait, hushed voices, echoes down the line.

‘Sir …’

‘Yes?’

‘I can’t see any reservation in that name, sir …’

I felt enormously relieved.

‘Could the reservation have been made under a company name?’

‘I’ll just check.’

This time the wait was shorter.

‘Yes, you were right. Señor Cascos Buendía. Here it is, Continental Suite. The reservation was made by the Ariadna publishing company.’

‘What did you say?’

‘I was saying, sir, that Señor Cascos Buendía’s booking is in the name of Ediciones Ariadna. Would you like me to put you through to his room?’

The phone slipped out of my hands. Ariadna was the publishing firm Mauricio Valls had started up years ago.

Cascos worked for Valls.

I slammed down the phone and went out into the street following my wife, my heart poisoned with suspicion.

9

There was no trace of Bea among the crowd filing past Puerta del Ángel towards Plaza de Cataluña. I assumed that was the way my wife would have chosen to go to the Ritz, but with Bea you never knew. She liked trying out different routes between destinations. After a while I gave up and guessed she must have taken a taxi – a bit more in keeping with the stylish clothes she’d chosen for the occasion.