“What?” I finally asked.
“You don’t look so good, Martín. Did you get into a fight?”
“I fell.”
“I see. I understand that today you visited the magic shop owned by Señor Damián Roures in Calle Princesa.”
“You saw me coming out of the shop at lunchtime. What’s all this about?”
Grandes was gazing at me coldly.
“Fetch a coat and a scarf or something. It’s cold outside. We’re off to the police station.”
“What for?”
“Do as I say.”
A car from police headquarters was waiting for us in Paseo del Borne. Marcos and Castelo pushed me unceremoniously into the back, positioning themselves on either side.
“Is the gentleman comfortable?” asked Castelo, digging his elbow into my ribs.
The inspector sat in the front, next to the driver. None of them opened their mouths during the five minutes it took to drive up Vía Layetana, deserted and buried in an ocher mist. When we reached the central police station, Grandes got out and went in without waiting. Marcos and Castelo took an arm each, as if they were trying to crush my bones, and dragged me through a maze of stairs, passages, and cells until we reached a room with no windows that smelled of sweat and urine. In the center stood a worm-eaten table and two dilapidated chairs. A naked bulb hung from the ceiling and there was a grating over a drain in the middle of the room, where the two inclines of the floor met. It was bitterly cold. Before I realized what was happening, the door was shut behind me with a bang. I heard footsteps moving away. I walked round that dungeon a dozen times until I collapsed on one of the shaky chairs. For the next hour, apart from my breathing, the creaking of the chair, and the echo of water dripping, I didn’t hear another sound.
…
An eternity later I heard footsteps approaching and shortly afterwards the door opened. Marcos stuck his head round and peered into the cell with a smile. He held the door open for Grandes, who came in without looking at me and sat on the chair on the other side of the table. Grandes nodded to Marcos and Marcos closed the door, but not without first blowing me a silent kiss. The inspector took a good thirty seconds before deigning to look me in the eye.
“If you were trying to impress me, you’ve done so, Inspector.”
He ignored my irony and fixed his eyes on me as if he’d never seen me before in his life.
“What do you know about Damián Roures?” he asked.
I shrugged my shoulders.
“Not much. He owns a magic shop. In fact, I knew nothing about him until a few days ago, when Ricardo Salvador mentioned him. Today, or yesterday—I’ve lost track of time—I went to see him in search of information about the previous occupier of the house I live in. Salvador told me that Roures and the owner—”
“Marlasca.”
“Yes, Diego Marlasca. As I was saying, Salvador told me that Roures had had dealings with him some years ago. I asked Roures a few questions and he replied as best he could. There’s little else.”
Grandes inclined his head.
“Is that your story?”
“I don’t know. What’s yours? Let’s compare and perhaps I’ll finally understand what the hell I’m doing here in the middle of the night, freezing to death in a basement that smells of shit.”
“Don’t raise your voice to me, Martín.”
“I’m sorry, Inspector, but I think you could at least have the courtesy to tell me why I’m here.”
“I’ll tell you why you’re here.
About three hours ago, one of the residents of the apartment block in which Señor Roures’s shop is located was returning home late when he found that the door of the shop was open and the lights were on. He was surprised, so he went in, and when he did not see the owner or hear him reply to his calls, he went into the back room, where he found Roures bound hands and feet with wire to a chair, over a pool of blood.”
Grandes paused, his eyes boring into me. I imagined there was more to come. Grandes always liked to end on something dramatic.
“Dead?” I asked.