Grandes turned and looked at me, restraining his anger.

‘You haven’t listened to me,’ I said. ‘You haven’t listened to anything I said.’

‘I’ve listened to you perfectly well, Martín. I’ve listened to how, when you were a desperate, dying man, you entered into a pact with a mysterious Parisian publisher, whom nobody has ever heard of, in order to invent, in your own words, a new religion in exchange for a hundred thousand French francs, only to discover that in fact you had fallen into a sinister plot – involving a lawyer who faked his own death twenty-five years ago to escape a destiny which is now your own, and his lover, a chorus girl who had known better days. I have listened to how this destiny led you to fall into the trap of an accursed old house which had already trapped your predecessor, Diego Marlasca; and how you found proof in that house that somebody was following you and murdering anyone who might reveal the secret of a man who, judging from your own words, is almost as mad as you. The man in the shadows, who adopted the identity of a former policeman in order to hide the fact that he is alive, has been committing a number of crimes with the help of his lover, and that includes provoking the death of Señor Sempere, for some strange motive that not even you are able to explain.’

‘Irene Sabino killed Sempere when she was trying to steal a book from him. A book which she thought contained my soul.’

Grandes hit his forehead with the palm of his hand as if he’d just stumbled on the nub of the matter.

‘Of course. How stupid of me. That explains it all. Like that business about the terrible secret revealed to you by a sorceress on Bogatell beach. The Witch of Somorrostro. I like that. Very typical of you. Let’s see whether I’ve understood this correctly. This Señor Marlasca has imprisoned a soul in order to mask his own soul and thus escape from some sort of curse. Tell me, did you get that out of City of the Damned or have you just invented it?’

‘I haven’t invented anything.’

‘Put yourself in my position and tell me whether you would have believed a single word you’ve said.’

‘I suppose I wouldn’t. But I’ve told you everything I know.’

‘Of course. You’ve given me information and specific details so that I can check the truth of your story, from your visit to Doctor Trías, your account at the Banco Hispano Colonial, your own gravestone waiting for you in a Pueblo Nuevo workshop and even a legal connection between the man you call the boss and Valera’s law firm, together with many other clues that are not unworthy of your skill in creating detective novels. The only thing you have not told me and which, in all frankness, for your good and mine, I was hoping to hear, is where I can find Cristina Sagnier.’

I realised that the only thing that could save me at that moment was a lie. The moment I told him the truth about Cristina, my hours were numbered.

‘I don’t know where she is.’

‘You’re lying.’

‘I told you that telling you the truth wouldn’t be of any use,’ I answered.

‘Except to make me look like an idiot for wanting to help you.’

‘Is that what you’re trying to do, inspector? Help me?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then check out everything I’ve said. Find Marlasca and Irene Sabino.’

‘My superiors have given me twenty-four hours to question you. If by then I don’t hand them Cristina Sagnier safe and sound, or at least alive, I’ll be removed from the case and it will be passed on to Marcos and Castelo, who have been looking forward to a chance to prove themselves and are certainly not going to waste it.’

‘Then don’t lose any time.’

Grandes snorted.

‘I hope you know what you’re doing, Martín.’

19

I worked out that it must have been nine o’clock in the morning when Inspector Víctor Grandes left me locked up in that room with no other company than a Thermos flask of cold coffee and his packet of cigarettes. He posted one of his men by the door and I heard the inspector ordering the man not to let anyone in under any circumstances. Five minutes after his departure I heard someone knocking and recognised Sergeant Marcos’s face through the glass. I couldn’t hear his words, but the movement of his lips made his meaning crystal clear:

Get ready, you bastard.

I spent the rest of the morning sitting on the windowsill watching people who thought themselves free walking past the iron bars, smoking, even eating sugar lumps with the same relish I’d seen the boss do on more than one occasion. Tiredness, or perhaps it was just the final wave of despair, hit me by noon and I lay down on the floor, my face towards the wall. I fell asleep in less than a minute. When I woke up, the room was in darkness. Night had fallen and the street lamps along Vía Layetana cast shadows of cars and trams on the ceiling. I stood up, feeling the cold of the floor in every muscle, and walked over to a radiator in one corner of the room. It was even icier than my hands.

At that moment, I heard the door open behind me and I turned to find the inspector watching me. At a signal from Grandes, one of his men turned on the light and closed the door. The harsh, metallic light blinded me for a moment. When I opened my eyes again, I saw that the inspector looked almost as bad as I did.

‘Do you need to go to the bathroom?’ he asked.

‘No. Taking advantage of the circumstances, I decided to wet myself and practise for when you send me off to the chamber of horrors with those inquisitors Marcos and Castelo.’

‘I’m glad to see you haven’t lost your sense of humour. You’re going to need it. Sit down.’

We resumed our earlier positions.

‘I’ve been checking the details of your story.’

‘And?’

‘Where would you like me to begin?’

‘You’re the policeman.’

‘My first visit was to Doctor Trías’s surgery in Calle Muntaner. It was brief. Doctor Trías died twelve years ago and the surgery has belonged to a dentist called Bernat Llofriu for eight. Needless to say, he’s never heard of you.’

‘Impossible.’

‘Wait, it gets better. On my way from there I went by the main offices of the Banco Hispano Colonial. Impressive decor and impeccable service. I felt like opening a savings account. There, I was able to find out that you’ve never held an account with that bank, that they’ve never heard of anyone called Andreas Corelli and that there is no customer who at this time holds a foreign currency account with them to the tune of one hundred thousand French francs. Shall I continue?’

I pressed my lips together, but let him go on.

‘My next stop was the law firm of the deceased, Señor Valera. There I discovered that you do have a bank account, not with the Hispano Colonial but with the Banco de Sabadell, from which you transferred two thousand pesetas to the lawyers’ account about six months ago.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘Very simple. You hired Valera anonymously, or that’s what you thought, because banks have total recall and once they’ve seen a penny fly away they never forget it. I confess that, by this point, I was beginning to enjoy myself and decided to pay a visit to the stonemasons’ workshop, Sanabre & Sons.’

‘Don’t tell me you didn’t see the angel…’

‘I saw it. Impressive. Like the letter signed in your own handwriting, dated three months ago, when you commissioned the work, and the receipt for the advance payment which good old Sanabre had kept in his account books. A charming man, very proud of his work. He told me it was his masterpiece. He said he’d received divine inspiration.’

‘Didn’t you ask about the money Marlasca paid him twenty-five years ago?’

‘I did. He had also kept those receipts. They were for works to improve, maintain and alter the family mausoleum.’

‘Someone is buried in Marlasca’s tomb who isn’t Marlasca.’