FERMÍN DISEMBARKED FROM the taxi like a famished castaway making land after weeks clinging to a plank of wood. The owner of Can Lluís, an old friend of Fermín’s, received him with an embrace and greeted Daniel warmly. He eyed Vargas and Alicia uncertainly, but after Fermín whispered something in his ear, he nodded, inviting them in. “Only today we were talking about you with Professor Alburquerque, who had lunch here, and wondering what adventures you might be caught up in.”
“Nothing of note,” said Fermín, “just small domestic intrigues. I’m not the sleuth I used to be.”
“If you like, you can have the table at the far end. It will be more peaceful there . . .”
They settled in a corner of the dining room, Vargas instinctively taking a seat facing the entrance.
“What would you like?” asked the manager.
“Surprise us, my friend,” said Fermín. “I’ve already had a preliminary dinner, but with all this excitement I wouldn’t say no to a late-night snack, and our captain here could eat a bull and requires a crash course on the local cuisine. Kindly bring the young ones a couple of lemonades and let them sip that, to see if they come out of their apathy.”
“A glass of white wine for me, please,” said Alicia.
“I have a very good Penedès.”
She nodded.
“So, why don’t I bring you a few tapas to start with and we take it from there?”
“Motion approved unanimously,” Fermín declared.
The manager set off to the kitchen with the order, leaving them with no more company than a heavy silence.
“You were saying, Alicia?” Fermín asked encouragingly.
“What I’m going to tell you must remain between us,” she warned.
Daniel and Fermín looked straight at her.
“You’re going to have to give me your word,” Alicia insisted.
“One gives one’s word to someone who has one,” said Fermín. “And for the moment you, with all due respect, have not shown us any proof at all that this may be the case.”
“Well, you’re going to have to trust me.”
Fermín exchanged glances with Vargas. The policeman shrugged. “Don’t look at me. That’s what she told me a few days ago, and look where I am now.”
Soon a waiter appeared with a tray and placed a few small dishes and a bit of bread on the table. Fermín and Vargas instantly attacked the offering, while Alicia slowly savoured her glass of white wine, holding a cigarette between her fingers. Daniel stared at the table.
“What do you think of the fare?” asked Fermín.
“Tremendous,” Vargas agreed. “Enough to awaken the dead.”
“Try this portion of fricandó, Captain – prime Catalan beef stew that will make you want to dance the sardana in your long johns.”
Daniel observed this odd couple, who couldn’t have been more different from each other, frantically wolfing down everything that had been put in front of them. “How many dinners are you capable of eating, Fermín?” he asked.
“As many as pop up within shooting distance. The youth of today who did not live through the war cannot understand it, my friend.”
Vargas nodded, licking his fingers. Alicia, who was watching the show with the detached calm of someone waiting for the rain to die down, signalled to the waiter to bring her a second glass of white wine.
“Doesn’t that go to your head if you don’t throw in something solid?” asked Fermín, mopping up the plate with a piece of bread.
“It doesn’t worry me if it does,” replied Alicia. “So long as it stays up there.”
Once the coffees were on the table, together with a succession of fine liqueurs, Fermín and Vargas leaned back in their chairs with a satisfied expression, and Alicia stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray.
“I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m all ears,” said Fermín.
Alicia leaned forward and lowered her voice. “I’m assuming you both know who the minister Mauricio Valls is.”
“My friend Daniel has heard of him.” Fermín smiled craftily. “I’ve had my brushes with him as well.”
“You will have noticed, then, if you’ve been paying attention, that for some time he’s barely been seen in public.”
“Now you mention it . . . Although the expert here on Valls is Daniel. Whenever he has a spare moment, he goes down to the newspaper library at the Ateneo to investigate the life and miracles of the great man, an old family acquaintance.”
Alicia glanced at Daniel.
“About three weeks ago, Mauricio Valls disappeared from his residence in Somosaguas without leaving a trace. He left at dawn together with his main bodyguard in a car that was found abandoned in Barcelona a few days later. No one has seen him since.”
Alicia studied the turbulent torrent of emotions lighting up Daniel’s eyes.
“The police investigation suggests that Valls may have been the victim of a conspiracy, seeking to avenge some supposed fraudulent deals in connection with a number of bank shares.”
Daniel was looking at her in bewilderment and growing indignation.
“When you say ‘the investigation’,” Fermín intervened, “who are you referring to?”
“The police department, and other law-enforcement agencies.”
“I can see Captain Vargas in that role, but you, quite frankly . . .”
“I work, or rather worked, for one of the services that have given their support to the police in this investigation.”
“And does such service have a name?” asked Fermín sceptically. “Because you don’t look like a member of the Civil Guard’s women’s section.”
“No.”
“I see. And the deceased we’ve just had the pleasure of seeing floating tonight?”
“An old colleague of mine.”
“So I suppose what’s put you off your food is grief—”
“All this is just a load of lies,” Daniel cut in.
“Daniel . . .” said Alicia, placing a conciliatory hand on his.
He pulled his hand away and faced her. “What’s all this about you being an old friend of the family, then? Visiting the bookshop, my wife, my son, sneaking into my family?”
“Daniel, this is complicated. Let me—”
“Is Alicia even your real name? Or did you borrow it from one of my father’s old memories as well?”
It was now Fermín who had his eyes fixed on her, as if he were facing a ghost from the past.
“Yes. My name is Alicia Gris. And I haven’t lied about who I am.”
“Only about everything else,” Daniel shot back.
Vargas kept silent, letting Alicia lead the conversation. She sighed, showing heartfelt embarrassment and guilt that he didn’t think for a second were genuine.
“During the investigation we came across evidence that Mauricio Valls had been acquainted with your mother, Doña Isabella, and with an old inmate of Montjuïc Prison called David Martín. The reason I involved you in the matter was I needed to eliminate suspicions and make sure the Sempere family hadn’t had anything to do with—”
“You must think I’m an idiot.” Daniel laughed bitterly, looking at Alicia with contempt. “And I must be, because until now I hadn’t realized what you were, Alicia, or whatever in hell your name is.”
“Daniel, please . . .”
“Don’t touch me.” Daniel stood and headed for the door.
Alicia sighed and dropped her face in her hands. She sought Fermín’s eyes in search of support, but the little man was gazing at her as if she were a pickpocket caught in the act.
“As a first attempt it looks rather lame to me,” he said. “I think you still owe us an explanation – even more so now, in view of the con you’ve tried to make us swallow. And that’s without counting the explanation you owe me. If you really are Alicia Gris.”
She smiled, dejected. “Don’t you remember me, Fermín?”
The little man was staring at her as if she were an apparition. “I no longer know what I remember. Have you come back from the dead?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“And what for?”
“I’m only trying to protect you.”
“I would never have guessed.”
Alicia stood up and looked at Vargas.
“Go after him,” said the policeman. “I’ll take care of Lomana, and inform you as soon as I can.”
Alicia nodded and set off in search of Daniel. Fermín and Vargas were left alone, looking mutely at each other.
“I think you’re too hard on Alicia,” Vargas said.
“How long have you known her?” asked Fermín.
“A few days.”
“So you’re in a position to certify that she’s a living being, not a ghost?”
“I think she only looks like one.”
“She does drink like a sponge, there’s no denying that,” remarked Fermín.
“You’ve no idea.”
“A coffee with a dash of whisky before returning to the house of horrors?” Fermín offered.
Vargas accepted.
“Do you need company and logistical support to fish out the stiff?”
“Thanks, Fermín, but it’s best that I do this on my own.”
“Then tell me something, and please don’t lie to me – you and I have been through enough battles to know bullshit when we see it. Is it me, or is this business worse than it smells?”
Vargas hesitated. “Much worse,” the policeman agreed at last.
“Right. And that two-legged piece of excrement, Valls, is he still alive or is he pushing up poisoned daisies by now?”
Vargas, who seemed suddenly overcome with the exhaustion of the last few days, looked at Fermín with an expression of defeat.
“That, my friend, I think is the least of our worries now . . .”