THE PASSING STORM had given Barcelona that electric-blue tinge that can only be enjoyed on certain winter mornings. The sun had kicked away the clouds, and a clean light floated in the air, so liquid it could have been bottled. Señor Sempere, who had woken up with unalloyed optimism and, ignoring the doctor’s advice, downed a large cup of black coffee that tasted wonderfully rebellious, decided that it was going to be a memorable day.
“We’re going to have more takings than a Molino variety show during Lent,” he announced. “You’ll see.”
While he was removing the CLOSED notice from the bookshop door, he noticed that Fermín and Daniel were whispering in a corner.
“What are you two scheming?”
They turned around with that stupid expression on their faces that indicated a budding conspiracy. They looked as if they hadn’t slept for a week, and if the bookseller’s memory served him correctly, they were wearing exactly the same clothes as the day before.
“We were remarking on the fact that every day you look younger and more dashing,” said Fermín. “Young women of a marriageable age must be throwing themselves at your feet.”
Before the bookseller was able to reply, the doorbell tinkled. A gentleman with crystal-clear eyes and impeccable business attire walked up to the counter and smiled placidly.
“Good morning, sir, how may we help you?”
The visitor began to remove his gloves unhurriedly. “I was hoping you’d be able to answer a few questions,” said Hendaya. “Police.”
The bookseller frowned and shot a quick look at Daniel, who had gone so pale he’d acquired the colour of Bible paper, the sort used to print the complete works of universal classics.
“Go ahead.”
Hendaya smiled politely and pulled out a photograph that he left on the counter. “If you’d be so kind as to come over and have a look.”
The three congregated behind the counter and proceeded to examine the photograph. It was a picture of Alicia Gris, looking about five years younger, smiling at the camera and putting on an air of innocence even a babe in arms wouldn’t have swallowed.
“Do you recognize this young lady?”
Señor Sempere picked up the photograph and looked at it carefully. He shrugged and passed it on to Daniel, who repeated the ritual. The last person to inspect it was Fermín, who, after lifting it up against the light, as if it were a counterfeit note, shook his head and handed it back to Hendaya.
“I’m afraid we don’t know this person,” said the bookseller.
“I must say, she does look a bit roguish, but her face doesn’t ring a bell,” Fermín corroborated.
“No? Are you sure?”
All three denied in unison.
“You’re not sure, or you haven’t seen her?”
“Yes we are, and no we haven’t,” Daniel replied.
“I see.”
“May I ask who that is?” asked the bookseller.
Hendaya put the photograph back. “Her name is Alicia Gris, and she’s a fugitive from justice. She has committed three murders, that we know of, in the last few days. The most recent was yesterday, when she killed a police captain named Vargas. She’s very dangerous and may be armed. She’s been seen in this part of town during the last few days, and some of your neighbours say she came into the bookshop. One of the shop assistants in the bakery on the corner is quite sure she saw her with one of the employees from this bookshop.”
“She must have made a mistake,” replied Señor Sempere.
“That’s possible. Does anyone else work here, apart from you three?”
“My daughter-in-law.”
“Maybe she’ll remember her?”
“I’ll ask her.”
“If you remember anything, or if your daughter-in-law does, please call this telephone number. It doesn’t matter what time it is. The name is Hendaya.”
“We’ll do that.”
The policeman gave a friendly nod and headed for the door. “Thank you for your help. Have a nice day.”
They stayed behind the counter without saying a word, watching Hendaya cross the street slowly and stop by the café on the other side. There an individual in a black coat came up to him, and the two talked for about a minute. The individual nodded, and Hendaya set off down the street. The man in the black coat glanced briefly at the bookshop and stepped into the café. He sat at the table by the window and remained there, vigilant.
“Can someone tell me what’s going on?” asked Señor Sempere.
“It’s complicated,” ventured Fermín.
Just then the bookseller caught sight of his niece, Sofía, who was returning from taking Julián to the park. She was grinning from ear to ear.
“Who was that handsome hunk who just left?” she asked from the door. “What’s the matter? Has someone died?”
*
The conclave took place in the back room. Fermín broached the subject without further delay.
“Sofía, I know you adolescents keep your brains on the back burner while you wait for the hormonal tsunami to abate, but if the handsome snake you’ve just seen leaving the bookshop, or any other individual using any old pretext, appears and asks you whether you’ve seen, know, have heard of, or have the faintest idea of the existence of Señorita Alicia Gris, you’re going to lie with that Neapolitan grace God has given you and say no, you’ve never seen her in your life, and you’ll say so looking as dumb as your neighbour Merceditas, or I swear that, even though I’m not your father, or your legal guardian, I’ll stick you in a cloistered convent from which you’ll not be allowed out until you find Sir Winston Churchill devilishly handsome. Are you with me?”
Sofía nodded remorsefully.
“Now go to the counter and pretend you’re doing something useful.”
Once they’d got Sofía out of the way, Señor Sempere confronted his son and Fermín.
“I’m still waiting for you to explain what the hell is going on.”
“Have you taken your blood pressure medication?”
“With my coffee.”
“What a grand idea. All you need to do now is dunk a dynamite cartridge in it, as if it were a sponge finger, and then we can all pat you on the back.”
“Don’t change the subject, Fermín.”
Fermín pointed at Daniel. “I’ll take charge of this. You go out there and behave as if you were me.”
“And what does that mean?”
“Keep your eyes peeled. Those dickheads are staking out the shop and will be waiting for us to make a wrong move.”
“I was going to take over from Bea . . .”
“Take over from Bea?” asked Señor Sempere. “Take over from what?”
“A number of issues,” Fermín cut in. “Daniel, don’t leave the premises. I’ll go. I have experience in matters of military intelligence, and I can slip out like an eel. Go on, beat it. It mustn’t look as if we’re scheming.”
Daniel walked through the back-room curtain reluctantly, leaving them alone.
“Well?” asked Señor Sempere. “Are you going to tell me once and for all what’s going on here?”
Fermín smiled meekly. “Do you fancy a Sugus?”