AFTER HER VISIT to Barceló’s bookshop, Alicia allowed herself to be tempted by the old haunts as she meandered through the rambling Gothic quarter, bound for the second stop of her day. She walked slowly, her thoughts focused on Ricardo Lomana and his strange disappearance. Deep down, it didn’t surprise her that she’d already run across his trail. Time had taught her that quite often she and Lomana were hot on each other’s heels when following the same track. Nine times out of ten she was the one who got there first. The only remarkable thing on this occasion was that only a few weeks ago Lomana – who, as Gil de Partera had explained when he entrusted them with the mission, had started investigating the case of Valls’s anonymous letters – should have been asking questions about the Víctor Mataix books. Lomana might be a lot of things, but he wasn’t stupid. The good news in all that was that if Lomana had arrived at the Labyrinth books on his own, Alicia could take that as evidence that her instinct was not failing her. The bad news was that, sooner or later, she was going to bump into him. And their encounters rarely ended well.
According to rumours in the unit, Ricardo Lomana had been an old disciple of the ill-fated Inspector Fumero in Barcelona’s political branch, and the most sinister of all the creatures Leandro recruited over the years – and there were quite a few. During her years in Leandro’s pay, Alicia had had more than one brush with Lomana. The most recent had taken place a couple of years back when Lomana, fired up with brandy and resentment because Alicia had solved a case in which he’d been stuck hopelessly for months, had followed her one night to her room in the Hispania and sworn that one day, when Leandro wasn’t there to protect her, he’d find the right moment and place to hang her from the ceiling and take his time to work her over, making good use of his toolbox.
You’re not the first or the last classy tart Leandro comes up with, darling, and when he tires of you, I’ll be waiting. And I promise we’re going to have a great time, especially you, with that flesh of yours made for the irons . . .
From that meeting Lomana had obtained a kneeing to his pride that left him on sick leave for two weeks, a double fracture to his arm, and a cut on his cheek that required eighteen stitches. For her part, the encounter cost Alicia a couple of weeks of insomnia, staring at the door of her hotel room in the dark, with the revolver on her bedside table and an ominous foreboding that the worst still lay ahead in the return match.
She decided to banish Lomana from her thoughts and enjoy that first morning in the streets of Barcelona. As she continued her leisurely stroll in the sun, she measured each step, pausing to window-shop at the slightest hint of pressure on her hip. Over the years she had learned to read the signs and avoid, or at least postpone, the inevitable. She and her pain were old rivals, veterans who know one another well, exploring one another mutually and sticking to the rules of the game. Even so, that first walk without the harness clinging to her body was well worth the price she knew she would pay later.
It wasn’t even ten o’clock when she walked up Puerta del Ángel and, as she turned the corner into Calle Santa Ana, saw the shop window of the old bookshop, Sempere & Sons. Across the street from the bookshop was a small café. Alicia decided to go in and take one of the tables by the window. A rest would do her good.
“What will it be, miss?” asked a waiter who looked as if he hadn’t left the premises for at least twenty years.
“An espresso. And a glass of water.”
“House tap water, or bottled mineral water?”
“What would you recommend?”
“That depends on how much calcium is already in your bloodstream.”
“I’ll have bottled water. Room temperature, please.”
“On its way.”
*
A couple of coffees and half an hour later, she hadn’t seen a single person stop by the bookshop, not even to glance at the shop window. Sempere’s ledgers must be gathering cobwebs at the speed of light. The temptation to cross the street, enter that enchanted bazaar and spend a fortune was strong, but it was not the right moment. What she had to do now was observe. Another half-hour went by, with nothing much happening. She was beginning to consider whether or not to weigh anchor when she saw him. He looked distracted as he walked, his head in the clouds, a half-smile on his lips, with that calm expression of one who is lucky enough not to know how the world works. She had never seen a photograph of him, but she knew who he was before he approached the shop door.
Daniel.
Alicia smiled unconsciously. When Daniel Sempere reached the bookshop, its door opened outwards, and a young woman who didn’t look a day older than twenty came out to meet him. Hers was one of those fresh beauties, the sort that writers of radio soaps would describe as coming from within, the sort of beauty that makes love-prone saps addicted to stories about golden-hearted angels drool and sigh. She had the touch of innocence, or modesty, of a girl from a good family, and she dressed as if she suspected the type of chassis she carried under her clothes but didn’t dare acknowledge it. The famous Beatriz, Alicia told herself, a Snow White, perfumed with innocence, in the land of the dwarves.
Beatriz stood on her toes and kissed her husband’s lips. A chaste kiss, a quick brush of joined lips. Alicia couldn’t help noticing that Beatriz was the type of woman who closed her eyes when she kissed, even if this was her lawful little husband, letting him put his arm around her waist. Daniel, on the other hand, still kissed like a schoolboy. An early marriage hadn’t yet taught him how to hold a woman, where the hands should go, and what to do with his lips. Clearly nobody had taught him. Alicia felt her smile vanish, and a streak of malice invaded her. “Will you bring me a glass of white wine?” she asked the waiter.
On the other side of the street, Daniel Sempere said goodbye to his wife and stepped into the bookshop. Beatriz, in her tasteful but low-budget clothes, set off towards Puerta del Ángel, mingling with the crowd. Alicia studied her waist and the undulations described by her hips. “God, if I could dress you, my princess,” she murmured.
“You were saying, miss?”
Alicia turned to find the waiter standing there with the glass of white wine, looking at her with a mixture of enthralment and apprehension. “What was your name?” she asked.
“Mine?”
Alicia looked all around the café, confirming that they were alone. “Do you see anyone else?”
“Marcelino.”
“Why don’t you sit down with me, Marcelino? I don’t like to drink alone. Well, that’s a lie. But I like it less.”
The waiter gulped.
“If you like, I could buy you a drink,” offered Alicia. “A beer?”
Marcelino looked at her, stiff as a ramrod.
“Sit down, Marcelino. I don’t bite.”
The young man sat down opposite her. Alicia smiled at him sweetly. “Do you have a girlfriend, Marcelino?”
The waiter shook his head.
“Some girls don’t know what they’re missing. Tell me something. Does this place have any other way out, apart from the main door?”
“Excuse me?”
“I was asking, do you have any other way out to an alleyway, or to the entrance hall of the next-door building . . .”
“There’s a door to a patio that leads to Bertrellans. Why?”
“I’m asking you because someone is following me.”
Marcelino glanced at the street in alarm. “Do you want me to call the police?”
Alicia put her hand on his. The waiter was about to turn into a statue of salt.
“There’s no need. It’s nothing serious. But I’d rather use a more discreet exit, if that’s not a problem for you.”
Marcelino shook his head.
“You’re a darling. Now, what do I owe you?”
“It’s on the house.”
“Are you sure?”
Marcelino gave a quick nod.
“It’s what I said. There’s a whole lot of young girls out there who don’t know what’s good . . . Tell me, do you have a telephone?”
“Behind the bar.”
“Do you mind if I make a call? It’s long-distance, but I’ll pay for it, all right?”
“Make as many calls as you wish . . .”
Alicia made her way to the bar and found an old telephone attached to the wall. Marcelino, who had remained stuck to the table, was looking at her. She waved at him while she dialled. “Put me through to Vargas, please.”
“You’re Gris, aren’t you?” asked a rather sarcastic voice on the other end of the line. “The captain was expecting your call. I’ll put you through.”
She heard the receiver being left on a table as the voice summoned her colleague. “Vargas, it’s Doña Inés . . .” she heard one of the police officers say, while another sang the refrain of “Green Eyes”.
“Vargas here. How’s it going? Have you been dancing sardanas?”
“Who is Doña Inés?”
“You. We’ve been given nicknames here. I’m Don Juan . . .”
“Your pals are so witty.”
“You have no idea. There’s an abundance of talent here. What news?”
“I just thought you’d be missing me.”
“I’ve been stood up by more promising dates, and I’ve managed to get over it.”
“I’m glad to see you’re coping so well. I thought you’d already be on your way here.”
“If it was up to me, I’d be happy for you to stay there on your own until you retired.”
“And what do your bosses say?”
“They’re telling me to get into a car and drive all day and part of the night to be there with you tomorrow.”
“Speaking of cars – any news on Valls’s?”
“No news. They found it abandoned in . . . let me look at the note . . . Carretera de las Aguas, in Vallvidrera. Is that in Barcelona?”
“Above Barcelona, to be precise.”
“Above? As in the sky?”
“Something like that. Any trace of Valls, or of his driver, Vicente?”
“Drops of blood on the passenger seat. Signs of violence. Not a trace of either man.”
“That’s it. What about you? What do you have to tell me?”
“That I’m the one missing you,” said Alicia.
“This business of returning to Barcelona has gone to your head. Where are you now? On a pilgrimage to Our Lady of Montserrat?”
“Almost. Right now I’m staring at the shop window of Sempere & Sons.”
“Very productive. Have you spoken to Leandro, by any chance?”
“No. Why?”
“Because he’s been pursuing me all morning, asking after you. Please phone him and wish him a Merry Christmas. He’s not going to get off my back otherwise.”
Alicia sighed. “I will. By the way, I need you to do something for me.”
“Apparently that’s the new purpose of my life.”
“It’s a rather delicate subject.”
“My specialty.”
“I need you to use all your contacts in headquarters to find out in a discreet way what someone called Ricardo Lomana was up to before he vanished into thin air.”
“Lomana? The one who disappeared? Bad type.”
“You know him?”
“I know of him. Nothing good. I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s all I’m asking.”
On the other end of the phone, Vargas sighed. “I guess I’ll be there tomorrow morning. If you like, we can have breakfast together, and I’ll let you know what I’ve found out about your friend Lomana – if I do discover anything, that is. Will you behave yourself and keep out of trouble until I arrive?”
“I promise.”