CHAPTER 42

At first light the next day, Carretero, Macita, Míguel, and Josi set off for their jobs in the suburbs, and Berta’s house was finally left in silence. María, exhausted from crying and the weight of her conscience, got into the only bed in the house, took a Valium, and swore to herself that tomorrow she would grab the bull by the horns—turn Barbosa in and make her shameful confession to the rest of her workmates.

With María so deeply asleep, Berta called Asunción to bring her up to speed on everything. “Tell Gaby as soon as she gets to the office,” she said, not expecting that Mr. Craftsman himself would turn up in Madrid that very day, denying them the time they needed to invent a story that would be more palatable than that of theft, adultery, and his son’s secret journey to Granada in search of García Lorca’s poems.

Berta had no time to think of something that would justify her betrayal of Manchego’s trust, either. So far, the inspector had believed every word of her version: “While they’re still paying our salaries, we’d rather not delve too deeply into where Mr. Craftsman might be; he’s a grown man, after all, and free to do what he wants with his life.” But sooner or later the time would come to tell him the truth. And it would hurt.

Perhaps they could find a way to make Manchego understand that they hadn’t acted out of spite and hadn’t had the least intention of harming anyone, that Soleá’s plan wasn’t dangerous, Atticus was fit and well in Granada, and all that remained was to put Barbosa behind bars, make him pay back the money he had stolen, and refill Librarte’s safes. After that they would call Marlow Craftsman to explain the real reasons behind the economic damage, bring Atticus back to Madrid, and plead with him to trust them and give them a second chance—well, not María, she would have to find another job, unfortunately, one in which she didn’t have access to anyone’s bank account. “But have pity on the four of us, Míster Crasman, can’t you see it wasn’t our fault? We were victims of the theft just like you.”

It was difficult to predict how Manchego would take the news of Berta’s deception. He might get angry, or he might start sobbing hopelessly. “I trusted you,” he would tell her with tears in his eyes. “I even thought I felt something for you, Berta, despite your frumpy figure. At this late stage of life I was ready to believe I’d found my soul mate.” It would be heart-wrenching.

Berta’s mind went blank when she tried to think of an alibi that wasn’t an even bigger lie. Because one thing was clear: The day they spoke for the first time, that cold November morning in the office, when Manchego asked if she knew where Atticus Craftsman was, she had said no. A resounding “no,” unsoftened by any nuance or excuse. And to make things worse, more than a month had gone by since that first interrogation and, although she received regular updates from Soleá about every step Atticus Craftsman took around the Sacromonte hillsides, she had never told Manchego the truth.

Berta knew, for example, that Atticus Craftsman had stayed at Soleá’s house from his arrival until August 10, the day when Soleá tearfully admitted that his visit to Granada was part of a shady plan dreamed up by the Librarte girls with the sole aim of drawing out their anxious wait until they were laid off. She also knew that that revelation had been like a stab in the back for poor Míster Crasman who, it seemed, had got his hopes up about Soleá and had gone as far as to kiss her on a beach, at sunset. She knew that after that disappointment, Atticus drifted for several days like a soul in limbo through the streets of El Albaicín with only his guitar for company, sleeping rough, drinking too much, getting into plenty of trouble, and finally finding accommodation in a cave run by Soleá’s cousin, where on certain nights he stood in for one of the musicians—to the delight of the tourists, whose understanding of flamenco music left a lot to be desired.

As for Soleá, she had called a couple of days after the incident on the beach with the fear of death circling. That’s what she told Berta: that death was circling her house, Granny Remedios was gravely ill, the whole family had moved into the house, they had brought the bed down to the living room and put it near the fire, you understand, don’t you, Berta? In such circumstances there was no way she could go back to Madrid, what with all seventeen members of the family sleeping, eating, and living there, she had to look after them, they had left their homes in Antequera, their businesses, their commitments, so they could say goodbye to Remedios properly.

“It’s not like all seventeen of them are at the foot of the bed all the time,” Soleá explained. “The family comes and goes, but there are always ten or twelve of them, a dozen mouths to feed, and my granny, who’s very old, says she can see Christ, as if he was walking toward the other side and leading her behind him.”

“Has the doctor been to see her?”

“Yes. But he can’t find anything serious. He says it’s an illness affecting her spirit more than her body, but it could kill her all the same.”

The problem was that after four months in bed, Remedios was still firmly in this world, not budging, and the Librarte team was suffering as a result of Soleá’s absence.

“I can work from home, Berta, if you’ll let me. I can cover the cultural life of Andalusia. I can do ‘on this day in . . .’ lists, articles, profiles, whatever you want, but don’t make me go back to Madrid. I couldn’t bear for my granny to die without me by her side.”

“And what about Mr. Craftsman?”

“Míster Crasman visits every morning. He brings flowers for Granny Remedios, or sweets, things like that. But I always try not to bump into him; it breaks my heart to think how badly I’ve treated him. I peek down the stairs, and if I see he’s in the living room, I hide. One day I even jumped out the window so I wouldn’t have to say hello to him. Do you get what I’m saying, Berta? It would be better if he went back to Madrid, or England, so I could forget about him because, as it stands, seeing him every day, hearing him talk to my granny, singing things to her, playing the guitar, with that accent of his, which cracks me up—an Englishman singing flamenco!—and that walk of his, he looks like he’s about to fall over all the time, well, I think it’s sweet, Berta, what can I say, I think I’m warming to him.”

Given how things were, Berta thought the time had perhaps come to share this information with Manchego. As awkward as things might turn out, the right thing to do was collaborate with the investigation and allow the inspector to solve the case. Otherwise it would be an obstruction of justice, not to mention a horrible betrayal of trust, which could have nasty consequences for the future of her friendship with the man who was slowly stealing her heart.

But Manchego, sitting across from her at the kitchen table, couldn’t tear his gaze away from her tired eyes. He was looking at her with a mixture of tenderness and affection that seemed out of place in a large man like him. What’s more, he had been moving his hand across the table until it met Berta’s, and had placed it on top of hers, warm and protective, and now he was stroking her trembling hand, with the obvious intention of squeezing it tight, lifting it to his lips, and kissing it. And then maybe, taking advantage of María’s deep sleep in the other room, Manchego would get up without saying a word, stand behind Berta, wrap his arms around her, stroke her hair, kneel at her side, bring his manly lips close to hers, their mouths would brush together, their souls would meet, and then . . .

The phone rang, breaking the spell. Berta realized that the inspector’s hand was in the same place that it had been all along. Just five centimeters from his coffee cup. Motionless.

She jumped when she heard the phone and answered: “Who is it?”

She heard Asunción’s anxious voice on the other end of the line.

“Berta, please, come quick! Míster Crasman Senior, the boss himself, has turned up without warning. Gaby and I are in the office trying to talk to him in English, but you know I haven’t spoken it since school and Gaby only knows French. On top of that, María’s kids are here, all with sore throats, and this man, who really is incredibly English, can’t believe his eyes. He’s turning red, Berta, all up his neck and behind his ears. Please come quickly before he passes out.”