Fuck! the medic whispers, as he pulls the shirt from the female body. Her flesh still warm. The assistant by his side loses his balance, and trips. The medic shouts. Get up! Get up!
Natalia Hernández?
The world stops for a moment and stares. Or her double? The assistant chokes. It might not be her. But they know. Everybody knows. Someone has pulled the hair from her face, leaving sticky marks on her cheek, and her brow, where they have tried to clean the death away. She has been gored in her belly and her chest. Punctured. Many places. She is porous. A quagmire. Her lips fresh-rouged. Mouth a lake of darkness. A policeman retches on the steps.
And yet her face so still?
The medic gives a small prayer under his breath as he inspects her neck.
There are wounds all over this girl. God, he was cruel. Ostres! The medic whistles. He feels a chill on the air, as if in the presence of ghosts. A nasty icy-frost, even in the heat of summer. Natalia Hernández. Retrospectively, people will wonder how they left her there.
They will feel a collective sense of remorse.
She who was so beautiful.
The housewives will read the tabloids with attention.
This the medic knows with certainty as he feels the nothingness of Natalia Hernández’s pulse. She whom they held so tenderly in their hearts.
Across the city, the doorman on Carrer de Muntaner will slam his fist into the desk. He had not known to alert the police that she never came home – Natalia Hernández who always came home at eleven – who never went out later – not even on an opening night. Hòstia, Santa Maria! Quin horror! Her hair pristinely coiled at the nape of her neck in a tight bun. Stage make-up thick on her face, and those luminous lips, burst berries against brown skin. Delicate limbs fold like the crumpled hind legs of a colt. Fingers long and curled in a death grip on her chest. Two moles, constellations at the corner of her neck and jaw. And yet she looks serene. Dreaming into herself, she disappears.
Elsewhere, all is not as it seems. As the case unfolds, an investigator brings the media’s attention to Natalia Hernández’s doorman at No. 487, who saw a stranger enter and leave his building that fateful morning, taking the elevator to Natalia’s floor in the lavish apartment complex on leafy Muntaner. Said doorman fails to recognize the man on his departure from the building. The little that he could remember upon questioning was that he was nondescript and sandy-haired, slight features, of an average height. ‘I don’t know, I suppose it could have been anyone. I didn’t see him come in. I assumed he was a romantic friend of one of our inhabitants, leaving after the night.’ At 6.30 a.m. the mystery man is promptly forgotten. Later the doorman will claim he was a ghost – a demon, a spirit – no human could have crept by, not in that nasty, serpentine way, slithering along the floor so that he could not be seen by the human eye! Smoke, however, is not so easy to dismiss, and by seven in the morning the living room of 5A, No. 487, has raged into a blazing inferno. Black clouds billow out from the cracks around the apartment door into the fifth-floor hall of No. 487. Fire of this kind never before seen on Muntaner. And still it worsens. In the workroom of Natalia Hernández the heat reaches a vat of turpentine, stacked on the shelf – the flames consume everything – and then the great explosion – a magnificent fireball rising in the air. Sprinkler systems flood the floors to either side. When the fire brigade arrive they struggle to put out the roaring flames, by which time the living room is blackened, the two sofas a disfigured mass of leather, smelling like a burnt carcass, and at the centre of the living room a charred circle of thick black dust. Inside the ash are still discernible the woman’s implements of writing, the spines of books smoke-eaten and destroyed, the pages incinerated in a fire caused by a flame which had met the gas stove (left on) and exploded through the small adjacent kitchen into the living room of the apartment. The firemen suspect arson – the door to the apartment ajar, the taps running in the kitchen. What remains bizarre is that this incendiary cloud of black smoke engulfs Natalia Hernández’s apartment approximately one hour and fifty-seven minutes after her death.
Was it the explosion of her soul – split like an atom from her body? Or the intensity of her life manifested in flames? Only Bobi the Pekinese lapdog remains calm, clutched by his aged owner. His glassy canine eyes observe the fire with placid acceptance from the stricken crowd below.
Inspector Fabregat stands, in this exact moment, in the square of Natalia Hernández’s death. Sleep barely rubbed from his eyes. He runs a hand through his hair, his features wolf-sharp. Across the way the sun glints in shop windows. Olive trees murmur beside diminutive palms. The stone of the surrounding buildings golden and pink. Layered. Mismatched, from all ages. Cypress trees standing to attention at the rim of grey flagstones.
This morning the almsmen will be kept away from the church steps. As will the tourists. Still too early for crowds . . . but they will come, Fabregat thinks. Pacing beneath black ornate lanterns jutting out from stone walls. Past museums and church archives. Narrowing streets. He walks in circles. Waiting for results. This time they will have cameras of the diocese, the door-guards, and Fabregat is agitated, eager, to see what they hold.
Soon Sergeant de la Fuente will lead Inspector Fabregat back to the white-and-blue van stationed at the far side of the square, underneath a row of larger trees.
The excitement on his voice is palpable. ‘We’re tracing them back now. All the way through the Gothic.’
‘Them?’ Fabregat’s left eye twitches.
De la Fuente grins. Fabregat forces a smile.
‘If you’re telling me this, you’d better be sure, Sergeant. I’m a very sensitive man. Don’t go getting my hopes up.’
De la Fuente opens the door to the mobile lab. He pulls up a chair to the central computer and gestures to the inspector, who refuses to take a seat. Fabregat frowns. De la Fuente sits back down, his forehead greasy in the early morning light.
Fabregat runs his hand through his hair and registers surprise. He watches as the young tech in front of him pulls up clear footage, from a vantage point near the Museum of the Archdiocese. Fabregat looks again. A man is carrying her.
‘We’re assuming she’s dead by the time this camera sees her.’
De La Fuente’s voice emotionless.
‘Bring up the rest,’ Fabregat barks.
From the shadows of a side street, a figure emerges and crosses in front of a café closed for the night. La Estrella de Santa Eulàlia. Out of the darkness, the figure lumbers. Vague and blurry. Now clearly discernible as a man. Mid-length black hair. Skin reflecting the glow of the street lamps. His shoulders and chest bare. He wears belted jeans low on his hip, and in his arms he carries the girl, covered in a shirt. Her arms limp, trailing towards the ground. The boy’s face long. Streaked in something black.
Blood? Fabregat’s heart quickens.
Around the two strange travellers, the street and square are deserted.
‘Can we get closer?’
The officer’s fingers fly over the keyboard. He enlarges the image on screen, zeroing in on the young man’s face. Fabregat sees curling dark hair, down to the shoulder. Had the camera been clearer, he would have made out a hooked nose and yellow eyes like a cat. For the majority of time, the visage is blurred, the quality of lighting is poor – but there are flashes of clarity.
‘There – stop there.’ Fabregat raises his hand.
The man’s mouth firmly closed, eyes straight ahead. He stands for a long time, hugging the limp girl to his chest, before setting the body down on the ground, at the base of the steps leading up to the Grand Cathedral. The suspect kneels by the woman’s side. He moves the dead girl’s arms, crossing them over her chest, straightening her legs, pulling the hair from her eyes. He strokes the skin of her forehead.
A needle of doubt turns in Fabregat’s mind. There is nothing cool or calm about this guy – nothing practised. Nothing clean. He doesn’t fit. For a moment the suspect looks down. Down at Natalia Hernández. Sadistic
little shit – the tenderness enrages Fabregat, baffles him, as the boy covers her face with the palm of his hand – caresses her cheek, closes both eyes – to what? To apologize? The suspect kneels over the naked girl. He stays there for three minutes and fifty-six seconds. Shoulders heaving.
‘He’s crying,’ Fabregat says, emerging to catch his breath.
And internally he repeats it again, as would the nation when they watched the footage roll through the investigation. He is not just crying; the boy is sobbing. Hot tears streaming down his face. A millisecond later, the suspect moves. Head up. He’s heard a noise. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. He does not look down at the woman again. Then turns, and begins to run, south, down the Via Laietana. Towards the sea.
‘Right! Who the hell is this guy?’ Fabregat explodes. ‘Can anybody tell me yet?’
De la Fuente beside him glowers.
‘Tell the City Council to install more cameras. You’ll have a devil’s hunt to catch him on our system.’
The inspector makes a move towards the sliding door.
He pulls it open.
‘Find him!’ Inspector Fabregat shouts back into the seated row of technicians. He steps into the sun. Hot air hits like a wave. Sweltering, unforgiving heat. It’s a scorcher. Not a fun day to be on the run. Outside the surveillance van, Fabregat stands still for a moment. El dia de Sant Joan. Should be a holiday for everyone. He thinks of how the beaches were last night, of how the drinking began at noon, of his son Joaquim, the little children with their fireworks and sparklers, the crowds on the beach, the mass hysteria, the petty crime that always comes. But this? This is a nightmare. He rubs his forehead with the back of his palm. A mistake on la Revetlla de Sant Joan. But we got the bastard. We got the bastard on bloody camera. Case closed. My God. Fabregat rocks on his heels, and gives a slow, long whistle under his breath. Tranquil.la macu. Calm down. Tranquil.la. God damn it. We’ve got him.
But this is not true.
Adrià Daedalus Sorra has already walked into the sea.
On the morning of the 24th, the Argentine producer Tito Sánchez calls from the back seat of his silver Jaguar, parked at the top of Avinguda Portal de l’Àngel, just off the big square – Plaça de Catalunya.
Fabregat can see the nose of the car poking out into the street. Sánchez: forty-three, extremely wealthy, ties to the drug trade, Russian crime. Real McMafia type. We’ve never pinned him down, but we know. A viper. He’s been a producer at Natalia’s theatre for the past twenty years. High-profile admirer of the actress. No alibi for the hours of midnight to six thirty, Fabregat says softly. We had developed a strange kind of friendship prior to the case. Still, Tito Sánchez knew too quickly for my taste. We brought him in, questioned him. Nothing conclusive.
Tito leans into the dark leather interior, phone pressed to his cheek. His driver silent. He does not want the driver to see his face.
‘I heard . . .’ Tito’s voice hardens. ‘You on the ground? You there?’
‘Look—’
‘What happened to her?’
Fabregat steels his nerves.
‘I can’t, Tito. I really can’t. It’s bad.’
‘I need to know.’
‘Not from me.’
‘Fabregat—’
The line goes silent.
‘Where is she?’
‘I’m sorry.’
Tito is winded.
Empty of all feeling.
Fabregat plays out the scene in the car as he listens – Tito stares into the gold face of the watch on his wrist, concentrating on the dials. He has failed her. He feels impotent, bereft, sucked dry of life, and still the damned minute hand clicks forward, and the seconds.
‘Tito? Tito, are you there?’
Fabregat’s voice crackles on the line. Then Tito takes off his watch and smashes the face of it into his window, cracking the glass of the car. Fabregat listens to the punching. The watch face shatters. Tito punches his hand again into the window of the car.
‘Who was she with last night?’ Tito growls.
Fabregat does not answer.
The actor Oriol Duran had gone out for a dawn run and returned to his apartment that morning to discover an unwelcome guest. Duran takes off his shoes in the hall, then his socks. He calls out.
Hello?
No answer.
But he can feel somebody breathing.
Oriol makes his way to the kitchen.
‘Tito,’ Oriol says, forcing on the light. ‘You should let me know when you’re coming over.’ He walks, hand outstretched. ‘You gave me the fright of my life.’
‘You smell like smoke.’ Tito’s hands stay firmly by his side.
‘Cigarettes, they do that to you.’ Oriol goes to the sink and washes his hands. ‘Why didn’t you wait for me to let you in?’
‘What happened last night?’ Tito asks.
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘You’re a fucking idiot.’
Oriol walks to the kitchen bar, pours himself and Tito a glass of water.
‘Coffee?’ Oriol asks.
‘No.’
‘Come on, Tito, you’re scaring me.’ Oriol laughs. ‘It’s not like you.’
‘She was a nice girl.’ Tito’s eyes lock on Oriol.
‘What are you talking about?’
‘I don’t like it,’ Tito says.
‘Like what, Tito? This is a joke, right?’
Tito lunges at Oriol, grabbing him by the neck and ramming Oriol into the stainless steel refrigerator behind him. ‘I can do whatever the fuck I want with you,’ Tito snarls. Oriol’s face puckers, and turns red. Tito spits. ‘I own you, asshole. I own your career. Your entire fucking operation.’
Oriol makes the desperate whining sound of a dog in pain.
‘She’s dead, Oriol.’
Oriol loses the strength in his body.
‘What?’ he wheezes.
‘You were there. You let her go.’
Oriol squirms, grasping for breath.
With his free hand, Tito rams Oriol in the gut, his fist bunched into a bullet. Oriol chokes hard as the air shoots out of his body, his head smacks against the steel. ‘That’s for leaving her behind. Now –’ Tito leans into Oriol’s ear, then punches him again in the gut, sending Oriol’s head into the stainless steel door. ‘How could you leave her behind?’ He punches Oriol again. ‘My Natalia? You were there, you could have stopped it from happening.’
Oriol’s shoulders crack against the stainless steel.
‘I want to know what happened, Oriol. Why she was there. Who she was with. I want to know why you left her there.’ Tito stands back from Oriol, watching the actor slump against the metal door of the refrigerator.
Witnesses describe the encounter in the members’ club in Plaça Reial, with its colonnades and mustard-yellow paint and brown shutters and lanterns by Gaudí. Look closely at his work and you will see the omens. Serpents climbing towards the light, blue tails entangled about throats of winged metal. The famous nightclubs are here: Sidecar, Karma, Jamboree. You can dance your heart out. Leave your Vespa parked outside or come with stragglers falling over each other, arm in arm and singing.
Fabregat used to love the area when he was younger. In the summer the square is full of encounters: students lounging around bollards, tourists red-skinned and fresh from the beach, salt-haired and sticky, rubbing against each other in the half-light. The foreigners who flock to the palm-filled square, with its shaded cafés and outdoor tables, will feel that they have entered a pervasive Mediterranean sensuality worth every penny of their airfare or bus ticket or hostel bed. People’s cameras are stolen, their wallets and, in the later hours of the night, their sense of dignity. But love is also born here, exaltations and warm kisses drifting up from the square to fill the palm fronds.
It was in this environment that a young man approached a famous and remarkably beautiful woman on the second-floor bar hidden behind shuttered windows in an east-facing
corner of the square. The general feeling of the public that observed them was that the young man had no right to be speaking to the woman and that their encounter was furtive and private.
‘It had the look of mala suerte,’ the barman said.
Bad luck.
‘I think he spoke to her first.’
But others in the crowd contradicted him.
‘She seemed to be expecting him.’
‘Expecting him? Was she frightened?’ Fabregat asked the witnesses.
No, they said.
Unanimously.
The Serpent Papers Page 7