by Chris Ward
Two policemen stood there, wearing the uniforms of the Barcelona Municipal Police. The nearest thrust his badge so close to Peter’s eyes that he flinched back.
‘Yes?’
‘Peter Salvadore?’
‘That’s me. How can I help you, officers?’
The first police officer gave a groan under his breath as though hearing a bad joke one time too many. Like a cartoon caricature he glanced sideways towards his colleague standing behind him to the left without moving his head. Peter wondered if there was something fascinating about his doorframe.
‘My name is Antonio Valdo,’ he said, shaking Peter’s hand. ‘Inspector with the Barcelona police. We spoke on the phone, I believe? My colleague is Inspector David Corona.’
Like the beer, Peter was tempted to quip, but thought better of it.
‘Well, come in, officers. Take a seat.’
They did, choosing Peter’s only sofa, leaving him with a tatty armchair he’d been meaning to replace. Their eyes scanned high and low around his living room as if looking for clues.
‘You are aware of the murder of the tourist?’ Valdo said suddenly, his head snapping around to face Peter like a waking alligator smelling food. ‘He was strangled.’
‘You told me on the phone last night,’ Peter said. ‘And I saw it on the news this morning.’ So much for police confidentiality. ‘He was strangled so hard his neck was crushed.’
‘Your handshake was rather firm,’ Valdo said, raising one eyebrow. For a moment he held Peter’s gaze as if searching Peter’s face for a confession, then he looked away. ‘Unfortunately not strong enough.’
‘I’m impressed by your powers of deduction, inspector.’
An eyebrow rose on Valdo’s brow and hung there for a good five seconds, as if the man couldn’t decide whether Peter was being sarcastic or not. Peter started to wonder if he’d had a muscle spasm and got it stuck, then it slowly lowered again.
‘You are not an immediate suspect, sir.’
Peter frowned. That meant he hadn’t quite been ruled out, either.
‘Could I ask what you have come to see me about?’
Valdo took a deep breath. He nodded to Corona who pulled a plastic file out of a briefcase and handed the contents to Peter.
‘Take a look, sir,’ Valdo said.
At first Peter wasn’t sure what he was looking at. It looked like a misshapen cylinder which had been crushed in the centre. Flecks of white like old paint were visible among a deeper red that looked like—
He coughed, dropping the picture to the floor, and then pressed a hand over his mouth as the contents of his stomach surged upwards.
Only the love for his carpet stopped him spraying hot, stinging vomit all over it. He managed to keep it in his mouth long enough to stagger to the little sink in his adjoining kitchen, where he emptied his guts all over the plates he had left there for washing.
When he returned to the living room a couple of minutes later Valdo was nodding thoughtfully. Corona had picked up the close up of the victim’s crushed neck and, clearly of a stronger disposition than Peter, was staring at it with a deep frown on his face.
‘Such a natural reaction is another tick in the correct box,’ Valdo said.
‘Thanks,’ Peter muttered.
‘While you might believe we came here to shock you, I can assure you that was not our intent. I merely wanted you to look at the little spots of white that were left on the victim’s throat.’
‘Which are? They looked like bits of bone.’
‘It’s a kind of paint.’
‘Which is not all that uncommon in a city?’
‘Specially made paint which can be used on human skin without causing irritation is not quite as common, sir,’ Valdo said.
‘We had it analysed at the lab,’ Corona added. ‘It’s a common enough variety which can be bought online or in several stores here in the city. It’s common among theatre groups and used in circuses. Do you see what I’m getting at?’
Before Peter could reply, Valdo said, ‘You are the head of the supposed union of street performers here in Barcelona, isn’t that right?’
While Peter felt a certain irritation at the condescension in Valdo’s tone, he felt he’d pushed the police officers too far already. ‘That’s correct,’ he said. ‘I have been for the last three years. And I don’t know that “supposed” is the right word. We’re officially recognised—’
‘The kind of paint found on the murder victim is used by a number of street performers registered to your union,’ Valdo said, ignoring him. He leaned forward on the sofa. Corona leaned forward too as though the two were attached by an invisible piece of string.
‘So a street performer is a suspect?’
Valdo ignored his comment. ‘Of late there have been a number of complaints made by and against street performers on Las Ramblas. Complaints of violence, irritation, general disturbing of the peace. In your opinion, do you think it possible that a street performer might have found themselves pushed over a certain edge? Hypothetically speaking?’
Peter frowned. Was Valdo asking him to name a suspect?
‘I’m not sure I could comment on that,’ he said.
‘Ever heard of Joseph Grimaldi?’ Corona said. ‘Joey the Clown?’
‘Um, no, I don’t think so.’
‘He was the first well known clown, and considered the reason why clowns balance on a fine line of being loved and hated,’ Corona said. ‘He lost a fortune, watched his wife and son suffer and die in torment, and eventually died alone, a pitiful alcoholic.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘Street performers are essentially a breed of clown,’ Corona said. ‘And in such a historically—how would you say?—suspicious profession, it isn’t difficult to turn an audience against you.’
‘One of your puppets has gone off the grid, sir,’ Valdo said. ‘But there’s one more thing.’
‘What?’
‘I need a list of all the performers who have come to Barcelona in the last month. And we all know that in such professions there are plenty of floaters. They’re not all registered, are they? You’re our man on the ground, sir. We need you to help us.’
‘Why the last month?’
Valdo took a deep breath. ‘Because something was delivered to the police department the day after the murder was discovered. Something too unusual to be a coincidence. A calling card of sorts. Do you know what that is?’
‘I’ve seen enough TV shows, officer. Something a serial killer leaves behind. What was it?’
Valdo leaned forward again. Peter was sure that one more inch would see him slip off the sofa to the floor.
‘It was a dead animal. To be more specific, a bird, one not native to Spain. A Romanian Black Eagle.’
Peter glanced down at the empty beer bottle by his feet, wishing he’d grabbed another before he opened the door. ‘Have you checked the zoo?’ he asked. ‘Perhaps one escaped.’
Valdo gave a short, sour laugh. ‘They’re ugly things, Mr. Salvadore,’ he said. ‘Not high on any zoo’s wishlist. And from the information we have they’re found only in a small area in the southern foothills of the Carpathian Mountains. I don’t know how well you know your unsolved crimes, but there was a rather brutal terrorist standoff there a few years ago between the Romanian government and a man demanding protection for these birds. The perpetrator was never apprehended.’
‘And you think he’s here in Barcelona?’
‘Cut this for a scenario,’ Corona said, making a box with his hands as if to frame a TV screen. ‘The bastard goes into hiding, but after several years he has to run. Perhaps the investigation got a new lead, who knows? We’re still waiting for a response from the police in Bucharest. He comes to Barcelona, and he needs money. Has a history of circus performing, or is possibly a disgruntled failed actor. Whites himself out and starts performing on the streets to make untraceable money. However, after a few weeks, he can’t control his urges
any longer. He needs to—’ Corona made a twisting motion with his hands like a man wringing out a dishcloth, ‘—kill.’
Peter lifted a hand, not feeling it polite to just interrupt. ‘Wouldn’t he have washed the paint off first?’
Valdo nodded. ‘Oh, he did. We’re not dealing with an idiot. If he hadn’t washed his hands that guy’s neck would have looked like cream of tomato soup.’
‘But why would he send a dead bird to the police?’
Corona grimaced. ‘Because he’s a madman. He thinks he’s teasing us, but he’s reckoned for more than he bargained for this time. The dead bird arrived long enough after the murder that a more unsuspecting police department might have seen no connection. We, however, are on to this bastard. Are there any names you can give us, Mr. Salvadore? We can ensure your complete safety.’
Peter felt another rising wave of nausea. ‘I don’t know of anyone who could fit your description,’ he said, even as a face appeared in his mind.
Valdo held out a card. ‘Don’t hesitate to call us,’ he said. ‘Of course, there are other suspects. There are a couple of dozen theatre groups in Barcelona. Our suspect shouldn’t be hard to find, though. We’re looking for someone big and powerful, with hands strong enough to snap bones, and with a criminal’s disregard for human life. Someone angry, someone mad. Someone who wants to hurt people.’
Valdo stood up. That single eyebrow had risen again and hung seemingly in space above Valdo’s eye. ‘If you think of anyone who matches our description, call us immediately. Thank you for your time, sir.’
As Peter let the police officers out, he tried to get his tongue to work. As he closed the door he knew it was too late, and wondered why he’d not given them the name they had asked for. Only one person fit the description, but it couldn’t be, could it? Peter didn’t want to think that someone from his group could be capable of murder. That was what these imposters were doing, surely? It had to be some kind of set up, an attempt to undermine his union’s place on Las Ramblas.
But the longer he thought about it, the more he knew that there could only be one possible suspect.
Big and powerful, recently arrived, white paint on his hands.
It had to be, there was no one else.
The giant Russian.
Slav.
20
Nozomi considers her future
Her master was calling for her. Nozomi ignored the shouting as it got gradually louder, until someone pounded on the door of her little basement room hard enough to shake the broken light fitting hanging from the ceiling.
‘I can see the light under the door. Open up, my dear.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Doing what?’
‘Studying. Go away.’
There was a pause, and Nozomi could imagine his misshapen beak of a nose cocking to one side as what was left of his mouth tried to smile. He knew she wasn’t studying and he was right: by the light of a pocket flashlight she was working her way through a set of comics she had found in a skip not far from Avenida Diagonal, unfolding the crumpled pages one by one to reveal the story of a girl whose horse had been stolen, and how she had rallied her best friends to go on an adventure to get it back.
It was typical young teenager bullshit, but it kept her mind off how she had hurt Jorge the day before. A dozen times she had wanted to go and find him, to say she was sorry, but Barcelona was huge and she had no chance unless he chose to be found. And after the way she had treated him it was unlikely she would ever see him again.
She hadn’t expected that to hurt so much, but it did, weighing down on her like someone had cut her open and filled her stomach with rocks. She had never had a friend, partly because they moved cities every few months, and partly because she was effectively a slave to a psychotic, deformed madman, but Jorge had picked her out of a crowd of street kids and offered an olive branch which she might never get again.
And her hatred for her master and herself had caused an involuntary kick-back mechanism to push it away.
He was leaning against the door; she could tell from the way the wood was creaking.
‘I could instruct one of my experiments to remove this door from its hinges, but it would save a lot of time and effort if you would just open it.’
She sighed. I should have let go, she thought. I should have taken the chance to end my life like Mother did, crushed and carefree on an outcrop of jagged Romanian rocks.
‘Nozomi….’
She looked up. Nozomi? He had never once called her by her name, not once in five years. It was always “princess”, or “my dear”, or “my sweet delight”, or some other bitter-tasting crap.
‘Okay, okay.’
She got up and opened the door. Her master came sweeping into the room, now wearing a cape that billowed out behind him and a mismatching baseball cap that didn’t look cool like he probably thought it did.
His skin, thin around his black eyes, was red from too much sun.
‘I thought you didn’t like going outside?’
‘I had to take part in a reconnaissance mission.’ He nodded towards the comic books. ‘I’m glad to see that you’ve found a way to amuse yourself. While I’d prefer you to be studying biotechnology to be ready when the time comes for you to inherit my empire, at least you’re not out causing trouble.’
‘What do you want?’
The raised corner of his misshapen mouth that usually indicated more snide remarks were on their way dropped down. He sat down next to her on the bed. She scowled at him and shifted away, looking down at her feet. She’d seen his face a thousand times, and for a year after he had kidnapped her it had haunted her dreams at night.
‘We have to watch ourselves,’ he said.
‘What do you mean? We always have to watch ourselves.’
‘More than usual. I think someone is coming after us.’
‘Good. It’s about time. I hope you end up in a noose.’
Her master sneered. ‘You jest, my dear. How delightful of you. One reason I stole you from your parents was your wicked sense of humour. I, however, am serious. A couple of days ago, a tourist was found murdered, and yesterday the body of a Romanian Black Eagle was sent to the police department.’
‘So?’
‘Like any good chaperone, I have kept tabs on our friend Jun Matsumoto during his years of mindlessness. I know that he has come here to Barcelona to find me, but he is a pitiful creature, weak and easily manipulated. Murder is not something that he is capable of performing by himself, but his hatred for me is absolute. Therefore, I believe he has an accomplice, a hired killer perhaps.’
Nozomi laughed. ‘Uncle Jun has hired a contract killer to find you? That’s crazy.’
Her master sneered. ‘All he needed was to find the money. The contractor will do the rest. I know how these people work, my dear. The murder was a warning, an indication that this person is serious. The paint left on the body was a nod to my own mastery of theatre, and the body of the eagle sent to the police department a reinforcement that this is personal.’
‘You had better watch your back then.’
Her master wagged a finger in the air. ‘Silly, silly girl. You will not be spared, if that’s what you think.’ He raised an eyebrow so high it looked like his nose was beginning to slide off his face. ‘I took the liberty of accessing the reports on Matsumoto’s behaviour, and one recurring theme was that he believed you would have joined me, that, in the eyes of an unbiased bystander, you would be my artistic assistant.’
Nozomi stared at him. It couldn’t be true. Everything she had done had been at her master’s urging. Hadn’t it?
‘Therefore, whatever bounty our dear friend Matsumoto has placed on my head, he has likely placed on yours too.’ Her master smirked. ‘So much for Uncle Jun, wouldn’t you say? Your dear dead mother was right all along. It was all his fault.’
Nozomi looked up at him, and felt the hate return. ‘Monster….’
Her master nodded. ‘I agree. W
e have to stay on our guard and stay hidden until my work is finished. Then we leave.’
‘You!’
‘What?’
‘You’re the monster! You twist everything! How can I believe a single word you say? Uncle Jun hiring a killer? That’s absurd.’
Her master rolled his eyes. ‘Come on, my dear. We’ve been over this ground a thousand times before. Let’s not waste time repeating ourselves, shall we? I will assign one of my better experiments to you as a personal bodyguard. Much as I detest everything that you remind me of, I wouldn’t like to be cleaning up your remains.’
Before Nozomi could think of something else to say, he had stood up and gone to the door. He gave her a little wink and slipped out.
Nozomi lay back on the hard pallet of her bed and stared up at the damp stains on the ceiling. Was he telling the truth? Would Jun really have sent a hired killer after her?
What could she do?
She knew her master was evil. There was a whole new level of the word established just for him. In the past he had protected her and kept her safe, even if he had never allowed her to put down any roots or make any friends. Now, though, if someone was closing in on them, she had choices to make.
Staring up at the cracks on the dirty, stained ceiling, three options presented themselves.
Kill her master before the assassin did and hope her master was lying; kill herself and be done with it or escape.
A thousand times she had looked out from the high windows of buildings, aware that one more step would end everything. There had been days when she had felt so low it had been like a magnet hanging around her neck, dragging her down, yet she had been unable to take that ending step. Nozomi didn’t want to die. She wanted to live, and while she had seen great vistas of the world on her travels with her master she had never really found the part of her that had been lost that day she fell from the castle catwalk into a new world.
She lifted one of the comic books in her hands. It was more of a chapbook, about ten centimetres high and a hundred or so pages thick, ideal for the back pocket of someone’s jeans. She lifted it in front of her face, then with one quick motion she ripped it in two, tossing the pieces aside.