The Whispering City

COPYRIGHT

Published by Abacus

978-0-3491-3994-4

Copyright © Rosa Ribas and Sabine Hofmann 2013

The moral right of the author has been asserted.

Translation copyright © Mara Faye Lethem 2015

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

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The Whispering City

COPYRIGHT

Dedication

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Epilogue

Acknowledgements

To you, Celia, forever in my memory

Note

This book has been selected to receive financial assistance from English PEN’s Writers in Translation programme supported by Bloomberg and Arts Council England. English PEN exists to promote literature and its understanding, uphold writers’ freedoms around the world, campaign against the persecution and imprisonment of writers for stating their views, and promote the friendly co-operation of writers and free exchange of ideas.

Each year, a dedicated committee of professionals selects books that are translated into English from a wide variety of foreign languages. We award grants to UK publishers to help translate, promote, market and champion these titles. Our aim is to celebrate books of outstanding literary quality, which have a clear link to the PEN charter and promote free speech and intercultural understanding.

In 2011, Writers in Translation’s outstanding work and contribution to diversity in the UK literary scene was recognised by Arts Council England. English PEN was awarded a threefold increase in funding to develop its support for world writing in translation.

www.englishpen.org

There she lay. Mariona. Pale, blonde, voluptuous, and… dead.

Abel Mendoza paced from one side of the massive desk to the other like a caged ferret, raising small clouds of dust as he shuffled piles of papers that hadn’t been touched in months. He turned towards shelves filled with medical reference works. His hands seemed to have taken on a life of their own and moved wildly, pulling out books and picking up others that had fallen to the floor, closing open drawers and opening closed ones.

Finally he found what he was looking for. Just at that moment, with the back of his left hand, he inadvertently knocked a plastic skull to the floor. Half of it was covered in muscles and had an eye; the other half was bare bones. Skulls wear a permanent smile, even when they’ve fallen to the floor. The impact sent an eyeball flying, bouncing like a ping-pong ball towards the recumbent body.

He picked up the skull and, despite his nervousness, or perhaps because of it, couldn’t resist returning its smile. Then the rolling plastic eye hit the heel of the dead woman’s single shoe. The hollow thud it made sent him over the edge into real panic.

Abel Mendoza fled the room, running out through the door he had opened just minutes earlier with a picklock.

1

‘Mariona Sobrerroca’s been murdered.’

As always, Goyanes sounded neutral, professional. Joaquín Grau switched the heavy black receiver into his other hand so that he could rub his right temple. The headache he’d had since getting out of bed that morning flared up when the Commissioner gave him the news. Yet the voice at the other end of the line kept talking, oblivious to the effect it was having.

‘Her maid found the body this morning, when she came back from a weekend with relatives in Manresa. The house was turned upside down; must have been a break-in.’

His headache intensified still further. Grau reached out for the glass of water his secretary had left for him on the table, grabbed a little packet of powdered painkiller, stuck it between his teeth and ripped it open. He poured its contents into the water and stirred it silently with a teaspoon. He drank it down in a single gulp before interrupting the Commissioner.

‘Who’s assigned to the case?’

‘I gave it to Burguillos.’

‘No. I’m not so sure about him.’

A snort was heard at the other end of the line. Grau ignored it. ‘I want Castro on this case,’ he ordered.

‘Castro?’

‘Yes, Castro. He’s the best you have.’

Goyanes could only nod.

‘OK,’ he conceded, but he sounded displeased.

The public prosecutor responded irritably. ‘And I expect results soon. The Eucharistic Congress is going to be held here in a month, and I want the city clean. Is that clear?’

‘Crystal clear.’

After hanging up, Grau analysed the conversation. He had made the right choice. Castro was one of the most capable inspectors in the Criminal Investigation Brigade, if not the most capable. And he knew him to be absolutely loyal. He wasn’t as convinced about Goyanes, despite the fact that the CIB’s Commissioner had, once again, just shown him the necessary degree of deference. For some time now, Grau hadn’t been sure he could trust Goyanes and his closest men, including Inspector Burguillos.

For the moment, his position in the public prosecutor’s office was secure. For the moment. But he was aware that he had many enemies, and their number was growing. He knew too that they were clever, and capable of hiding in the shadows until the opportune moment arrived. He had to stay sharp. Goyanes had followed orders, but Grau had noticed that he was even more distant than usual. Or was it just his imagination? He had to stay focused, on guard, as always. The lion who takes the first swipe is usually victorious.

Relentless, that was how he liked to think of himself. Just like during the war, when he had been a military judge known for his ability to pass death sentences without wavering. That was why, after the war, when the Regime appointed trusted people for the new Justice Administration, they’d named him public prosecutor of Barcelona. The work they’d begun during the war wasn’t over, there was still a lot to do. And he was still relentless.

He leaned back in his seat and looked at the pile of letters on his desk. He had never allowed his secretary to open them, just as he hadn’t invited any familiarity between them. He always made sure to check out his staff thoroughly, but his secretary didn’t know a single thing about her boss that wasn’t strictly necessary. Not his secretary, not anyone. He would never understand some people’s need to tell others their personal stories, to open flanks of attack to the enemy gratuitously.

His gaze remained fixed on the unopened envelopes. It still made him feel slightly uneasy to see the day’s correspondence on his desk. For several weeks after the commuters’ strike last spring, he had opened the post with some trepidation. The popular public transportation boycott over the increase in fares and the ensuing general strike had caused many heads to roll. The first to go was Barcelona’s prefect, followed immediately by the mayor. Two Falange officers ended up in jail because they didn’t show sufficient enthusiasm for sending their units to fill the tramcars and break the strike. Other old-guard Falangists had also lost their posts. No one could be sure of holding onto their position.

He grabbed one of the letters at random, an envelope of fine paper that he tore with a sharp thrust of his steel-handled letter opener. It was an invitation to an official reception. Of course he would go, if only to avoid giving them the opportunity to whisper and plot behind his back. Yes, he was on his guard.

And now the Sobrerroca murder. Mariona Sobrerroca, dead. He had known her; he’d had social dealings with both her and her husband, the late Jerónimo Garmendia. Life takes so many twists and turns! Their magnificent mansion on Tibidabo had emptied over the course of just two years. In that brief stretch of time, the Grim Reaper had caught up with them both. ‘I’m becoming morose,’ he thought. ‘And that’s no good; that and this headache are a bad combination.’ There was only one solution for both things, and that was to keep a cool head. Mariona Sobrerroca’s death was just work – it was a case, a police investigation. One that involved sniffing around among the Barcelona bourgeoisie. On the one hand, that could be complicated. Who knew what they were going to turn up? Every investigation, no matter where, aired dirty laundry. It was like digging for wells: go deep enough and you always find shit. And those people didn’t want you looking into their sewers any more than anyone else did. The difference was that they were well connected, so he had to treat them with kid gloves. They were quick to complain, and they knew exactly whom to address their complaints to. Later, he’d have to hope that the results of the investigation were satisfactory. Perhaps, as on other occasions, he’d have to hide some things. And he wasn’t sure whether this case would distinguish him in the public eye.

And then again maybe it would.

He picked up the phone and dialled Goyanes’s number.

He got straight to the point. ‘I want this case to get priority treatment in the press.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it’s important to show the world that this country pursues its criminals and punishes them efficiently.’

He didn’t care whether Goyanes believed those words, lifted from official speeches, or not. Grau knew they were incontestable.

‘What does “priority” mean?’ the Commissioner wanted to know.

‘That we’re going to give one newspaper the exclusive:
La Vanguardia
.’

‘
La Vanguardia
? Why them? Remember what they did with the information in the Broto case…’

‘That’s exactly why. This time, as the only official source, they won’t be able to start speculating.’

That conversation was even briefer than the first one.

Afterwards, he tipped his head back and closed his eyes, in the hope of mitigating the pain, which was now making itself felt as a throbbing in his ears.

On the other hand, he told himself, returning to the train of thought he’d interrupted in order to call the Commissioner, it was very likely that these enquiries would yield some interesting information, which he’d make sure to file away for future use. Maybe he’d even get some material that could help him solve a few of his own little problems.

He began to notice his headache easing slightly.