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Fermín was led through a maze of tunnels until they reached a long corridor with a heavy wooden door visible at one end. He felt queasy, convinced that his miserable life was now over and that Inspector Fumero would be waiting behind that door with a welding torch and the night off. To his surprise, when he reached the door one of the guards removed his shackles while the other one rapped gently.

‘Come in,’ answered a familiar voice.

That is how Fermín found himself in the governor’s office, a room luxuriously decorated with fancy furniture and carpets presumably stolen from some ritzy mansion in the Bonanova area. The scene was rounded off with a Spanish flag – eagle, coat of arms and inscription – a portrait of the Caudillo with more retouching than a publicity shot of Marlene Dietrich, and the governor himself, Don Mauricio Valls, smiling behind his desk, enjoying an imported cigarette and a glass of brandy.

‘Sit down. Don’t be afraid,’ he invited.

Fermín noticed a tray next to him, with a plateful of actual red meat grilled to perfection, sautéed fresh peas and steaming mashed potatoes that smelled of hot butter and spices.

‘It’s not a mirage,’ said the governor softly. ‘It’s your dinner. I hope you brought an appetite.’

Fermín, who hadn’t seen anything like it since 1936, threw himself on the food before the vision evaporated. The governor watched him wolf it down with a mild expression of disgust and disdain behind his fixed smile, smoking and smoothing his slicked-back hair every other minute. When Fermín had licked his plate clean as a mirror, Valls told the guards to leave. On his own, the governor seemed far more sinister than with an armed escort.

‘Fermín, isn’t it?’ he asked casually.

Fermín nodded.

‘You’ll wonder why I’ve summoned you.’

Fermín shrank in his chair.

‘Nothing that need worry you. On the contrary. I’ve made you come because I want to improve your living conditions and, who knows, perhaps review your sentence: we both know that the charges brought against you didn’t hold water. That’s the problem with times like ours, a lot of things get stirred up and sometimes it’s the innocent who suffer. Such is the price of our national renaissance. Over and above such considerations, I want you to understand that I’m on your side. I’m a bit of a prisoner here myself. I’m sure we both want to get out as soon as possible and I thought we could help one another. Cigarette?’

Fermín accepted timidly.

‘If you don’t mind, I’ll save it for later.’

‘Of course. As you please. Here, have the whole packet.’

Fermín slid it into his pocket. The governor leaned over the table, smiling. There’s a snake just like that in the zoo, thought Fermín, but that one only eats mice.

‘So, how do you like your new cellmate?’

‘Salgado? A true humanitarian.’

‘I don’t know whether you’re aware that before we put him inside, this swine was an assassin for hire working for the communists.’

Fermín shook his head.

‘He told me he was a trade unionist.’

Valls laughed softly.

‘In May 1938, all on his own, he slipped into the home of the Vilajoana family on Paseo de la Bonanova and did away with them all, including their five children, the four maids and the eighty-six-year-old grandmother. Do you know who the Vilajoanas were?’

‘Well, actually …’

‘Jewellers. At the time of the crime there were jewels and cash in the house to the value of sixty-five thousand pesetas. Do you know where this money is now?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘You don’t know, and nobody knows. The only person who knows is Comrade Salgado, who decided not to hand it over to the proletariat but to hide it, so he could live in grand style after the war. Which is something he’ll never do because we’ll keep him here until he sings like a canary or until your friend Fumero slices what’s left of him into little cutlets.’

Fermín nodded, putting two and two together.

‘I’d noticed he is missing a couple of fingers on his left hand and he walks in a funny way.’

‘One of these days you must ask him to pull his trousers down and you’ll see he’s also missing some other key equipment he’s lost along the way because of his stubborn refusal to cooperate.’


Tags: Carlos Ruiz Zafón The Cemetery of Forgotten Mystery