When Valera’s secretary opened the door, her expression rapidly changed from surprise to fear, especially when I stuck my foot in the gap to make sure she didn’t slam the door in my face and went in without being invited.

‘Let the lawyer know I’m here,’ I said. ‘Now.’

The secretary looked at me, her face completely white.

I took her by the elbow and pushed her into the lawyer’s office. The lights were on, but there was no trace of Valera. The terrified secretary sobbed, and I realised that I was digging my fingers into her arm. I let go and she retreated a few steps. She was shaking. I sighed and tried to make some sort of calming gesture that only served to reveal the gun tucked into the waistband of my trousers.

‘Please, Señor Martín… I swear that Señor Valera isn’t here.’

‘I believe you. Calm down. I only want to talk to him. That’s all.’

The secretary nodded. I smiled at her.

‘Please be so kind as to pick up the telephone and call him at home,’ I said firmly.

The secretary lifted the receiver and murmured the lawyer’s number to the operator. When she got a reply she handed me the phone.

‘Good evening,’ I ventured.

‘Martín, what an unfortunate surprise,’ said Valera at the other end of the line. ‘May I know what you’re doing in my office at this time of night, aside from terrorising my employees?’

‘My apologies for any trouble I may be causing, Señor Valera, but I urgently need to locate your client, Señor Andreas Corelli, and you’re the only person who can help me.’

A long silence.

‘I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Señor Martín. I cannot help you.’

‘I was hoping to resolve this amicably, Señor Valera.’

‘You don’t understand, Martín. I don’t know Señor Corelli.’

‘Excuse me?’

‘I’ve never seen him or spoken to him, and I certainly don’t know where to find him.’

‘Let me remind you that he hired you to get me out of police headquarters.’

‘A couple of weeks before that, we received a cheque with a letter explaining that you were an associate of his, that Inspector Grandes was harassing you and that we should take care of your defence if it became necessary to do so. With the letter came the envelope that he asked us to hand to you personally. All I did was pay in the cheque and ask my contact at police headquarters to let me know if you were ever taken there. That’s what happened, and you’ll remember that I got you out by threatening Grandes with a whole storm of trouble if he didn’t agree to expedite your release. I don’t think you can complain about our services.’

At that point the silence was mine.

‘If you don’t believe me, ask Señorita Margarita to show you the letter,’ Valera added.

‘What about your father?’ I asked.

‘My father?’

‘Your father and Marlasca had dealings with Corelli. He must have known something…’

‘I can assure you that my father was never directly in touch with this Señor Corelli. All his correspondence, if indeed there was any – because there is absolutely nothing in the files at the office – was dealt with personally by the deceased Señor Marlasca. In fact, and since you ask, I can tell you that my father even doubted the existence of this Señor Corelli, especially during the final months of Señor Marlasca’s life, when he began to – how shall I say it – have contact with that woman.’

‘What woman?’

‘The chorus girl.’

‘Irene Sabino?’

I heard him give an irritated sigh.

‘Before he died, Señor Marlasca arranged a fund, administered and managed by our firm, from which a series of payments were to be made to an account in the names of Juan Corbera and María Antonia Sanahuja.’

Jaco and Irene Sabino, I thought.

‘What was the size of the fund?’

‘It was a deposit in foreign currency. I seem to remember it was something like a hundred thousand French francs.’

‘Did Marlasca say where he’d obtained that money?’

‘We’re a law firm, not a detective agency. Our company merely followed the instructions stipulated in Señor Marlasca’s last wishes, we did not question them.’

‘What other instructions did he leave?’

‘Nothing special. Simple payments to third parties that had nothing to do with the office or with his family.’

‘Do you remember any one in particular?’

‘My father took charge of these matters himself, to avoid any of the office employees having access to information that might be, let us say, awkward.’

‘And didn’t your father find it odd that his ex-partner should wish to hand over that sum of money to strangers?’

‘Of course he thought it was odd. A lot of things seemed odd to him.’

‘Do you remember where those payments were sent?’

‘How could I possibly remember? It must have been twenty-five years ago.’

‘Make an effort,’ I said. ‘For Señorita Margarita’s sake.’

The secretary gave me a terrified look, to which I responded with a wink.

‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on her,’ Valera threatened.

‘Don’t give me ideas,’ I cut in. ‘How’s your memory? Is it refreshed?’

‘I could have a look at my father’s private diaries.’

‘Where are they?’

‘Here, among his papers. But it will take a few hours…’

I put down the phone and looked at Valera’s secretary, who had burst into tears. I offered her a handkerchief and gave her a pat on the shoulder.

‘Come on now, don’t get all worked up. I’m leaving. See? I only wanted to talk to him.’

She nodded with a look of terror on her face, her eyes fixed on the revolver. I buttoned up my coat and smiled.

‘One last thing.’

She looked up, fearing the worst.

‘Write down the lawyer’s address for me. And don’t try to trick me, because if you lie I’ll come back and you can be quite sure that I’ll leave all my inherent good nature downstairs in the porter’s lodge.’

Before I left I asked Margarita to show me where the telephone cable was and I cut it, saving her from the temptation of warning Valera that I was on my way, or of calling the police to inform them about our small disagreement.

Señor Valera lived in a palatial building, situated on the corner of Calle Girona and Calle Ausiàs March, that seemed to have pretensions to being a Norman castle. I imagined he must have inherited the monstrosity from his father, together with the firm, and that every stone in its structure derived from the blood and sweat of entire generations of Barcelona’s inhabitants who could never have dreamed of even entering such a palace. I told the porter I was delivering some documents from the lawyer’s office on behalf of Señorita Margarita. After a moment’s hesitation, he allowed me to go up. I climbed the wide staircase at a leisurely pace, under the porter’s attentive gaze. The first-floor landing was larger than most of the homes I remembered from my childhood days in the old Ribera quarter, which was only a short distance away. The door knocker was shaped like a bronze fist. The moment I grasped it I realised that the door was already open. I pushed it gently and looked inside. The entrance hall led to a long passageway, about three metres wide, its walls lined with blue velvet and covered with pictures. I closed the door behind me and scanned the warm half-light that was coming from the other end. Faint music floated in the air, a piano lament in a melancholic and elegant style: Granados.

‘Señor Valera?’ I called out. ‘It’s Martín.’

As there was no reply, I ventured down the passage, following the trace of that sad music. I passed paintings and recesses containing statuettes of madonnas and saints and went through a series of arches, each one veiled by net curtains, until I came to the end of the corridor, where a large dark room spread out before me. The room was rectangular, its walls lined with bookshelves from floor to ceiling. At the far end I could make out a half-open door and, through it, the flickering orange shadows of an open fire.