City of Drowned Souls

by Chris Lloyd

  Glancing for a moment at the paper, Elisenda called them back to Bofarull’s murder. ‘I think this means a convergence of the two investigations,’ she told them. ‘We can’t be certain if he was killed by Vergés, or if it was part of these attacks, but his death inevitably means there’s a connection, if only in terms of how we tackle it.’

  ‘Isn’t it too much of a coincidence?’ Josep asked. ‘Him being attacked by the gang when he’s under suspicion for kidnapping the boy?’

  ‘Or he was killed by Vergés but it’s got nothing to do with the kid,’ Manel interrupted.

  Elisenda agreed. ‘We won’t know about Bofarull’s bank accounts until later today, but the wine in that cellar was worth a fortune according to Riera. Científica will be taking an inventory, so we’ll know exactly what it’s worth, but the important point is how come he was able to amass that sort of collection? His only income is from his work and that wouldn’t pay for it. That and his evident knowledge of computers points to him potentially being responsible for the fraud that Vergés was convicted for.’

  ‘Vergés thought so too,’ Àlex suggested, ‘and went looking for payback.’

  ‘You and Manel have been following up on the house attacks,’ Elisenda asked him. ‘Do you think Bofarull’s murder is part of that or to do with the missing boy?’

  Àlex let out a low whistle. ‘Ordinarily, I’d say that with all the evidence we have, it was the gang that robbed the house and killed him. We don’t know if he was forced to transfer his money, but the way he was tortured and killed suggests they were trying to force him to give up the codes. All the usual items were stolen and they took his car too. And we’re certain that the next two attacks are going to be in the Baix Empordà, which this one was. That to me says it was the gang. The one thing I don’t get is why the symbol wasn’t crossed out. If it were the gang, they’d have done that.’

  ‘They were interrupted?’ Manel asked.

  ‘Josep,’ Elisenda said. ‘Play devil’s advocate. Tell me why it would be Vergés.’

  Josep gathered his thoughts for a moment before speaking. ‘Bofarull ran the fraud and framed Vergés for it. Vergés worked it out in prison and is looking for revenge. Not just on Bofarull but on Comas too, because he was involved in some way.’

  ‘We have no evidence for that,’ Elisenda interrupted.

  ‘We don’t. But Vergés might suspect it. He worked with Comas. And that’s why Vergés has taken Jaume. Not for money, because he hasn’t asked for anything, but for revenge. He lost his mother because he was wrongly convicted, so he’s taken Comas’s son. Vergés suffered, now he’s making the people he blames for it suffer.’

  ‘So why the symbol on the house?’ Manel asked. ‘That really would be some coincidence.’

  ‘Vergés has been in prison for four years,’ Josep argued. ‘He got to know the gang members from his time there. He knows how they plan their attacks, so he’s using it for his own ends. That would explain not crossing the triangle out.’

  Elisenda shook her head. ‘Do we think that Vergés has become that tough in prison that he’s going to be accepted by this gang, which is pretty heavy duty, and be able to kidnap a fourteen-year-old boy and torture Bofarull? That’s quite some change.’

  ‘Four years in prison and you’re innocent,’ Josep countered. ‘So’s that.’

  The four of them considered Josep’s words.

  ‘OK, Àlex and Manel,’ Elisenda finally said. ‘If we do think that Vergés knows how the gang works, it might be an idea to check up on whether any of the other home-owners had any links to him.’

  Josep looked startled. ‘I’m just playing devil’s advocate. I don’t know how far I go along with Vergés being responsible for Bofarull’s death.’

  ‘Neither do I,’ Elisenda placated him. ‘But it’s all worth considering at this stage. Whatever happened to Bofarull, I think we still have to see Pere Vergés as a suspect for Jaume’s disappearance and as a potential threat to Comas or Miravent. Those are the most likely avenues we have to pursue. For now, stick to the investigations you’re working on, but be aware that we may be seeing a convergence between them. In what way, I don’t know yet.’

  ‘Do you really think Vergés has got Jaume?’ Àlex asked as they made to leave her office.

  ‘I hope so. Because that would mean he’s still alive.’

  * * *

  Puigventós studied Elisenda and Àlex and considered their request. Armengol was also in the inspector’s office, as was another figure.

  ‘Sotsinspector Micaló is back from his course,’ Puigventós explained.

  ‘Surprised to see you here, Sotsinspectora Domènech,’ Micaló said. ‘I thought you were on sick leave.’ As he said the last two words, he mimed speech marks with the first two fingers on each hand.

  ‘No, I’m still here,’ Elisenda told him affably. She’d caught a glance exchanged between Àlex and Armengol at the mime. ‘I thought you weren’t going to be back until Monday.’

  Micaló sighed expansively. ‘You don’t seem to be able to do without me. Houses still being attacked, schoolboys still missing, what are we to do?’

  ‘Quite,’ she replied, turning to Puigventós. She’d heard Àlex’s intake of breath, which helped divert her own irritation.

  She quickly outlined her thoughts on telling the public to be aware of the symbols that the gang of house attackers was using to identify targets.

  ‘We can use social media to spread the message. And get the newspapers to do the same. That way, we have a chance to get word out to home-owners to keep themselves safe.’

  ‘It would also alert the attackers,’ Puigventós argued.

  ‘Yes, it possibly would. But there’s also the possibility that with the public’s help, we could identify the next target before the gang is aware that it’s on social media. Apart from protecting the public, it could even work in our favour.’

  Out of the corner of her eye, she could see Micaló gauging the inspector’s reaction. Puigventós looked like he had his doubts.

  ‘I don’t know, Elisenda. We could find ourselves inundated with people calling about the most innocuous things on their houses, or even graffiti.’

  ‘We’d tell people to look for a triangle, but we wouldn’t give out any more details. That will weed out all the scrawls and squiggles. So if someone contacts us to say they’ve seen one with the lines coming out of the top, then we know it’s genuine and we have to follow it up. Anything else, we just assure them that they’re not at risk.’

  ‘You might get pranksters drawing on other people’s houses.’

  ‘It’s a chance we have to take. But we’ll still be able to weed out the fakes the same way.’

  Puigventós stared blankly at his desk for a moment and appeared to reach a decision. ‘I think you’re right. We have no other choice. Go ahead with it.’

  ‘My thoughts precisely,’ Micaló agreed. ‘Go for it.’

  ‘And now that Roger is back,’ the inspector gestured to Micaló, ‘you can count on the support of his unit in your investigations.’

  ‘I’m more than happy with Esteve’s help,’ she said, nodding at Armengol.

  Micaló held his hands up expansively. ‘Of course you are. But any assistance I can give, I’d be only too happy.’

  ‘You have no idea what that means to me,’ Elisenda told him.

  Turning to leave, she caught a gleam in Armengol’s expression as he tried to suppress a laugh. Without meaning to, she smiled at him for the first time since he’d been working at Vista Alegre.

  Outside the room, she was about to explode to Àlex about Micaló when a uniformed mosso came up to her with a message from the officer in charge of the cells.

  ‘A prisoner wants to talk to you,’ he told her.

  Instantly calm, she told Àlex to get Manel and meet her in an interview room. Ten minutes later, the three of them were sitting there when Siset was shown in.

  ‘I want to do a trade,’ he told her the
moment he sat down. His voice had lost none of its whine. ‘If I tell you something, I want to go home.’

  ‘Tell me what it is, and I’ll decide whether you go home.’

  Siset shook his head. ‘I want a promise, Elisenda. I’m not telling you unless you promise.’

  ‘OK, Siset, tell me something useful and you will go home.’

  He bit at the fingertips on his right hand for a few moments. ‘These people I trade with. There’s going to be a job tonight.’

  ‘You told me there was going to be one last week and you were wrong.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. There was an attack, I just got the wrong place.’

  Elisenda sighed. ‘You really are hopeless, Siset, do you know that. So there’s going to be an attack tonight? Where?’

  He looked uncertain for the first time. ‘I don’t know. They just told me to be at home tomorrow because they’re going to bring me some stuff.’

  ‘How long have you known this, Siset?’

  He shrugged his skinny shoulders. ‘A few days.’

  ‘And you’re telling me about it now? And you don’t know where it’s going to be? What am I supposed to do with that? I said “useful”.’

  ‘That’s your job, Elisenda. You’re the cop.’

  She stood up. ‘OK, Siset, you can go home.’

  ‘I can?’

  ‘Sure you can. Tomorrow, when the seventy-two hours are up.’

  Chapter Fifty

  In a clearing, two soldiers faced each other across a divide under the trees yearning for light. Slowly, they approached, each one mirroring the tentative step of the other. When some ten metres still separated them, they stopped. In the hush that fell, a baby cried, its mother hurriedly calming it. The rest of the onlookers remained silent, held in thrall by the events happening in front of them.

  ‘Will you surrender?’ the Irishman in the uniform of Napoleon’s army called.

  ‘No. We will defend our city,’ the Irishman in the uniform of the Ultonia regiment, a force in the Spanish army made up of troops of Irish ancestry, replied.

  The two men faced each other as a drum in the Spanish army ranks began to mark a slow and insistent beat. Nodding at each other, the two soldiers turned their backs and joined their armies. The Irishman in the French uniform, a baker from Barcelona and Catalan, reported back to his commanding officer. The other Irishman, in the Spanish uniform, an office manager from Girona and also Catalan, rejoined his troops, other re-enactors in Spanish uniform and a ragtag force of miquelets, Catalan militia.

  The drum beat stopped and the two armies marched slowly towards each other. They stopped and fired their weapons once above the heads of the opposing force before moving forwards again, steadily quickening their pace. They met in the middle and skirmished with studied sword blows and clashing pikes. Finally, the French troops were pushed back and they withdrew to their tents, set up in the shade near the traffic lights. The defenders moved back to the cheers of the people under the trees, filming it all on mobile phones and explaining what had just happened to their children.

  ‘That was the first siege,’ a mother told her wide-eyed young son. ‘The French sent an Irish soldier serving with them to demand surrender and he met another Irishman in the Spanish army defending the city. The French will attack two more times in this siege, but we’ll push them back every time. Then there’ll be two more sieges after that.’

  ‘Do we win every time?’ the little boy asked.

  The mother laughed. ‘No, not every time. We lose the third siege.’

  The boy looked crestfallen to hear that, but he suddenly perked up. ‘So we won two-one?’

  Under the trees in the Devesa, Elisenda listened to them and smiled. These re-enactments of the Napoleonic siege of Girona during the Peninsular War had only been celebrated for the last few years. It wasn’t something she’d grown up with or been able to bring her daughter to see. Now it was a big celebration with mock battles all over the city and story-telling and stands selling all sorts of food and trinkets and stuffed or wooden toys for a new generation captivated by their own history.

  Her eyes roamed the park again. All through the staged fight, she’d scanned the people in the crowd. In front of her, Montse was standing near Susanna Miravent and Marc Comas, the couple subdued in their viewing of the events. She watched as another couple came up to them and spoke to them, the wife holding on to Miravent’s hand all the while. All around, there were increased numbers of Mossos, not all in uniform. Because of the siege celebrations and the missing boy, all weekend leave had been cancelled. Other Mossos were touring the park and the rest of the city, all briefed, all with photos of Jaume and of Pere Vergés. All watchful, Elisenda hoped. One of the few exceptions was Josep, back in the gloom of Vista Alegre, scouring through the leads and reviewing all the information they had. Àlex and Manel, too, were on other duties, following up Bofarull’s murder and looking for a way to stop the next attack. She sighed. It was like looking for a single face in the forest of people under the trees.

  With a lull in the re-enactments, Miravent and Comas followed the lead of many of the other visitors to the park and drifted back into the city centre. Montse followed closely, Elisenda at a short distance, looking for anyone tracking the couple. In the odd moments that she caught sight of their faces, she saw the strain the politician and her husband were under. Miravent was turning on the charm when they ran into friends or when would-be voters recognised her, but Comas could barely contain his evident wish to get away. Although she couldn’t share Miravent’s hard-core beliefs and she knew in her gut that there was something not right about Comas, she felt sorry for them both in different ways because of the pain they were going through.

  On Carrer Santa Clara, the crowd seemed to gather focus, and she saw that they were falling in behind a small troupe up ahead. Craning her neck, she was surprised to see that it was the cercavila, dancing in their faded costumes along the narrow shopping street to the strident screeching of the bombards and shawms they were playing. The leader weaved in and out of the people in front of him, waving his sword at the children, who ran screaming in joy from him.

  They stopped on the Pont de Pedra, the stone bridge connecting the old town with the new, and took up formation. The leader now faced the crowd that had been following him. Behind him, two of the troupe fired their blunderbusses, making everyone flinch with the noise. One of the bombards tweeted and the crowd laughed. The leader put down a low stool on the cobbles and flapped at it with his frilly handkerchief before stepping up onto it. From his position, he caught sight of Elisenda and bowed low, almost wobbling as he did so. The crowd laughed and he held his hand up to them, showing that everything was under control. Elisenda dragged her eyes away from him to look around the people gathered on the bridge and by the parapet on Carrer Santa Clara.

  ‘A story,’ the leader pronounced. The crowd fell silent.

  ‘A story of lies, deceit and a loud gun.’ Behind him, one of the team fired their blunderbuss, which echoed with a huge retort. He ducked. ‘That was the gun.’

  As the audience hushed again, four of the troupe came and stood in front of him and he held one hand up like an ancient Roman making a proclamation.

  ‘Bla bla bla bla bla.’ He paused and began again. ‘Bla bla rubbish, nonsense, crap, bla.’

  His fake audience of four ignored him as he spoke, talking instead to each other and pointing at the buildings around them and the river to either side of them.

  ‘Bla bla bla, better with Spain, bla bla, take back control from the nationalists, bla bla bla, and give it to other nationalists.’

  Seeing that his audience wasn’t listening, he turned and called over one of the two standing behind him and whispered in her ear. She nodded and gave a giant comical wink and went back to the other member. Taking something out of a sack, she walked up to the leader and proffered it to him. It was a doll. He pretended to sing a lullaby to it and jiggled it up and down to soothe it. Suddenly, the re
maining member of the band walked up and took the doll from him. Stuffing it under his jacket, he sauntered off, whistling.

  The fake audience in front of him suddenly took notice of him and he began to speak again, this time in Spanish instead of Catalan but with a strong Catalan accent. His words held them in thrall and they danced extravagantly, pretending to rejoice in his message

  ‘We are nationalists. We love our country, we love our capital and our capital is Madrid. Vote for me and you’ll never have to worry about voting for the Catalan government ever again. You can do better things with your time. Better still, we’ll go back to how it was before and you won’t have to bother voting in any elections. That’s how we see democracy. At least, that’s how we see it for you dirty separatist Catalans.’

  Stunned at first, the crowd got the joke and began to clap and laugh. Some of them were carrying the estelada, the unofficial flag with a star in a triangle at one end of the red and yellow stripes, the symbol of the call for Catalan independence, and began to wave it in joyous arcs. From where she was standing, Elisenda saw Miravent look on impassively, the cercavila’s message mocking her and every policy she stood for.

  The troupe was about to fade away when a figure strode out to them. It was Micaló. Elisenda hung her head and began to move forward. She approached the two men, now joined by the rest of the cercavila and the curious crowd, and heard Micaló’s opening words.

  ‘I could charge you for failing to respect the day of reflection before an election. What you are doing is tantamount to electioneering.’

  The leader climbed down off his low stool and smiled disarmingly. ‘Tantamount? That is a fine word. I applaud you.’

  Elisenda saw Micaló bristle and knew he was seconds away from arresting the lot of them and potentially causing a riot with the crowd, most of whom had enjoyed the story the troupe had told.

  ‘I am charging you…’ Micaló began, but she cut him short.

  ‘You’re charging no one. Look around you; any high-handedness from us will turn this sour in seconds.’