The Secret of Vesalius

by Jordi Llobregat

Genres: Gothic; Historical Thrillers

Synopsis

Daniel Amat has left Spain and all that happened there behind him for academic life in Oxford. The arrival of a letter - a demand - stamped Barcelona comes like a cold hand from behind. He arrives back in that near-mythic city a few days before the great 1888 World Fair, amid whispers of murders - the injuries reminiscent of an ancient curse, and bearing signs of the genius 16th century anatomist, Vesalius. Daniel is soon pulled into a terrible venture to bring the secret of Vesalius to life.

Release date: November 16, 2017

Publisher: Quercus Publishing

Print pages: 400

Sample

Epigraphs

Short and easy is the path of speculation, but it leads to no place; long and difficult is the way of experimenting, but it leads us to the truth.

Galen (129–217 ad)

Today he can discover his errors of yesterday and tomorrow he can obtain a new light on what he thinks himself sure of today.

Maimonides (Mose ben Maimon) (1137–1204 ad)

Man’s ingenuity is his only way to eternal life.

Andreas Vesalius (1514–1564 ad)

CONTENTS

One

Return

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

The Notebook

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

New Bethlem Mental Sanatorium

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

True or False

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

The Black Hound

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Liber Octavus

Forty-two

Forty-three

Fourty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Lies and Betrayals

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Into the Inferno

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Sixty

Sixty-one

Sixty-two

Sixty-three

Sixty-four

Sixty-five

Sixty-six

Sixty-seven

Sixty-eight

Sixty-nine

Seventy

Seventy-one

Resurrection

Seventy-two

Seventy-three

Seventy-four

Seventy-five

Seventy-six

Seventy-seven

Seventy-eight

Forgiveness

Seventy-nine

One

1888

Barcelona: Port Vell, near the Lazaretto Dock

Scanning the murky reaches for a third time, the old man cursed between gritted teeth. The silence across the water was broken only by the sound of the waves slapping against the hull. Rain gusted down, soaking the poop and the tobacco crates stored below. At this hour, with the first hint of dawn in the sky, a sea mist had enveloped the old port, making vague, looming shapes of the boats at anchor and the dockyard huts, dropping a thick veil down over the shoreline. Manoeuvring the jetty pilings in such conditions was not to be taken lightly. He was an old hand though, and would have a few more runs at it still; that wasn’t what worried him. Try as he might, he could not shift the feeling: something was afoot, something ill. That was the sensation like ballast gravel grinding in his stomach.

The wind picked up, turning the water choppy. The many creases around his eyes deepened as he swept his gaze back along the boat, taking in his sleeping son and the mast; the cotton sail, furled tight, was coming loose in one place. Adroitly he went and unfastened it, and, somewhat relieved to see the cloth bulge with wind, fastened the end to the bitt. Clenching his fists, his fingers in their wool gloves creaked like old ropes. The rain and cold had long penetrated the weave of his clothes, down to the bone. He sighed. Operating the boat was getting no easier; soon he would have to step down. He had the strong sense he would not live to see the end of the century, and the marvels of which men spoke. But then again, what matter a pack of clanking machines? What match could such contraptions ever be for a good man with two strong arms? He spat vehemently over the side and tacked the boat a quarter turn.

A little light began tinting the sky, revealing the city’s foggy outlines. High above on the port side, the peak of Montjuïch reared up. The old man aimed for the unloading spot deep in the Lazaretto Dock, a place out of sight of the castle watch and clear, too, of the steam ships that began crossing at that hour.

The current dragged the boat towards a cluster of rocks. He was working the tiller to bring them back on course when something in the water caught his eye. It was less misty in the inner harbour; he could discern the white surf lapping the groynes, and there, a few metres away between floating scraps of wood and the dangling block-and-tackles, a bulky object had bobbed up. A wave washed over it, and when the swell receded the thing had gone again. The old man clicked his tongue and waited. It wouldn’t be the first time a piece of cargo had fallen off the side of some rich merchant vessel – a stroke of luck for whoever happened to find it.

A minute passed, and then another, and, grudgingly, he began to accept that perhaps his mind had been playing tricks. But, readying to exit the current again, he heard a splashing sound. The object surfaced, a few feet closer now, listing this way and that in the water. A smile spread on the old man’s face, his teeth a jumble of blackened stumps, and he swung the boat around: it was an oak chest the size of a wine barrel, with stamps along it that looked, to his eye, French. The binding ropes were intact, so the piece would still be watertight. The French were known for their porcelain, for spirits and fine cloth, any of which he could sell for a tidy sum. Gripping the tiller, he turned around to his son:

‘Up with you now,’ he said. ‘Up and get the gaff.’

The youngster looked up uncomprehendingly, and his father gestured to the chest. He jumped up and hurried back to rummage among the nets and ropes, finally extracting a long pole with a metal hook at the end. As they drew closer, the father issuing instructions in a low voice, the boy reached out and snagged the chest. The old man, using a shorter hook, caught one of the ropes at the opposite end. Little by little they brought it closer, and then prepared to lift it in.

‘That’s it, easy . . . Jesus and Mary!’

Suddenly a hand – human – had grabbed the old man’s arm. Dumbstruck, the old man stared at it; he was being pulled down towards the dark water. Before he could react, a wave struck the boat and, as quickly as it had come, the apparition was gone.

The boy grabbed the fishing lantern, pulling back the shutter: a shaft of light fell on a body gripping the side of the trunk, trying to stay above water. It turned its face towards the light: in place of eyes were two dark openings. A sort of grimace or snarl overtook its features, it seemed to be trying to speak, but, instead of words, a gurgling issued forth, followed by a low moan. It didn’t look likely to withstand the sea’s buffeting much longer.

The father hesitated for a moment, before barking at the son:

‘Keep the chest steady.’

The boy stood stock-still. Ashen, he couldn’t take his eyes off the creature. Another wave came, putting distance between boat and chest.

‘Damn it, boy!’

‘Father, are you . . . Should we?’

The chest began to go under again.

‘Come on, heave!’

The son took up the gaff again and dragged the chest close, finally pinning it against the side. The old man steadied himself, before seizing the creature’s outstretched arm – it was cold and slippery to the touch. Shutting his eyes and breathing deep, he hauled it aboard.

The creature rolled onto the deck, then lay still on its back. Rather than the tail of a fish, as the old man had expected, waist-down there was a pair of legs. It was naked, and instead of a pelt had skin of a brilliant, almost transparent white. Its stomach bore a terrible gash, black at the edges. The boy was reminded of the scaled fish you saw at market.

The old man moved closer, leaning cautiously down and prodding the form for any sign of life. Seeing further cuts all across the chest, a shiver ran through him. Pushing lightly, his hand sunk into the skin, which had all the solidity of butter. A sharp stench reached his nose, sending him stumbling back into the tobacco crates. The boy went over to help him up, and the pair, huddling close together, eyed the battered figure as it lay completely still.

‘What have we brought aboard, father?’

‘As Christ is Lord, I do not know.’

A moment later, the body of the creature lit up: a momentary brilliance that revealed, beneath the skin, a structure that seemed to resemble the branches of a tree. A single pulse of light. In unison, father and son made the sign of the cross.

Two

‘That’s all for today, gentlemen.’

The lecture theatre filled with the sound of benches being scraped back. Standing at the front, the young professor gathered his notes and placed them in his satchel, watching the students file out. Much as he tried to give off an air of gravitas, he couldn’t help but smile; only a few months earlier he himself had been one of them, and now here he was, completing his second week of lectures on this side of the lectern.

He went over to a window. The sky was full of dark grey clouds but that could do little to alter his mood. His path to that lectern had been long and winding, and no one could say he didn’t deserve his position. Looking out over the quad, he was about to let out a contented sigh, when a voice sprang up behind him:

‘Professor Amat!’

A young student stood at the door.

‘Yes?’

‘Apologies, Professor. Sir Edward wishes to see you.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Just listen to that. Professor. Professor and faculty member at Magdalen College, one of the most prestigious colleges in all of Oxford. He’d been brought in as cover for Professor Brown, who had an unfortunate case of gout, but that hardly detracted from the achievement. He was on his way; he’d have his own post in no time. When the opportunity had arisen, he’d grasped it with both hands. Now, gathering his things, he left the room in which he was to give lectures in Greek, for the whole of that trimester. As he made his way along the corridors, he felt students’ eyes upon him. He remained an object of some curiosity.

Stepping outside, he gathered his gown about him. It had begun to rain and, though May was near at hand, an icy wind was swirling around the quad, scouring the cloisters. He walked quickly along the earthen path, a constant hubbub issuing from inside the lecture theatres; it was also the sharp end of the academic year. He passed the college chapel on his right, catching a few notes of the choir rehearsing, and came through the lychgate into an ivy-lined quad. Cutting along the gravel path that divided the flowerbed, he felt the rain on his brow and neck, but even a thorough drenching wouldn’t stop this feeling of wanting to jump for joy.

The porter had been watching out for Amat and swung the door open as he drew close. Walter was a college institution. It was commonly held among students that he had occupied his post since Magdalen’s inception – four hundred years in the past – and his stooped and wrinkled appearance did suggest something of that. He was also well known for his ability to get his hands on tobacco, spirits, and many a delicacy beside, and at not unreasonable prices. Such fare was of course prohibited within the college walls, which meant that Walter did a roaring trade.

‘Mr Amat! Or should I say . . .’ His half smile gave him away. ‘Professor Amat . . .’

Daniel inclined his head. For all that Walter considered him a ‘damned foreigner’ – as he’d dubbed him the first time they met – there was a mutual fondness between them.

‘Well, Walter, how are we this morning?’

‘Not so well as yourself, I dare say. It’s cold, and when it’s cold my bones ache.’

‘An iodine solution would do you good. I know a man.’

Walter looked offended.

‘Put myself in the hands of some sawbones? Why would I want to do that?’

Daniel smiled.

‘I believe Sir Edward is expecting me.’

‘Of course, of course, Professor. Don’t let an old man hold you up, least of all an old man who’s not much longer for this world.’

Daniel couldn’t help but laugh.

‘Thank you, Walter. Oh, one thing: later on, I might have need of one of those bottles you keep in your store . . .’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ Walter said, feigning a look of resignation. ‘Can’t make any promises, mind.’ He turned and, muttering to himself, disappeared back into the lodge.

As Daniel climbed the stairs, he thought of all the great scholars to have trodden these same steps. Up on the first floor, at the end of a short passageway, the door to the dean’s office was ajar. Daniel knocked nonetheless, and heard a voice bid him enter.

The dean’s study was nothing if not spartan. Walnut shelves lined the walls, dark rugs covered the floor as far as the desk, and a modest fire burned at the back on the left – a painting of the Battle of Bannockburn hung on the chimney breast. Daniel knew the place well. He had spent many hours in Sir Edward’s study, some of them, by his reckoning, the happiest of his life. Sir Edward had been his first tutor when he started at the college, and their instant rapport had only deepened in the years that had followed.

‘My dear Amat, whatever are you hanging about in the doorway for?’

Sir Edward Warren was past his fiftieth year, but the deep bags under his eyes and his lank, receding hair did little to detract from his kindly air. An eminent historian, he was also known in elite intellectual circles for his skills as an orator. Specializing in ancient languages – also Daniel’s subject – he had assumed the post of college dean a decade earlier, following the previous incumbent’s death.

‘Good day?’

Daniel tried to order his thoughts; his mind was skipping from place to place. He felt euphoric, and at the same time very weary.

‘Wonderful, Sir Edward. Just wonderful!’

‘How pleasing. High hopes, my boy, high hopes.’

‘Thank you, Sir. I’ll try not to let you down.’

Dismissing this with a waft of his hand, Sir Edward settled back in his chair.

‘How long now since you came to us? Six years, unless I’m mistaken?’

‘Going on seven.’

‘Seven years! How it passes.’ He squinted. ‘I still remember the day you walked through that door, fresh from Barcelona.’

At the mention of the word, Daniel’s face darkened. Sir Edward, however, seemed not to notice.

‘Yes! Soaked to the bone in that downpour, and with just that single suitcase to show for yourself. I could hardly understand you with that accent of yours, and your general appearance, my goodness!’ He laughed. ‘I was of a mind to call the constabulary, did you know that?’

Daniel shook his head.

‘I have always wondered what brought you to these parts . . . And you, in turn, always so tightlipped on that very subject.’

‘Oxford is world-renowned, Sir, as you know. I simply wished to study here.’

‘Mm. Yes, of course.’ Sir Edward straightened up. ‘In any case, you’re no longer that green lad. No, you’ve left him far, far behind. It’s a man I see here before me, yes indeed, quite the candidate!’

‘As I say, sir, my only hope is—’

‘Yes, yes. Well, during this fortnight in Professor Brown’s shoes, by all accounts, you’ve acquitted yourself in exemplary fashion. In fact, that’s why I sent for you.’ Sir Edward paused. ‘Your capabilities are beyond all doubt. Yesterday was our monthly head of faculties meeting. Among other things, a proposal was agreed upon, unanimously in fact: we’re offering you a post in the faculty of Ancient Languages. What do you say to that?’

A wave of emotion washed over Daniel. He couldn’t believe it – so soon! Sir Edward’s smile broadened at the younger man’s stuttering response.

‘Well? What do you say? Do you accept?’

‘But of course, Sir! Of course. It’s . . . fantastic! I can’t begin to . . . I owe you everything.’

‘Nonsense. You’ve earned it. You’ve shown first class dedication, first class. In all my years I’ve seen very few as well-fitted to the job.’

Sir Edward got up and went over to the drinks tray, pouring two generous glasses of brandy.

‘And my daughter, eh?’ he said. ‘She’ll be pleased no doubt? I’m delighted she accepted the proposal. I’m very much looking forward to welcoming you in to the family as my son-in-law. The dinner tonight, we’re going to announce it then. Alexandra is all I have left. I’m sure you’ll make her very happy.’

‘I love her very much.’

Sir Edward nodded, passing Daniel one of the glasses and raising his own. He dropped his voice. ‘Alexandra is, as her mother was, a lovely little thing. I feel I ought to warn you of something, however, lest you reproach me further down the line for having let you advance unprepared . . . Oh, she’s beautiful, capable, knows how to run a household, it’s just . . . That temper of hers! You never know when it will rear up.’ He winked. ‘Well, it’ll be the Welsh in her I suppose. Dragon country and all that!’

They both laughed. Daniel had a deep fondness for his father-in-law to be. When Daniel had been most in need, Sir Edward had taken him in – no questions asked. His world had come crumbling down, and Sir Edward had been there to pick up the pieces, offering wisdom and fellowship. There was no way he could ever repay the man.

‘To your health, Amat, and to the many grandchildren you’re going to give me!’

They clinked glasses, and, out of respect, Daniel took a small sip. Then, placing the glass down on the table, he got to his feet.

‘I need to see to a few matters before dinner tonight, Sir Edward. With your blessing . . .’

‘Of course, of course, that was all. A little bird tells me some student colleagues of yours have organized a gathering? Fear not, my lips are sealed. Just don’t be late for dinner – or Alexandra will have your guts.’

Laughing, Sir Edward saw Daniel to the door.

‘Oh,’ he said, raising a finger, ‘I almost forgot.’

Going back over to the desk, he sifted through a pile of documents, finally alighting on a mustard-coloured envelope.

‘A telegram came this morning.’

‘For me?’

‘Indeed, indeed. The mark says Barcelona.’

As Sir Edward handed it over, Daniel’s nerves nearly gave him away. The old man didn’t notice the trembling of his hand, and Daniel managed to stow the envelope without dropping it.

‘I’ll . . . read it later on,’ he said. ‘So many errands!’

‘Yes, yes.’

Leaving the office and making his way downstairs, Daniel set off as fast as his quivering legs would carry him.

*

Back in his old student quarters, he collapsed into a chair. Finals, the professorship, the engagement to Alexandra; it had all happened so quickly that he hadn’t had time to move out – his trunks were ready in a corner, but he had yet to pack any books or clothes. All of which, at that moment, could not have been further from his thoughts. The morning’s jubilation had melted into nothing. The professorship, the wedding, it all seemed to belong to some other person’s life. He looked over at the small envelope on his desk.

How? After all this time?

His hand went to the scars on his neck, an unconscious gesture that had, during these last seven years, developed into a tic. He ran his fingertips across the dead tissue, a constant reminder of the fire; those ridges and folds would never let him forget. He had to laugh: how could he have thought it would just be blotted out? A simple telegram was all it had taken: the spell was broken.

He got up from the chair and went and tore open the telegram. Inside was a pink sheet of paper. Unfolding it, fingers trembling, he scanned the filigreed lines, but couldn’t take in what they were saying. He took a deep breath and started again.

Seven years, just like that.

He went over and braced himself against the window frame. Outside, rain continued to fall, darkening the college grounds. They had found him. He had known they might, sooner or later, but he hadn’t imagined . . . Perhaps, he thought, he ought to be in pain, or feeling some kind of sorrow, but all he felt were searing sensations: sensations of rage, of guilt. He shut his eyes and rested his head against the glass, tried to stem the anguish. Clenching his jaw, his whole body became tense. The scar throbbed. Crumpling the telegram into a ball, he threw it to the far end of the room. Only then did the tears come, intermingling with the raindrops that streaked the windowpane.

Three

The snoring shook the small, dirty room. A sheet pinned to the window frame allowed daylight in at the edges. It was the usual Raval guesthouse – as good a place as any to pass out drunk. Cramped, stuffy, with drips in several places, occupants would usually rent for a season and move on. The current inhabitant had been staying for five months.

‘Be damned!’

A figure stirred on the straw mattress. Glancing wildly around, the man appeared to be trying to remember where he was. Swinging his legs over the side and getting up, he stumbled back. Hands on head, he unleashed a series of curses in a gravelly voice.

‘Bread!’ he called. ‘And some of that Alsace wine!’

Groaning, the man got down from the bed again. He tottered over to the desk and began swiping aside mounds of old news­papers and scribbled-on sheets. Finally, alighting on a large brass clock, he exclaimed triumphantly. Undoing the clasp and seeing that the hour hand was nearly at midday, his giddiness seemed suddenly to drain away.

‘Midday? No . . .’

He began dashing around in his undershorts. Filling the basin and splashing cold water on his face, he cursed continuously. The ache at his temples would not abate; he plunged his head right in. This set him shivering, and he dried himself off with the bed sheet. Trousers, shirt, and boots quickly followed, and on his way out he took a gulp from the coffee cup on the side – immediately regretting it. The dark liquid, quite cold, tasted like a stagnant pond – it was the fourth time he’d used the same grounds, he remembered. Spluttering, snatching down his straw hat and checked jacket from the stand, he dashed from the room, fixing his bow tie as he hurried down the stairs.

‘Señor Fleixa!’

A man with a large paunch stepped into his path. He glared at Fleixa under drooping eyelids. The man smelled strongly of garlic, which did little to help clear Fleixa’s aching head.

‘Señor Gonzalez! I was just thinking about you. How’s your lovely wife?’

‘Three months’ rent you owe me, nearly four. The room’s up.’

‘Three months? How is that possible? Well, not to worry, my friend. I’m owed some pay from the reports I’ve been writing recently – we’ll have this trifle solved in no time. As you know, Señor, being a well-known journalist entails certain social obligations, and I’ve had some unforeseen costs as a result.’

‘I know all about your social obligations. You said the same last month.’

‘There must have been a mix up. Your wife was kind enough to let me defer my latest payment.’

‘Jacinta? When did the two of you speak?’

‘Oh, yesterday, around midday, I think . . .’

‘But she was at Mass at midday.’

‘Oh, later on in that case. Don’t pay me any mind. I can be the most forgetful person.’

A look of comprehension spread on the landlord’s face. Perhaps, thought Fleixa, it hadn’t been the best idea to bring Jacinta into it; better, perhaps, not to mention the agreement they’d come to after the previous day’s amorous encounter. Gonzalez was known for his dull wits, but perhaps even he was beginning to intuit his wife’s long-running infidelities. Fleixa didn’t much feel like hanging around to find out either way, and made a dive for the gap that had opened up to the man’s right.

‘Wait just one second!’

Pretending not to hear, Fleixa carried on down the stairs.

‘At the end of the month,’ he called back up. ‘You’ll have your money, I promise!’

A stream of insults followed him out the door.

*

He hurried down the street, shouldering his jacket as he went. The overcrowding here in the Raval was extreme, and it stank of several kinds of rot; migrants from across Spain had been piling in for years now, drawn by the promise of factory work. But Fleixa liked it still; he relished the bustle of it all. The cobblestones resembled a small river in places, so ill equipped was the drainage system to deal with the heavy rain they’d seen of late. The earth in between had become a mud bath. Fleixa glanced from ground to sky as he made his way through the barrio.

‘If it carries on raining like this, the port will be up here soon. So much for the start of summer!’

He passed a shopkeeper emptying slops into the street, and then a pair of colliers pulling their coal cart behind them and openly eyeing a group of women across the way. The journalist, as was his custom, tipped his hat to the ladies. They, sheltering in a doorway, didn’t seem very suitably dressed for the weather. One of them stepped out to speak to Fleixa. An infant boy with a dark shock of hair clung to her neck.

‘Dolors was looking for you last night, rapscallion.’

‘Manuela, hello! Have you done something? You are looking especially lovely this morning.’

Straightening her hair, the woman smiled bashfully; she had perhaps three teeth in her mouth. Her ample breasts were barely concealed beneath her blouse, and the child bounced against them. She smelt of brandy, onions and firewood.

‘You do know,’ she said, ‘when you get bored of her, you could always come and see me . . .’

Now it was Fleixa’s turn to smile.

‘Be a good girl, now, and tell Dolors I’ll see her later on.’

She snorted, and with a twirl of her skirts went back over to the group.

Exiting the alleyway, Fleixa came out onto Las Ramblas, which teemed with people. Fruit and vegetable carts headed for La Boquería market vied with horses and traps. Along came the Catalonia Line tram, handbell ringing out. Match sellers, newspaper venders and florists cried their wares as the housekeepers hurried past, and well-to-do ladies and gentlemen strolled by. Fleixa dived through the mass of people, crossed to Calle del Pi and, after a few minutes’ walk, arrived at the newspaper offices.

The Barcelona Correo had been established ten years earlier, and had gained a foothold as one of the main papers in the city. Sellers would call out the title each morning, along with that of the monarchist Diari de Barcelona, the Liberal Party’s La Vanguardia and the Noticiero Universal, which was the newest, and made great claims of independence. Residents of the city were avid readers of the news, and the papers were their best way of keeping up to date. The Correo’s headquarters stretched across the four floors of an old gothic building whose stone façade gave an air of respectability that kept the owners happy. The porter greeted Fleixa in his typical respectful manner.

‘You, Señor Fleixa, are late.’

‘Serafín! The news keeps no fixed schedule, everybody knows that.’

‘Tell it to Don Sanchís. I could hear him shouting your name from here.’

Don Pascual Sanchís was editor in chief at the Correo. Not a man known for his good temper, he was rumoured to have smiled once and once only: the day the Correo broke the story of Councillor Rusell’s affair and the edition had gone into three runs. His office was always dense with cigar smoke – he was rarely seen without an enormous Montecristo lodged in his mouth – and he ruled with an iron fist. The Correo would not have been such a success otherwise.

Fleixa felt ill at ease as he went up the stairs; it was never good if Sanchís was after you. And the man’s mood was hardly likely to improve when he found out that Fleixa hadn’t yet closed his latest piece. But what could he do if a source failed to show? Three nights in a row he’d been to the meeting point at the Set Portes tavern. The matter had become a little more complicated on the last of those occasions; Fleixa had drunk some wine – to pass the time – and let himself become involved in a game of cards. He had not won. Feeling quite certain that Luck could not desert him twice in the same night, he’d taken the tram over to the Hippodrome: another seventy-five pesetas down the drain. That was on top of the three hundred he already owed La Negra, a moneylender with a reputation for reclaiming her debts. She was just about the only one he could still borrow from, though it seemed her patience was wearing thin. And the Correo had stopped paying him advances – he would have to work for the rest of the year for nothing.

He was out of breath by the time he made it up to the editorial department. A couple of printer boys came past and he ignored their greetings, heading straight to his shared office. On his desk, on top of the stacks of dusty papers, was a pair of large shoes. The man to whom the feet belonged was sitting reading that morning’s news.

‘Good day,’ said Fleixa, collapsing into his chair.

‘My!’ came a singsong voice from behind the paper. ‘Señor Bernat Fleixa himself! To what do we owe the honour—’

‘Leave it out, Alejandro.’

Alejandro Vives had been appointed Politics Editor four years earlier. Slim as a lighthouse and nearly as tall, he had small eyes and a very long nose – it was said that his nose would find out a story long before the man himself. He always seemed to be in a good mood, even around Fleixa – Alejandro was just about the only member of staff who hadn’t given up on him.

‘Rough night?’ he said.

Fleixa weighed up the sarcasm in the question. Alejandro continued to read.

‘Not the best,’ said Fleixa. ‘How is Sanchís today, by the way?’

‘I believe he’s been somewhat desirous of your company.’

‘Fine, he can desire all he likes.’

Rummaging through his desk drawers for some tobacco, Fleixa glanced over at the paper Alejandro was reading – it was that day’s Corr