The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman (12 page)

Atticus understood that he had no choice but to investigate that story, however unbelievable it might seem. First, because he couldn't spend the rest of his days thinking that once, in his youth, back at the beginning of the twenty-first century, an extraordinary woman had offered him fame and glory on a plate and he had turned her down because he didn't believe her. Second, because Soleá's spell had worked its way into all the veins and arteries of his British anatomy and had sown them with wildflowers. Beautiful flowers, but poisonous, like wild poppies. It was better to get to the bottom of the truth, or the lie, than to have to look into the mirror as an old man and see a face filled with regret.

“What was your grandfather's name?”

“Antonio Heredia.”

“And you say he was a cattle dealer . . .”

“Exactly.”

“And he was homosexual?”

Oh, how Atticus regretted having pronounced that word without first considering the consequences or understanding
that such a statement was a serious affront to someone who grew up believing that “gay” was the worst insult possible. Atticus, who was perfectly accepting of everyone whatever their sexual orientation, watched Soleá's transformation in shock: Her body grew rigid, her fists clenched, her eyes closed to a squint, her voice became hoarse, she turned the air blue.

“I shit on
all
your ancestors!” she shouted. “Every last one of them! For fuck's sake! That's it, fucking Englishman, I've had enough of your fucking magazine and your stupid English face! No one disrespects Soleá Abad Heredia's grandfather, you better believe that!”

Furious, she thumped the table and shot curses from her cat's eyes.

Berta, who was of course listening through the door, appeared on the scene all of a sudden, alarmed by the shouting.

“What have you done to Soleá?” she accused Craftsman, who had gone into a state of shock.

The three other women followed their boss into Atticus's office. There really wasn't enough space for six deranged adults in the room, all gesticulating and screaming as if they had lost their minds.

In the midst of the chaos, Atticus heard some worrying accusations: harassment, sexual abuse . . . This was getting out of hand.

“He insulted my grandfather!” Soleá was finally able to make herself heard over the voices of her colleagues. “God rest his soul!” she added.

The crime couldn't have seemed so serious to the others, as they gradually calmed down and lowered their voices.

“Shit, Soleá, way to scare us,” said María, embarrassed. “We thought Mr. Craftsman was trying to rape you.”

Atticus felt his legs shaking. He slumped into the office chair.

“All of you, please get out,” he finally managed to say. “Except you, Berta. I want you to stay. We need to talk.”

•  •  •

The conversation that followed was a tense one. Berta listened to Atticus's monologue, unable to interrupt, while he gradually regained his composure. He started by explaining the motivation for his visit to
Librarte
, which, as she had surely gleaned from her conversations with Mr. Bestman, was for no other reason than to close the magazine, although he was determined to study the problem in depth in the hope of finding some solution that would suit everyone involved. In the event of the magazine being deemed definitively unviable, which was the most likely outcome, the publishing house was willing to generously negotiate their severance packages.

However, due to unexpected circumstances, Atticus said, he needed to go on a short research trip to the south of Spain. There, he would spend a few days resolving certain issues that he said were none of her concern—don't take it the wrong way, Ms. Quiñones—so the fate of
Librarte
wouldn't be decided until his return. During his trip he planned to write a report on the reasons behind the magazine's failure. He therefore required, and please take note, account books, expense receipts, figures for revenue and overhead lists of advertisers, the price of paper converted to pounds sterling, the results of the general media study, et cetera, et cetera.

“Ah, yes, one other thing,” added the young man. “If I'm going to spend awhile in Spain, I would prefer to rent a small studio flat near the office. I don't like hotel life. It's very impersonal. I hope you'll be able to find something appropriate.”

“Of course,” replied Berta maternally. “I know a little flat on Calle del Alamillo, next door to my place. We can stop by there later if you like, and I'll show it to you. It's sweet.” At that moment the office door opened slightly, and Atticus saw the outline of Soleá's body appear, with her narrow waist, her small bust, and her black hair.

“I'd like to apologize,
Míster Crasman
,” she said in a whisper. “I lost my head because my family is sacred to me. I don't know if you understand, but it won't happen again. I swear I won't raise my voice at you again.”

Guessing at that moment that the lie he was about to tell would stay with him for the rest of his life, Atticus Craftsman was able to articulate the purest of truths:

“It was my fault, Soleá. It's because I'm English.”

CHAPTER 19

T
he result of the phone conversation between Inspector Manchego and Lucas the locksmith was a flawless plan for a forced entry, technically illegal, that would be of significant mutual benefit. The policeman promised to pay €250 to the locksmith, who in turn promised to break and enter without arousing suspicion, to keep quiet, and to duly carry on daily life without fear of future police investigations. They set a date for a couple of days later. Manchego handed over the money, and they sealed the deal with a firm handshake.

The night in question turned out to be damp and unpleasant, as befits late November. They met at the stroke of midnight, and it was unbearably cold. The inspector admitted to himself that perhaps it would have been better to meet at eight in the evening, as the locksmith had suggested, when it would have been just as dark, but when you're going to commit a crime, he thought, you should meet at midnight: the peak time for criminal activity.

The plan was simple. He would meet Lucas near the doorway, greet him with a quick nod so as not to arouse suspicion, and keep watch in the street while his accomplice professionally and stealthily opened the door to number 5. Then he would wait
on the corner until Lucas gave him a call on his cell phone. This would be the signal that he was inside the flat, the coast was clear, and Manchego could go in without fear of being seen.

Lucas arrived right on time. He had a relatively suspicious toolbox under one arm and was looking particularly criminal. His face was covered with a scarf, and he was wearing a woolen hat, leather gloves, and clothes that would have been perfect for a villain in any detective film.

Manchego thought it was a fitting getup for a break-in, although he would have preferred a little more discretion, perhaps less sturdy boots or the odd item of clothing that wasn't camouflage print—Lucas resembled a cross between a biker and a poacher—but all in all, his accomplice didn't look too bad.

He greeted him, as planned, with a subtle tilt of the head.

Lucas walked straight past Manchego as if he hadn't seen him. He went up to the flat, took out a homemade lockpick, thumped the door, and then kicked his way in, making a hellish noise.

Lights came on in some of the windows. A very elderly neighbor called out in a shaky voice, “Who's there?” and then threatened to call the police.

More blinds opened and a few faces peered out.

Inspector Manchego began to panic. This wasn't what they had planned. His break-in needed to be silent, prudent, innocuous—a quick in-and-out with no witnesses. Discretion was of the utmost importance; that's how he had explained it to the locksmith. What a bloody incompetent idiot, what a lousy shit of a thief.

“But you're a policeman,” the so-called Lucas had replied. “If anyone hears us, all you have to do is show them your badge and say you happened to be passing by.”

“Yeah, okay,” Manchego had accepted, “but it's better not to have to step in, if you know what I mean, unless strictly necessary.”

The old woman was now shouting, “Police! Police!” Her shrill voice echoed off the walls in the narrow street.

All of a sudden, his cell phone rang. That lout of a locksmith was calling, as planned. Just like he should have done if it had all gone smoothly, without anyone noticing.

“Christ on a bike!” shouted Manchego, answering on the third ring. “You burst in like a herd of elephants, wake the whole street up, and now you call—but don't hang up, you idiot.”

“We have to switch to plan B, Manchego. There are neighbors out on the stairs,” the locksmith replied, sounding unbelievably calm. Lucas had nerves of steel.

Inspector Manchego took out his badge and standard-issue gun and pushed open the door to number 5, Calle del Alamillo.

“Police!” he shouted.

The stairwell was narrow, the hallway dark. Several heads, all belonging to rather elderly people, were poking out over the wooden banister. Someone flicked the switch and a dim bulb lit up on the landing.

All of a sudden, Lucas's unmistakable form appeared, jogging downstairs with the toolbox under one arm and a couple of books under the other. As he passed Manchego, he gave him a firm shove with his right arm, the one holding the books. The inspector stumbled. He hesitated for a moment, wondering whether he should point the gun at his partner in crime to make the scene more convincing or let him escape with only a verbal threat.

“Stop, stop, in the name of the law!” he finally exclaimed. And as the locksmith disappeared down the street, he thought he heard him let out a laugh.

The neighbors congregated in the doorway, under the flickering light. All of them, seven in total, were wearing their pajamas, dressing gowns, and slippers, with their false teeth in and glasses on.

Manchego tried to calm them down.

“Show's over, ladies and gents, you can go home, the thief has left, he must've been a drug addict, he didn't have time to rob any of you. It's lucky that I happened to be having dinner at the taco place downstairs, I heard the shouts and came straight here. I'm in plainclothes, but I never take off my gun, even to take a leak.”

“He broke into the second-floor right-hand flat!” screamed the old lady. “The Englishman's place!”

The seven neighbors and Inspector Manchego made their way single file up the two flights of stairs that separated them from Atticus Craftsman's flat.

“He's a young man,” the old lady explained as they went up. “And it's strange,” she continued. “He took the place before the summer, spent a couple of nights here, and then disappeared. We haven't seen him since May.”

The door was open, pulled off its hinges, mangled.
Useless shit of a locksmith
, thought Manchego. The light was on.

The flat smelled as if it hadn't been aired in a long while. It felt as if no one had opened the windows for months. The blinds were closed and the furniture was covered in a thin layer of dust.

On a wooden table, the only one in the flat, there was a pile of books, papers, folders, and other jumbled documents. It looked as if someone had been working on them but had left in a hurry.

As for the rest of it, there were no signs of violence. The bed was made, the fridge was empty, the inspector didn't find a single body decomposing in a single wardrobe, no suicide note, no leads
as to the whereabouts of the mystery tenant who, according to his elderly neighbor, had paid six months up front and his contract was almost up.

“I'd like to talk to the owner of the property.”

“That's me,” replied the neighbor. “How else do you think I know about the rent? My son Gabriel uses the flat, but he's in London at the moment. He works for a bank.”

Manchego scratched the back of his neck.