The Serpent Papers (56 page)

’Tis true without lying, certain and more true that I have encased the writings of the Sibyl in gold and hidden them from her enemies, so that they shall seek and not find, and though circumstance has forced my hand and I have washed the words of her maker, the seed remains in this, its force is above all force – for that which is below is that which is above and what is above is that which is below – and you who shall carry these words in your heart shall do miracles of one thing.

From my wallet I remove a small set of scissors and a blade for cutting paper. There is a way of sewing pages into a book so that they are easily removable, information meant to be collected and relocated. Passed from hand to hand. I make a sharp incision in the binding.
Do it gently. Leave no scars, pull out the connecting thread . . . there, here it comes, easy now
. Made for this precise purpose: to be rescued – lifted out! The leaves pull away like silk. I take a container designed for transporting documents and slip the loose pages into the inner compartment of my bag. I will not give the palimpsest to Fabregat, I will not even show him. I do not want him to know that it exists at all.

Check your book for any marks.

The oak above me smells of ovens and sage. Shale scratches into my legs, I prick my hand on a thorn and suck the blood from my finger, a tiny drop, barely any flavour.
They’ll have a field day with this
 – I think, snapping it shut.
Preserve your sanity – it’s none of your business. Get out of here whole and get out of here quick.
Along the seam of the insert – any incriminating signs of tinkering?
They won’t even know to look for it. Take your time. Play the bluff.
I hold the book close to my chest. Dust off my knees. Continue walking down the trail.
At the bend in the road before the dirt path reaches the village, I see the car. Parked idly in the dirt curb. Fabregat talking on his mobile phone. His driver eats an apple as he reads the paper. Both men look up as I approach. Fabregat signs off his call.

‘Can I see it?’

I hand him the book, freed of its secret burden.
The Alchemical History of Things.
He sniffs. Unimpressed, weight falling against the hood of the car.

‘Nothing out of the ordinary? Nothing untoward?’ he asks me of Peter.

No. A good man.

Fabregat opens the book, leafs through. He stops at the poem beneath the picture of Aureus and frowns. Looking for clues. Not that he will understand.
That’s part of the game
, I want to say.
The game she played with you.
He whistles long and low under his breath.
Disappointed.

‘Cigarette,’ he orders in Catalan to the standing policeman behind him. One is offered. A thin trail of smoke weaves up from the burning embers between his fingers. The mountain air cool and clean. The driver gestures to me.

‘You want?’ Broken English. I shake my head.

‘Why doesn’t she just name him? Why does she have to be so damn convoluted?’ Fabregat swears under his breath as he turns the pages.
Because she didn’t want you to solve a murder. She wanted to save a two-thousand-year-old poem. We are working on the pinhead of that decision.

The policeman watches a goat grazing in the neighbouring field.

‘You should wear gloves when you do that,’ I remark to Fabregat, reprimanding his broad fingers. ‘You’ll damage the material.’ For a while longer Fabregat doesn’t lift his nose from the book. I shade my eyes with my hand. He squints up at me. Satisfied.
Let’s go.

‘How close do you think you are?’ I ask once we are in the car.

The inspector goes unusually quiet. He leans out the back window as we drive to Granada, air whipping round his ears. Pensive. Waiting for something. The BlackBerry buzzes in his pocket.
An email.
He takes it out and checks it, trying to keep a smile from cracking into the wrinkles around his eyes. It is a genuinely boyish, ebullient grin. Canines burst out. His mouth stretches wide. I ask him what has happened.

‘The profiling report on the DNA samples will be coming in this evening. Three of them already match – we’ve got the blood of each of Las Rosas in there – and the samples will have more to tell. I’m going to pass by the forensics department this evening. Check in with the boys. Get things sorted. Add this –’ he taps the book, now safely sealed away – ‘to the collection.’ He pauses, awkward, about to say something more. A thought retracts.

I look at him quizzically.

‘You should go home now,’ he says gently. ‘I think it would be good for you.’

Is that all? A simple dismissal?

I frown. Unable to control myself.

‘You should look after yourself, Nena. Jump on a flight tonight. Surprise that boyfriend of yours.’

I see a door closing. Hear the absoluteness of his tone. There are things waiting for him that he does not want me to belong to. A new phase with no space or time for raving book hunters. Of course it makes sense. My evidence will be controversial. Not even publicly used. Written over. Incorporated into a rational whole with no place for me.
That was always the plan.

Fine.
I set my jaw.

‘Senyoreta Stormcloud. You look like you swallowed a lemon. Don’t worry so much. You’ll get wrinkles early. Look – I already see one growing. If you’re not careful you’ll end up like me.’

My scowl deepens.

‘Of course I’ll tell you what happens. It may be a few weeks before there’s anything to report. I’m going to nail the bastard properly. Take my time with it. But as soon as we get a match –’ he whistles through his teeth – ‘you’ll never see anything so fast. I’ll bring all the shits in, if I have to. Cotton-swab the lot. Tie them up by their ears.’

He reaches out with a paternal hand. I move crossly away.
Don’t touch me.

‘But for now . . . I think it’s best if we part ways here, Anna. Keep it clean. Wouldn’t want you getting mixed up. Overly involved.’

He tries to ease the blow with questions about my work, where I’ll head to . . . Perhaps I’d like a ride to the airport? He can get me on a flight tonight – the last one’s at 21.55, but they’ve got earlier options . . . I am angry with myself that I care. Surprised by my own attachment. I was supposed to leave, I was supposed to be in control, to remain aloof.
You’re a fool for thinking it mattered.

‘Look, I don’t want to beat about the bush with this. I am grateful,’ Fabregat says quietly. ‘We’re closer than we’ve ever been before – but
imagina’t!
I can’t have the defence team knowing you had any part in this . . . It would undermine the whole investigation. When we’re millimetres – literally – millimetres off.’

Even when I press him he will not tell me more than this. Satisfied, Fabregat hums happily to himself as we leave the mountains for the northbound highway, steamrolling towards Granada airport. He throws his head against the seat rest and shuts his eyes as the car glides down the motorway.
Thoughts elsewhere.
In an instant I am relegated to the libraries and archives, an annotation at the bottom of a forgotten manuscript. I will be an amusing tale at the bar. An oddity rolled out over
pa amb tomàquet
and a
caña. Nena the Circus Act. The bookworm with nosebleeds and hallucinations.

I push my energy down into my lap. Perhaps I would have shared with him, had he been curious. But now it is painfully apparent that we inhabit separate worlds. I will not be part of this phase of the investigation, which will belong to the serologists and forensic biology departments, to the haemoglobin experts and DNA profilers. It will belong to the police and the court of law, to prosecutors and juries.

Still.

I look at Fabregat. Disappointed.

It was business. Always business.

So you keep quiet
,
I tell myself.
Leave. Slip away. Just like that.
Tonight. Why the hell not? Your things are already packed. He has just given you the out. Disappear like you always wanted.

I ask for a seven o’clock flight. A car to come and pick me up. Fabregat agrees. All expenses covered. I am legally bound to confidentiality. I will not speak to the press. I will deny all connections to the case. I accept the role of an anonymous informant. I am formal. Contained. As I listen, I envision a box, as the doctors have told me, around my whole body, in which I sit, cross-legged. I am meant to focus on my breath – on silence, protected by this box so that the voices do not come too quickly – but all I can think in my imaginary compartment – all I can think is that they are with me and I will not tell
him
. Deep within my bag, the snaking letters will soon lift themselves off their parchment and wrap round my legs like sweet peas, climbing up and up to my throat shouting: DISCOVERY!
FABREGAT! GOLD!

Yes.
My tongue tickles. You could turn to him and say:

You and me and Natalia Hernández. Her secret. Ours alone.

You could tell him what you feel. What you read.

But you won’t.

My key turns stiffly in the lock to the apartment door on Passeig del Born. I enter the corridor. The simple design of the hallway appeals to my sense of comfort. An obsession with neat lines. After all, stability in personal life – systematic order – these things allow my work to flourish. Order to disorder and back again. I leave my keys in a concave sculpture that doubles as a bowl. For a brief moment I decide to think about nothing. Sit in the emptiness of the unencumbered soul. Take off my shoes in the hall, then socks. Let my feet feel the smooth wood floor. There is time for a cup of tea and a smoke. The car will come soon and whisk me away. I’ll come home alone. Quiet and unnoticed, I will slip back into the mountains and evaporate into my studies. The unknown girl at the end of the dirt road. My long duffel suitcase and two black satchels line the corridor, standing to attention like uniformed soldiers.
We’ll be ready soon.
I listen to the silence, and sigh deeply. Will it be worth it? The phone interrupts, buzzing loudly in my pocket.

‘Hello?’

It is Francesc.

‘I’ve been in an accident.’ He says simply. ‘I was driving your car – I don’t know what happened exactly – someone came up from behind . . . they were going so fast, Anna, I can’t really remember. They tried to overtake . . . and the next thing I know they’ve clipped me hard, smashed me right off the edge – I couldn’t see the driver, it was all so fast.’ He stops. Panting. ‘But I’m fine – Anna, I wanted you to know that I’m fine.’

I slump. Unable to process information. I feel dizzy. Light-headed.

‘It was a hit and run. They didn’t stop. Anna.’ His voice breaks.

Standing in the hallway I feel myself disintegrate. The glare of the street lamps invades my shuttered windows.

I’ll be with you soon
, I tell him
.
Tongue-tied.
I’m coming home. A few hours away, that’s all I am – I’ll be there –
and what I want to say I will save for later. Sirens next. A woman’s voice – the call snuffs out. I stare at the dull phone in my hand.
It was meant for you.
A dreadful certainty. Signs I have ignored suddenly become actions. I stand paralysed. Unable to respond.

And then I hear it.
A presence in the apartment
like a waiting
.
I had not noticed it before. The hair on the back of my neck rises.
‘
Hola?
’ I call. Thinking it may be the landlord.
He has left flowers, after all – or perhaps it is his cleaner?
I walk forward leaving my phone in the corridor with the keys
.
There is no response. Silence
.
I wait a minute and listen. Breathe more easily
. It was nothing . . . Just your imagination. You should go out, go for a walk. You are
hyped on adrenaline
. Silence
again
 –
and then I locate my discomfort – a feeling of cleanliness in the room. Someone has washed their hands.
I stand facing the sink. Study the bubbles on the soap.