“As, for example?”

“As, for example, the details of the indictments against Martín, Mataix, and other prisoners who supposedly disappeared in the prison of Montjuïc Castle between 1940 and 1945.”

Vilajuana’s gaze remained fixed on her. His eyes were shining. “Have you spoken to Brians, the lawyer?”

Alicia just nodded.

“I know for a fact that he keeps his mouth shut.”

“There are other ways of finding out the truth,” Alicia insinuated.

“At police headquarters they say that is another of your skills.”

“Sour grapes,” replied Alicia.

“It’s our national pastime,” Vilajuana agreed. Despite himself, he seemed to be enjoying the sparring.

“Even so, I don’t think calling the police station and asking about me is a very good idea, especially now. I say this for your own good.”

“I’m not that simple, young lady. I didn’t make the call, and my name hasn’t been mentioned. As you can see, I also do my best to protect myself.”

“I’m glad to hear it. These days you can never be too cautious.”

“What everyone seems to agree upon is that you’re not to be trusted.”

“In some places and at certain moments, that’s the best compliment one can get.”

“I won’t deny that. Tell me, Alicia, won’t all this, by chance, have something to do with our ineffable minister Don Mauricio Valls and his neatly forgotten past as a jailer?”

“What makes you say that?”

“The face you made when I mentioned him.”

Alicia hesitated for a moment. Vilajuana nodded to himself, as if she’d confirmed his own suspicions.

“And if that were the case?” asked Alicia.

“Let’s say it would contribute toward getting me slightly interested. What sort of exchange did you have in mind?”

“Strictly literary. You tell me what you know about Mataix, and I promise you access to all the information I have at my disposal once I’ve solved the matter I’m dealing with now.”

“And until then?”

“My eternal gratitude and the satisfaction of knowing you’ve done the right thing by helping a poor damsel in distress.”

“I see. I must admit that at least you’re more convincing than your—I’m presuming—colleague.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m referring to the one who came to visit me a couple of weeks ago, and whom, by the way, I haven’t seen again,” said the journalist. “Don’t you people exchange information during break? Or are we talking about a competitor?”

“Do you remember his name? Lomana?”

“It could be. I’ve forgotten. Aging, as I said.”

“What did he look like?”

“Far less tempting than you.”

“Did he have a scar on his face?”

Vilajuana nodded, and his eyes sharpened. “Did you give it to him, perhaps?”

“He cut himself shaving. He’s always been the hairy sort. What did you tell Lomana?”

“Nothing he didn’t already know.”

“Did he mention Valls?”

“Not explicitly, but I could tell he was interested in the years Mataix spent in Montjuïc Castle and his friendship with David Martín. You don’t have to be a genius to put two and two together.”