“That Corelli individual?”

“Yes.”

“And didn’t that scare you?”

“It made me feel sorry.”

“Where did he take you?”

“To a place in the Pyrenees where he’d hidden for a few days after returning to Spain at the end of the war. Bolvir, that was the name. It was very close to a small town called Puigcerdá, almost on the border with France. There was a large abandoned house there that had been a hospital during the war. I think it was called La Torre del Remei. We spent a few weeks in that place.”

“Did he tell you why he was taking you there?”

“He said it was a safe place. There was an old friend of David’s there, someone he’d met when he crossed the frontier, a local writer named Alfons Brosel. He brought us food and clothes. Without him we would have starved or died of cold.”

“Martín must have chosen that place for some other reason.”

“The village brought back memories. David never told me what had happened there, but I know it had a special meaning for him. David lived in the past. When the worst of the winter came, Alfons advised us to leave and gave us a bit of money with which to continue the journey. The people in the town had started to gossip. David knew of an enclave on the coast where another old friend of his—a rich man called Pedro Vidal—had a house he thought would make a good hiding place, at least until the summer. David knew the house well. I think he’d stayed there before.”

“Was that the village where you were found a few months later? San Feliu de Guíxols?”

“The house was about two kilometers outside the village, in a place called S’Agaró, next to the bay of San Pol.”

“I know it.”

“The house was among the rocks, in a place called Camino de Ronda. Nobody lived there in the winter. It was a sort of housing development, with big summer mansions belonging to wealthy families from Barcelona and Gerona.”

“Is that where you spent the winter?”

“Yes. Until spring.”

“When they found you, you were alone. Martín wasn’t with you. What happened to him?”

“I don’t want to talk about that.”

“If you like, we can have a break. I can ask the doctor to give you something.”

“I want to leave this place.”

“We’ve talked about this before, Ariadna. You’re safe here. Protected.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Leandro. You know that. Your friend.”

“I don’t have friends.”

“You’re nervous. I think we’d better leave it for today. Have a rest. I’ll tell the doctor to come.”

* * *

It was always Tuesday in the suite of the Gran Hotel Palace.

“You’re looking very well this morning, Ariadna.”

“I have a bad headache.”

“It’s the weather. The pressure’s very low today. It happens to me too. Take this, and it will pass.”

“What is it?”

“Just aspirin. Nothing else. By the way, we’ve been checking what you told me about the house in S’Agaró. You were right, it was owned by Don Pedro Vidal, a member of one of the wealthiest families in Barcelona. From what we’ve been able to find out, he was a sort of mentor to David Martín. The police report specifies that David Martín murdered him in his Pedralbes residence in 1930, because Vidal had married the woman he loved, someone called Cristina.”