Books Burn Badly

Blue Mist

‘HERE IT IS.’

A car driving slowly along Aduanas Esplanade. Just now, with the aid of two tugs, the cargo boat Chemin Creux started weighing anchor. The mist colours the night and makes land and sea machines act with animal caution.

Manlle gets out of his vehicle and comes over to the half-open window of the Opel where Ren, Mancorvo, Santos and Samos the judge are waiting. Deliberately seeks out the gaze of the new kid on the block in Crime, Paúl Santos is his name, sitting in the back with the judge, but talks to the chief of the Political Brigade. An old acquaintance. ‘Here it is. She’s in that car. I’ll be off now, gentlemen. I’ve done my bit.’ He doffs his hat in a mocking gesture. ‘Lots to do tonight.’

Two women emerge. One of them is Chelo. The other is taller, walks stiffly. In a hat with veil.

‘There they are,’ says Ren. ‘Chelo and the Portuguese architect.’

The judge is amazed. ‘What architect? That’s a woman!’

Mancorvo reacts fast, ‘Not under her skirts she isn’t!’

‘Stay calm, your honour. Don’t move. Don’t rush into anything.’

They were arm in arm, two girlfriends out for a walk, but now they’ve separated. The two of them quicken their pace over the flagstones. There’s an uneasiness, a bewilderment in their movements when they realise the Chemin Creux is being towed away from the jetty. The lights of the tugs are on, their powerful engines snort loudly in the night. But the cargo boat is like a phantom ship being dragged along in slow motion. The two women reach the edge of the jetty. Suddenly a shadow appears astern and emits flashes with a small torch.

The couple look at each other. Turn around. Head back towards the car. The driver is expecting this and has kept the engine running, though the lights are switched off. He turns and goes to meet them.

‘Come on!’ says Santos.

The judge grabs at the door. Trips and falls out, shouting, ‘Chelo!’

The woman’s name is the first cry to break out in the night. A commanding and yet anxious call. But no one replies. His intervention speeds up every movement. Only he stays still, petrified on the flagstones. The tragic balance of an intoxicated man.

‘Stop!’ shouts Santos. ‘Police!’

Ren gets out of the car, but his behaviour is unusual. He gestures towards the dark, in the direction of the yacht club and House of Pilots, from where ambushed guards emerge. He gestures for calm, for them not to intervene.

Santos again tells them to stop. Measures the distance. If they don’t heed him, and it looks as if they’re not going to, he won’t be able to reach them before they get in the car. He looks back. Come on, Santos, what’s happening? You’re the only one running after the fugitives. You should stop and think. This is what he does. He stops. His heavy breathing has more to do with the sudden agitation in his mind than with physical effort. As Chelo Vidal and the other fugitive get in the car, Paúl Santos turns around. Mancorvo hasn’t moved. He’s still at the wheel. The judge is on the ground, petrified, a white cravat around his neck like a luminous noose. Ren stares at him, at Paúl Santos, and nods mockingly when he gestures for the car to start, to follow him. Ren climbs in. The fugitives’ car has already gone through the gears and is moving swiftly away, with a screech of tyres as it twists between the cranes, heading for the eastern exit.

The chase is on.

The car with Ren and Mancorvo, which has left the judge behind, approaches. Santos puts his weapon away and prepares to climb in. He won’t be able. As they’re passing, Mancorvo lowers the window. Says, ‘It’s our turn now, Mr Scientist!’ Accelerates. He’s grounded. Surrounded by blue mist.

His office is open. He’s dozing with his head on the table. The night’s dozing as well, on the blinds, the indirect sea, the collage of shadows in the city on the other side of the window. Finally he hears them arrive. They’re greeted by the duty officers. Ask for a cigarette. It’s as if he can hear everything. Including the sound of the smoke. Which is why, when Mancorvo starts typing and discussing the terms of the report with Ren, their voices and the sound of the keys reverberate inside his head.

So it was he learnt:

The driver of the vehicle being pursued performed a reckless manoeuvre on Hervés Hill, the car overturned on a bend and fell down the side. As a result of the accident, two occupants died: a woman identified as Consuelo Vidal Míguez and a man, the driver, as yet to be identified. A third person, also unknown, managed to escape, no doubt badly injured, judging by traces remaining on the scene.

And then:

The orders are, until further notice, not to provide any public information about these events, to avoid them being disseminated in the media, orders that will be duly passed on to the censor’s office.

He could hear everything. Drying sweat, Mancorvo’s handkerchief sounded like a paper blade, Ren’s like the crackling of elytra in a light trap for insects.

‘Where’s Mr Scientist?’

‘He’ll be here somewhere. His door’s open.’

‘Give him time,’ said Ren. ‘He’ll soon find out birds don’t suck and pigs don’t fly.’