That I’m a freak in the clinical sense of the word. Instead I bait him – oh, when it comes, the chase is addictive . I am like you. A good researcher is a bloodhound, following the molecular brush of a human hand against paper.
‘And you enjoy investigating the past?’ Fabregat’s mouth splits open.
‘It is the only thing that keeps me sane.’
‘Your Catalan is excellent. Ideal. For what I want you to do for us. If you feel up to the job, that is.’
Of course.
‘You were living in Barcelona in 2003, but you didn’t personally know these guys? Hernández or Sorra? Never met? No? Good.’ He looks at me closely. ‘But you’d heard of her before she died?’
How could I not have?
‘And the murders? Did you read the papers?’
Yes. I nodded. ‘I followed them closely.’
‘Out of interest? Passion? Curiosity?’ he asks.
‘All of the above.’
‘And this is why you sent us the letters. Illustrations of the corpse?’ Fabregat flicks through his notes. ‘You made the connection?’
‘I don’t want to waste anybody’s time.’
I can feel him studying me.
‘Neither do I,’ he says. ‘May I see the originals?’
I open my purse and give him the package. Flinching as he pulls open the wax paper. These are mine.
‘They are identical,’ he says.
I let him rest in a sensation of discovery.
I know the markings intimately now. He will be looking at the serpent drawn like an S over the centre of the left palm, and the cross like a brand on the right. He will be drinking in the circle round her navel, and the crescent moon on her chest, the alphabet on each flank of her body, the letters across her forehead.
A document in the flesh is always different than a scanned image. The freshness of the ink impresses itself upon you – subsumes you, draws you into the tantalizing allure of a corporeal attachment. Someone living wrote this once. Someone held this paper, a century and a half earlier. Someone whose hand shook as he wrote.
‘They match your case in every detail,’ I say.
He draws the pages closer to his nose. ‘He was a good artist, the boy . . . What happened to him?’
‘We’re tracing that now. Sitwell left Spain in the winter of 1852, heir to an enormous fortune given to him by a friend and mentor. He returned to England where he deposited documents in libraries in London and Oxford.’
Documents I have had the pleasure of locating and assessing over the past two years. They all pertain to the palimpsest and Illuminatus. But Fabregat does not need to know this.
‘And you believe you know who did this?’
‘Not with certainty.’
For a while he is silent. Thinking.
‘Certainty,’ he murmurs. ‘Funny thing, that.’ Lost in Sitwell’s illustrations. ‘No one else has seen these?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Not in living memory.’
His voice sharpens.
‘You’re right to draw a parallel.’
He puts the papers down. Satisfied.
‘We agreed over the phone what the stipulations of this project would be, but I repeat them now. I am retired, and have no direct jurisdiction over the police, but the Hernández case is the great tragedy of my career, one of my life’s profound dissatisfactions – of which, I hasten to inform you, there are few. Perhaps if what happened had been contained I could forget. Close the book, as it were. Move on. But that is not the case.’ His face darkens. ‘Now, your letters suggest that identical killings happened in Barcelona as early as 1851? That . . .’ He pauses. ‘Interests me . . . I want us to be careful. Sensitive. If you take this research on, you have the support of the police. You work as a writer, a psychic –’ his hand twitches on the papers – ‘whatever it is you do.’ He waves his hand again. ‘A two-week preliminary examination of Natalia Hernández, her character, her work, her habits. Talk to people. Get them comfortable. Say you’re retelling the case as an independent project, your grant
‘And you enjoy investigating the past?’ Fabregat’s mouth splits open.
‘It is the only thing that keeps me sane.’
‘Your Catalan is excellent. Ideal. For what I want you to do for us. If you feel up to the job, that is.’
Of course.
‘You were living in Barcelona in 2003, but you didn’t personally know these guys? Hernández or Sorra? Never met? No? Good.’ He looks at me closely. ‘But you’d heard of her before she died?’
How could I not have?
‘And the murders? Did you read the papers?’
Yes. I nodded. ‘I followed them closely.’
‘Out of interest? Passion? Curiosity?’ he asks.
‘All of the above.’
‘And this is why you sent us the letters. Illustrations of the corpse?’ Fabregat flicks through his notes. ‘You made the connection?’
‘I don’t want to waste anybody’s time.’
I can feel him studying me.
‘Neither do I,’ he says. ‘May I see the originals?’
I open my purse and give him the package. Flinching as he pulls open the wax paper. These are mine.
‘They are identical,’ he says.
I let him rest in a sensation of discovery.
I know the markings intimately now. He will be looking at the serpent drawn like an S over the centre of the left palm, and the cross like a brand on the right. He will be drinking in the circle round her navel, and the crescent moon on her chest, the alphabet on each flank of her body, the letters across her forehead.
A document in the flesh is always different than a scanned image. The freshness of the ink impresses itself upon you – subsumes you, draws you into the tantalizing allure of a corporeal attachment. Someone living wrote this once. Someone held this paper, a century and a half earlier. Someone whose hand shook as he wrote.
‘They match your case in every detail,’ I say.
He draws the pages closer to his nose. ‘He was a good artist, the boy . . . What happened to him?’
‘We’re tracing that now. Sitwell left Spain in the winter of 1852, heir to an enormous fortune given to him by a friend and mentor. He returned to England where he deposited documents in libraries in London and Oxford.’
Documents I have had the pleasure of locating and assessing over the past two years. They all pertain to the palimpsest and Illuminatus. But Fabregat does not need to know this.
‘And you believe you know who did this?’
‘Not with certainty.’
For a while he is silent. Thinking.
‘Certainty,’ he murmurs. ‘Funny thing, that.’ Lost in Sitwell’s illustrations. ‘No one else has seen these?’
‘Not that I’m aware of. Not in living memory.’
His voice sharpens.
‘You’re right to draw a parallel.’
He puts the papers down. Satisfied.
‘We agreed over the phone what the stipulations of this project would be, but I repeat them now. I am retired, and have no direct jurisdiction over the police, but the Hernández case is the great tragedy of my career, one of my life’s profound dissatisfactions – of which, I hasten to inform you, there are few. Perhaps if what happened had been contained I could forget. Close the book, as it were. Move on. But that is not the case.’ His face darkens. ‘Now, your letters suggest that identical killings happened in Barcelona as early as 1851? That . . .’ He pauses. ‘Interests me . . . I want us to be careful. Sensitive. If you take this research on, you have the support of the police. You work as a writer, a psychic –’ his hand twitches on the papers – ‘whatever it is you do.’ He waves his hand again. ‘A two-week preliminary examination of Natalia Hernández, her character, her work, her habits. Talk to people. Get them comfortable. Say you’re retelling the case as an independent project, your grant
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