research, analysing her death as an artist – don’t look so excited, Verco! I’ll explain what that is as we go along. I’ll help you set up interviews – just get them talking about her, and that Sorra kid. Ask questions. Read into their lives; get a feel of the city. Any facts you need that we’ve already filed I’ll send you. I want you to meet Sharp as well – have a look at that book. At this point we’ve tried everything – I’ve had every expert in Europe on the case. The question for me has always been why: I’ve never understood that. Perhaps you can . . . just feel. I’ll give you support if you need it, but I don’t want you to try and engage with anyone on a more investigative level. I want you shadowed. I want to know where you are. And I want you to actually keep notes, actually write things down. I’ll pay you – personally, with a little help from the force. We don’t usually work with your kind of people and I don’t want you getting into any trouble. I want you to stay extremely, extremely safe. Over-compensate for that, OK?’
I agree. ‘I mentioned over the phone . . . Anything I find along the way? Anything that comes up – I can use that for my own work?’
He opens the green envelope and pushes the contents forward.
‘Have a read.’
On the little side table beside his armchair there is a black pen. I read over the contracts, the confidentiality agreement. Then I take his pen and sign.
‘This has become somewhat of a hobby for me.’ Fabregat pleased with himself. We drink from little china cups. He offers me a biscuit.
‘I value the calm now,’ he says. ‘Life is good. I’d like to reassure you of that.’ And very slowly, ex-Inspector Manel Fabregat paints a picture of the events as he witnessed them.
Things began two weeks before Hernández died. (The first letter came on 8 June, Fabregat barks through a mouthful of almonds, Sunday of the Pentecost, 2003.) Fat Father Canço in the church of Santa Maria del Pi found the envelope in a confessional at four in the afternoon, with no indication of the sender. Being a responsible citizen, Canço trundled over to the Ciutat Vella’s police station to ask that the letter be delivered to the man in question. Fabregat opened the letter idly, settling into the chair behind his desk, hat tipped onto the back of his crown, reading glasses perched on his nose. A piece of thick paper, like an old parchment, on which someone has drawn an illuminated diagram like the round face of a compass or an astrolabe for navigating stars, twelve centimetres’ radius, outlined in gold ink, heavy blue lines executed with comfortable precision.
Fabregat examines the figure closely, noting that it contains four outer rings, divided into nine equal parts. The triangles create a star with nine points, aligned with each of the nine sections. Three points of the uppermost triangle are labelled in Catalan: com , medi , l’extrem. Beginning , middle , end . In each of the nine sections an exquisite capital letter – B , C , D , E , F , G , H , I , K – and a sequence of numbers (1 to 9) around the outer rim. Fabregat skims this tersely, eyes hunting for what he considers the crucial detail. In the bottom left-hand corner, written in an eccentric, sloping calligraphy:
Find me in the Utterance of Birds.
Fabregat’s eyebrows furrow.
He growls to himself and sits up in his chair. Reads the line again. Then he turns the parchment over. A picture of a serpent consuming its tale in gold leaf. Shimmering on the page. The-snake-of-tail-biting-eternal-life – or whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called. Within the coil of the snake, the phrase in Catalan: All is One. Half of the snake is solid gold; the other half outlined in a thin silver . Hippy bullshit . He does not take it seriously because he does not understand it, but at the same time the inspector grows suspicious. He props the letter up at the base of his lamp, goes out of the
I agree. ‘I mentioned over the phone . . . Anything I find along the way? Anything that comes up – I can use that for my own work?’
He opens the green envelope and pushes the contents forward.
‘Have a read.’
On the little side table beside his armchair there is a black pen. I read over the contracts, the confidentiality agreement. Then I take his pen and sign.
‘This has become somewhat of a hobby for me.’ Fabregat pleased with himself. We drink from little china cups. He offers me a biscuit.
‘I value the calm now,’ he says. ‘Life is good. I’d like to reassure you of that.’ And very slowly, ex-Inspector Manel Fabregat paints a picture of the events as he witnessed them.
Things began two weeks before Hernández died. (The first letter came on 8 June, Fabregat barks through a mouthful of almonds, Sunday of the Pentecost, 2003.) Fat Father Canço in the church of Santa Maria del Pi found the envelope in a confessional at four in the afternoon, with no indication of the sender. Being a responsible citizen, Canço trundled over to the Ciutat Vella’s police station to ask that the letter be delivered to the man in question. Fabregat opened the letter idly, settling into the chair behind his desk, hat tipped onto the back of his crown, reading glasses perched on his nose. A piece of thick paper, like an old parchment, on which someone has drawn an illuminated diagram like the round face of a compass or an astrolabe for navigating stars, twelve centimetres’ radius, outlined in gold ink, heavy blue lines executed with comfortable precision.
Fabregat examines the figure closely, noting that it contains four outer rings, divided into nine equal parts. The triangles create a star with nine points, aligned with each of the nine sections. Three points of the uppermost triangle are labelled in Catalan: com , medi , l’extrem. Beginning , middle , end . In each of the nine sections an exquisite capital letter – B , C , D , E , F , G , H , I , K – and a sequence of numbers (1 to 9) around the outer rim. Fabregat skims this tersely, eyes hunting for what he considers the crucial detail. In the bottom left-hand corner, written in an eccentric, sloping calligraphy:
Find me in the Utterance of Birds.
Fabregat’s eyebrows furrow.
He growls to himself and sits up in his chair. Reads the line again. Then he turns the parchment over. A picture of a serpent consuming its tale in gold leaf. Shimmering on the page. The-snake-of-tail-biting-eternal-life – or whatever-the-fuck-it’s-called. Within the coil of the snake, the phrase in Catalan: All is One. Half of the snake is solid gold; the other half outlined in a thin silver . Hippy bullshit . He does not take it seriously because he does not understand it, but at the same time the inspector grows suspicious. He props the letter up at the base of his lamp, goes out of the
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