Welcome to the final stop on the blog tour for Black Storms by Teresa Solana translated by Peter Bush and published by Corylus Books.
A country that doesn't acknowledge its past is destined to repeat its mistakes.
Why murder a sick old man nearing retirement? An investigation into the death of a professor at the University of Barcelona seems particularly baffling for Deputy Inspector Norma Forester of the Catalan police, as word from the top confirms she's the one to lead this case.
The granddaughter of an English member of the International Brigades, Norma has a colourful family life, with a forensic doctor husband, a hippy mother, a squatter daughter and an aunt, a nun in an enclosed order, who operates as a hacker from her austere convent cell.
This blended family sometimes helps and often hinders Norma's investigations.
It seems the spectres of the past have not yet been laid to rest, and there are people who can neither forgive nor forget the cruelties of the Spanish Civil War and all that followed.
The man who was about to commit murder left home at six-thirty, after telling his girlfriend Mary he’d business to see to and checking his car keys were in his pocket. He’d not driven his third-hand Seat Ibiza for days. Its shabby appearance was protection against petty thieves even in a street like theirs where he usually parked it. Nonetheless, when he saw the thick layer of dust and the obscenities a finger had scrawled on the bonnet, sides and windows, he decided a filthy car would attract attention and it might be worth his while to shell out on a wash. The queue he found at the garage started to wear his patience thin. However, he cooled down after taking a glance at his watch: the professor had given him an appointment for eight forty-five and there was no point being early. He had more than enough time. No need to worry.
He drove his gleaming Seat up the Gran Via towards the Plaça d’Espanya, and then turned down Entença on his way to Roma. As soon as he reached the Plaça dels Països Catalans, he left the car in a parking lot and went into Sants station, all set on melting into the crowd. He was sure nobody would notice him in that chaotic, crowded spot—that’s why he’d chosen it—and hurried into the lavatories gripping his black backpack. It contained all he needed to carry out his plan of action: a disguise, latex gloves so he didn’t leave fingerprints, and a length of plastic-covered clothesline. It was an old, light backpack, nothing too flashy to attract thieves on the lookout for easy pickings from commuters and tourists.
He found an empty stall in the gents, checked the catch was working and rather nervously shut himself inside. He took a wrap from his pocket, prepared a line of coke and racked his brain wondering how he’d eke out his meagre supplies until Mary brought a fresh consignment. The cocaine revitalised him, and with the drug still buzzing in his brain, he took off his shirt and jacket and donned the disguise he’d crammed into his backpack. All he needed from now on was inside a corduroy bag he slung over his shoulder that radically transformed his appearance when it was combined with the jeans, the shirt with the Mao collar that was a couple of sizes too big, and a Palestinian scarf he’d bought at the same hippy stall where he’d found the shirt. Just in case, a khaki cap and fake Ray-Bans hid his eyes, hair and part of his face. When he emerged from the lavatories and glanced at the queue at the ticket counter, he could only smile. Nobody would ever recognize him in that jazzy disguise.
He went to the left-luggage office and deposited the backpack in a locker before catching the Line 3 metro. Twenty minutes later the man who was about to commit murder was walking along La Rambla on his way to the history department. While he progressed steadily, trying to dodge the bustling pedestrians and bedazzled tourists in his way, he felt altogether pleased with himself and his brainwave pseudonym and doctoral-student status. Had the professor smelled a rat, he might have caught him out and told someone, even informed the police, but his ploy had worked a treat. The professor had swallowed the lot and agreed to see him in his office in the evening, after classes, when the corridors of the department would have shed their daytime throng of students and professors, and he could avoid dozens of potential witnesses eyeing his every move. If everything went to plan, terminating the professor’s life would be simple enough. So far, the man about to commit murder had calculated right. But only so far.
