I don’t appear to have any choice. When I came here with Sofia neither of us went upstairs, so I will be walking blind into an unknown location. Employing the same technique as before, I wait for a small group of people to make their way upstairs and fall in behind them. This at least gives me the chance to scope the upper level at the least risk of being observed. The pub is very full, both downstairs and up, and all the tables near the top of the staircase appear to be occupied. Directly ahead there’s a smaller room containing a mock fireplace and some faked-up dusty bookshelves, but the bar is off to the right, beyond a narrow corridor leading into an open area decorated in a maritime theme. There are furled sails on booms suspended from the ceiling and a fat black anchor bolted to one wall. On a hunch, I assume that Rosalia is seated in the smaller room because there’s no sign of her at the bar and she has had enough time by now to go to the ladies. I make my way to the bar, order a pint of lager and then look for a mirror or reflective surface with which to observe what’s going on behind me.
No such luck. Instead I have to turn round, discovering that I can see directly into the smaller room through a narrow doorway. Rosalia is seated with her back to me, about twenty-five feet away at a table beyond the fireplace, talking to a man whom I do not recognize. He is at least fifty years old with combed, jet-black hair, a dark woollen sweater and eyes like stewed teabags. Not her type, in other words: a tough, working-class hombre, maybe a cousin or an uncle. Only she appears upset. Rosalia seems stressed. And there isn’t a trace of sympathy or kindness in the man’s washed-out eyes. Merely irritation. He actually seems drunk with contempt.
This is self-evidently a vital time. There are developments here, links to Arenaza. Somehow I have to manoeuvre myself into a position from which it will be possible to overhear their conversation. But the room in which they are sitting is not as crowded as the rest of the pub and if I stand or sit anywhere near their table, Rosalia will be bound to notice. A man standing next to me at the bar sways onto one leg and I have to catch him to hold his balance.
‘Sorry, mate,’ he says, a Midlands accent, grabbing my arm. One of his friends lets out a hearty laugh.
That’s when I see my opportunity. Beyond Rosalia’s table is a second doorway leading out onto a balcony overlooking the chaos of the ground floor. If there’s a chair there, even space in which to stand, I would be concealed and possibly within earshot of the conversation.
Having picked up a discarded newspaper from the bar, I take the pint, make my way back through the crowds and find a narrow bench at which to sit and listen. The music is very loud but I can see the base of the man’s chair and Rosalia’s left hand resting on the table. Both of them are smoking cigarettes. Rosalia never smokes. Ahead of me, built into the breezeblock walls, is a badly fitted window smudged by fingerprints. Through it I can see the fireplace and most of the other tables in the smaller room, as well as the obligatory portraits of Yeats and Beckett and George Bernard Shaw. The man says something, in Spanish, about ‘ guilt’. I pick up the specific Spanish word. La culpabilidad. Rosalia’s response is very quiet, or at least inaudible from where I am sitting. Maddeningly, the DJ operating from a booth directly behind me has chosen to play ‘Living on a Prayer’ at deafening volume. Five women on a hen night at the next-door table blare out the chorus, making it impossible to hear.
I have to get closer.
Attempting to look as natural as possible, I pick up the pint and lean against the wall beside the door. If Rosalia leaves through this entrance there is every possibility that she will recognize me, but it is surely worth the risk. I can now hear snippets of their conversation more clearly, and a new Spanish song is fractionally quieter. Words such as time and patience. At one point the man mutters something about loyalty.
‘I don’t care about loyalty,’ Rosalia snaps back. No me importa la lealtad. She is audibly upset. But what about? If only I had a general clue as to the subject under discussion.
‘You don’t have to worry,’ the man replies. Usted no tiene que preocuparse. I heard that very clearly. Then: ‘Just go home for the weekend, relax and wait for your boyfriend.’ Rosalia coughs and her answer is again smothered by the music. But I obtain one vital piece of information. The man’s name. Abel.
A chair scrapes back. It sounds as though one of them is standing up. I pivot away from the door, take the newspaper out of my back pocket and quickly sit down at the bench. Fogged by drink, the other customers on the narrow balcony seem oblivious to my strange behaviour. Looking up through the window I see Abel walking away from the table and out towards the stairs. Rosalia is not going with him. He turns left, perhaps to go to the bathroom, but he is already wearing an outdoor coat. One of the girls on the hen night catches my eye, but I ignore her.
Three minutes later Abel reappears and heads down to the ground floor. Rosalia, as far as I can tell, is staying where she is. I make a split-instant decision to follow her companion. Whoever he is, he must know something about Arenaza. Far better to take a chance on an instinct like this, to seize the opportunity, than to waste even more time at Jiloca.
It is raining outside, the shower which had been threatening all afternoon. Two bouncers are huddled in the vestibule and they bid me goodnight. Abel turns right towards Moby Dick, yet something catches my eye. When I was waiting across the street before entering the pub I saw a bottle-green Seat Ibiza pull up in front of the entrance. It parked a few metres away from me, but the two men inside did not get out. Instead, one of them lit a cigarette and started talking. I thought nothing of this at the time, but it seems unusual that they should still be there. Spanish couples – many of whom live with their parents until they are ready to marry – will use cars as one of the few places in which they can have any kind of physical intimacy, but these are two guys and they are certainly not lovers. Furthermore, although it has clearly been raining for some time, the windscreen of their car is absolutely clear, as if it has been recently swept by wiper blades to give an unobstructed view of the pub. The clincher might be the two cans of Fanta Limon resting on the dashboard. These guys are on a stakeout. But who are they following?
Meanwhile Abel walks down the road as it narrows off into a lane leading into a second car park dotted with pine trees. There’s an empty playground on one side and more bars on the other. The rain has kicked up a smell of dogshit and people have started to run for cover. Rosalia’s contact seems oblivious to it, as if pressed for time, and I cover my head with the newspaper and try to stay in sight of him. Then another strange thing: a woman, without an umbrella, standing off to the right beside a garage selling tyres. She’s talking into a mobile phone but turned towards the wall as if to shield her face from strangers. Am I being paranoid? Why doesn’t she come out of the rain? Is she part of a team assigned to follow Abel? Or has Rosalia finally cottoned on to my surveillance and hired a team to check me out?
Abel, for his part, may be employing anti-surveillance as he reaches a two-way cross-street perpendicular to the Castellana, starting to look around for a cab. This presents me with two problems. If he finds one, it will be virtually impossible in this weather to hail another quickly enough to track his progress. Secondly, by turning constantly through 360 degrees, he is giving himself every opportunity to watch his back for a tail. Is this guy a pro? Who the hell is Rosalia dealing with? He crosses to the opposite side of the road and I follow him as discreedy as possible, the rain letting up only slightly. Within two minutes he has reached the Castellana and immediately spots a taxi heading in a southbound direction. Up goes an arm, in goes Abel. Shit. I jog the last twenty metres to the intersection and look north in desperation. Nothing. The cab is stuck in traffic just a few metres away, but it only requires the lights to change for Abel to disappear for ever. Remember the number plate, Alec. At least remember that.
Then – and every spy needs a bit of luck – a taxi comes shooting across from the southern end of the stadium, hazard lights on, halting immediately beside me. A grey-haired woman breaks from the pavement to hail it, but I step in front of her as the door opens and the passenger steps out. Hurry. Pay the driver. Leave. The lights have changed and Abel’s cab has started to move south. The passenger is Japanese – young and city-quick, thank God – and as he bends to thank the driver, I dive in behind him and slam the door.
‘Vaya al sur! Deprisa, por favor!’ Ahead, at twelve o’clock, I can still see the roof light of Abel’s cab as it disappears down the Castellana. The grey-haired woman raps on the window with her knuckle but I just ignore her. ‘My wife is in a taxi with another man,’ I tell the driver. ‘He’s my business partner. You have to follow that cab.’
‘Claro,’ says the driver. ‘ Claro,’ as if this sort of thing happens to him all the time. Engaging first gear, he sets his clipboard to one side and just catches the lights as they turn red.
‘Get closer,’ I tell him. ‘ Mas cerea,’ and he obliges with a nod and a shrug. Surely Abel is now aware that he is being followed? Will he try to lose me, either by making a series of unnecessary turns, or exit his cab early and continue by bus or on foot?
‘You’re going to have to get nearer,’ I keep telling the driver. ‘It’s very important we don’t lose them.’
‘Muy importante, si,’ he replies, hawking phlegm in the back of his throat.
