‘Sí,’ he said. ‘What would you like?’
‘Actually, I just wanted to know if you’ve seen this man around here?’ I held out the photo of Ford.
He glanced at it and shook his head. ‘I see hundreds of tourists every day, señorita,’ he said with a weary smile. ‘You cannot expect me to remember this man only.’
‘I think he might live around here,’ I tried again. ‘So he’s not really a tourist as such.’
‘I am sorry,’ the man said. ‘Will you order something?’
‘No, thank you.’
He gave me a meaningful look, and I realised he was expecting me to vacate the table if I wasn’t going to spend some money. My phone rang as I stood up.
‘Sarah? Angela. I’ve got the address. Got a pen?’
I scrabbled in the depths of my bag for my notepad and one of the many ballpoint pens I’d accumulated over time. ‘OK.’
She spelt out the street address for me.
‘Thanks Ange. You’re the best.’
Clutching the notepad in both hands, I grinned in triumph. It’s not like I’d worked hard for this information, but it was progress, and that’s what I needed. I consulted the map and located the street Angela had given me. Whether it was luck or a journo’s instinct, I’d been right about his apartment being nearby—the street was only a block away and ran parallel to the square.
Bag firmly lodged under my arm, I set off in the direction of Ford’s apartment. The grubby apartment block was right at the end of a sloping street lined with multistorey stone buildings and was set back from the street corner. Narrow windows with green, rickety shutters looked sternly down at me and I imagined Ford himself looking out. There were no individual numbers and no obvious entrance, just a couple of graffiti-covered roller doors.
Around the side of the building, I spotted an open doorway. Inside was a block of metal lockers with numbers and mail slots at the top. Some of the lockers had names on them, others were anonymous. A narrow hallway stretched the length of the building, and a staircase led upwards.
I checked the address again. Ford’s name was not on his mailbox, but according to Angela his apartment was number twelve, which was on the second floor.
The staircase was dark and smelt of mildew and urine. Despite my sandals, I took the stairs two at a time in my eagerness. By the time I reached the second floor, I was puffing and had to stop to catch my breath. Cool it, Sarah. On the off chance he was here, I didn’t want to look like a rookie when he opened the door.
His apartment was right at the end of the hallway. The door was covered in peeling green paint. The two in the apartment number had lost a screw and was dangling upside down. It didn’t look like the type of place a famous musician would live, even as a holiday house. But then, this part of Barcelona was probably pretty expensive. I lifted a tentative hand and rapped on the door.
There was no sound from within. I knocked again. Silence.
I stared at the number on the door, fighting the rising defeat in my chest. If he wasn’t here, I was back to square one. No information, no leads.
The seconds ticked away, and just as I was about to give up, the door to the next apartment swung open and a middle-aged woman stepped out. Before I could reach for the photo of Ford, she spoke. ‘Tiene la llave?’
I stared blankly at her.
She switched to English. ‘Do you have the key?’
‘Key…?’ I faltered. Why would I have the key?
‘Have you booked the apartment?’ she went on. ‘You have to collect the key from the hostel. They did not tell you that when you booked?’
‘Uh, no,’ I bluffed. ‘The owner rents it out? He didn’t mention the key to me. Do you know where I can find him… to, you know, get the key?’
‘He is not here often, so his sister looks after the apartment and lets it to tourists like you.’
‘Ah, it’s his sister.’ I feigned understanding, my heart pounding with excitement at this new information. ‘Have you seen him here lately?’
‘The owner? No, he has not been here for months.’
‘What’s he like? I mean, he’s a musician, right? It must be interesting to live next to someone famous? Does his band ever stay here with him?’
She looked confused. ‘I don’t know about any band. He is hardly here. I mind my business, he minds his.’
‘Have you ever heard any arguments from the apartment? Fights? Apparently he’s been having a feud with one of his band members… I’m a bit of a fan, you see, and I’d love to get the latest goss.’
Her face began to take on an expression of hostility. ‘I have no interest in this man. I have more trouble from noisy young tourists like you.’
Good thing I didn’t tell her I was a journo or she probably wouldn’t have told me about the sister. Time to retreat. ‘So his sister lives here?’
‘She owns the hostel around the corner.’ She was impatient now. ‘They did not give you this information when you booked the apartment?’
‘Sorry, I must sound like such an idiot.’ I wrung my hands in what I hoped was a convincing portrayal of my distress. ‘I’ve got no idea what’s going on. My friend did all the bookings. I’m meeting her here, but she only gave me the address of the apartment. I have no idea where the hostel is.’
My words came out in a rush, thankfully not in the same order they were leaping into my head. But the woman’s expression changed from annoyance to pity and she gave me a reassuring pat on the shoulder. ‘Turn right at the end of the street, then take the first left. The hostel is on the right. It is called Welcome Hostel.’
‘Thank you so much for your help!’ I clasped the woman’s hand and shook it, and she gave me
