When I reached the television network, I pushed open the glass doors and approached the young woman sitting behind the reception desk—raven hair, a painted smile, and the same unblemished, bronzed skin that everyone in this country seemed to have.
‘Hola, cómo está?’ she asked brightly.
‘Hola,’ I said. ‘Habla inglés?’
‘Yes.’
‘I was hoping to speak to Adelita Sanchez about a news report I saw this morning.’
She shook her head. ‘I am sorry, our reporters do not meet with members of the public.’
I grimaced. I hadn’t wanted to let on that I was a journo, but now I was this close, I wasn’t willing to let go. I pulled out my press pass. ‘I’m a journalist from Australia. I believe Ms Sanchez’s report is related to a story I’m working on. I was hoping she could spare five minutes to speak to me.’
She gave my press pass a cursory look and nodded. ‘Un momento, I will call her.’
She picked up the phone and spoke rapidly in Spanish. The only words I could make out were my name and ‘Australia’. She hung up. ‘She is on her way down. Please be seated.’
I sat down on one of the fashionably uncomfortable chairs near the reception desk and tapped the arm with nervous fingers. After a few minutes, I recognised the woman from the TV report approaching. She was about six foot and her hair was bleached almost platinum blonde. She wore the same elegant, navy suit, and a black handbag hung over one shoulder. Her whole aura was one of professionalism.
She gave me a stiff smile. ‘Good morning. I am Adelita Sanchez. You wanted to speak to me?’
‘Yes.’ I stood and offered her my hand. Her skin was cool and smooth and her shake perfunctory. ‘My name is Sarah Burrowes and I work for a magazine in Australia. Could we sit down somewhere to talk?’
She pursed her lips and looked at her watch. ‘Yes, there is a cafe next door.’ She led me out the door without waiting for a response.
We sat at a table outside the cafe and ordered our coffees (I paid). She lit a cigarette and gave me a polite, questioning look.
‘I saw the report on your local news this morning about Park Güell,’ I said. ‘I was wondering what happened there?’
Adelita sniffed. ‘It is barely a story. A man was caught trespassing outside opening hours. In fact, he spent the night in La Torre Rosa and was discovered first thing this morning when the staff arrived to set up for the day.’
‘La Torre…?’
‘La Torre Rosa, the former house of Gaudí. It is now a museum open to the public.’
My heart surged. I’d been right. I pulled out the photo and placed it on the table in front of her. ‘Was it this man, by any chance?’
Her eyebrows rose. ‘Yes, it was him. Who is he?’
‘His name is Chris Ford. He’s a musician from Scotland.’
She sat up a little straighter. ‘He told me his name was Callum Evans. What is he hiding?’
‘He’s very well known in the UK,’ I said quickly. ‘He probably wants to remain incognito. Were the police contacted?’
She gave an impatient sigh that blew a torrent of smoke straight into my face. ‘Not for trespassing. Nothing was stolen from the museum and he did not threaten anyone.’
I coughed and waved the smoke away. ‘Did you speak to him?’
‘I asked him a few questions, but he was in a hurry to get away.’
‘He didn’t say where he was going?’
Adelita’s eyes narrowed as she took another drag on her cigarette. ‘What is the publication that you work for?’
I hesitated. ‘It’s called Women’s Choice—’
She tittered unpleasantly. ‘Ah, a gossip magazine. That explains your interest in a second-rate celebrity. But it does not explain why a magazine would send a journalist all the way to Barcelona to do a story on him. So why are you following this man?’
Her tone was condescending. I really didn’t like this woman. I should have got out of there right then, but a tidal wave of anger rose in me and I snapped at her before I’d thought through my strategy. ‘Actually, I’m an investigative reporter, and I’m looking into his possible role in the disappearance of the band’s bass player.’
She raised her eyebrows in surprise for a split second, then recomposed her features and blew a long, slow cloud of smoke from between her lips. ‘Disappearance?’
I felt like slapping myself across the face for revealing the story and my motives just because her attitude pissed me off. ‘Never mind. I have to go.’
I began to stand, but she reached out and put a hand on my arm to restrain me. ‘No, please, sit down. I would like to hear more about this bass player.’
‘There’s nothing to tell.’
Adelita gave me an unfriendly smile. Her talons were still hooked into my arm. ‘I don’t give out information for nothing,’ she hissed. ‘I have told you what you wanted to know, and I expect something in return.’
Now I felt like slapping her across the face. ‘Like I said, I have to go.’
I tried to stand again, but she was still hanging onto my arm with a firm grip. She looked up at me, and through her disdained hostility I thought I detected a hint of desperation.
‘If you don’t tell me what you know about this Ford man, I will inform the police. And then you will never get your story.’
And suddenly I realised that, despite my slip-up, I still had the power. ‘Nor will you.’ I flung her hand away from me and at the same time accidentally-on-purpose knocked her half-full coffee straight into her lap. She gave an outraged shriek.
‘I’m terribly sorry, Adelita. I’d offer to dry-clean your suit, but I don’t think I’ll be in town for long. See ya.’
I swept out of
