The Altogether Unexpected Disappearance of Atticus Craftsman by Mamen Sánchez Read Free Book Online Page A

when it came to the siren.
    He heard footsteps behind him. He tensed up.
    A guy with headphones overtook him on his right.
    He kept walking.
    He heard footsteps again. He stopped. The footsteps stopped too.
    Manchego grabbed onto the trunk of a flimsy tree. It was his anchor.
    Up ahead, between the cars, someone was moving. A shadow.
    â€œWho’s there?” Manchego shouted.
    Silence.
    He lifted his hand to his belt. He checked that the gun was in place.
    â€œWho’s there?” he repeated. “Don’t do anything stupid. I’m a police officer. I’m armed.”
    A strong, rough-looking man stepped out into the light. He was moving from side to side, in time with the street. He must have been on the same boat as Manchego. He stopped a few centimeters away from Manchego.
    â€œGot a light?” he asked.
    â€œDon’t do anything stupid, mate,” replied the inspector. “I’ve just warned you that I’m armed.”
    â€œI’m only asking for a match, Officer.”
    â€œInspector, if you don’t mind.”
    â€œInspector.”
    Manchego took a lighter out of his pocket. He removed a pack of cigarettes from another. He offered the man one. They smoked together. They talked.
    â€œIf I had to investigate a disappearance,” said the man after listening carefully to the case of Atticus Craftsman, “I’d start by interrogating the people who knew him. Then I’d search his house.”
    â€œThe problem is that without a warrant I can’t bust the door open. It takes days for the papers to come through.”
    â€œHe could be dead inside the flat,” the other man warned.
    â€œHe could be.”
    â€œAnd there’s no other way of getting in?”
    â€œNot legally.”
    â€œBut . . .”
    â€œWell,” pondered Manchego, “if someone, let’s say a burglar, happened to break in to steal something and just at that moment a plainclothes police officer happened to be passing by . . .”
    â€œImprobable.”
    â€œHighly.”
    â€œI’m a locksmith.”
    â€œWhat a coincidence!”
    The street swayed. It had been nasty whiskey.
    They said goodbye and promised to meet again at the same tree one of these days. The man’s name was Lucas. He picked up a scrap of paper from the ground and wrote his phone number on it.
    â€œCall me when you like,” he told Manchego. “The guy’s probably dead inside the flat, anyway,” he reminded him.

CHAPTER 11
    S oleá never answered her landline. It was hopeless. She unplugged it when she was at home; otherwise she would have to let it ring endlessly. She hated the idea of having an answering machine. She considered it an invasion of her private life and argued that answering the phone was the same as opening the door and inviting someone in.
    â€œJust imagine,” she said, “for example, that you’re eating a bowl of cereal in front of the television and the bloody phone rings. Do you have to make room on the sofa for the person who comes barging into your house, plonking themselves between the spoon and your mouth, between your ears and the end of the film?”
    â€œAnd what if it’s important?”
    â€œThey can wait.”
    â€œAnd if it’s urgent?”
    â€œLook, Berta,” assured Soleá, “90 percent of the time it’s urgent or important only for the person who’s calling.”
    â€œBut I’m your boss, Soleá. I need to be able to contact you.”
    â€œThen get me a cell phone. But a company one, Berta, because my salary won’t stretch to any more bills.”
    Already resigned to the bad-tempered response she was goingto get, Berta dialed Soleá’s cell phone number and waited for her to wake up. It was exactly nine in the morning. On a Sunday. Thank goodness she wasn’t standing next to Soleá, because that girl was perfectly capable of shoving