The Serpent Papers by Jessica Cornwell Read Free Book Online Page A

away. Walking through the village this morning, you bought coca de patata, a spongy sweet cake made of boiled potato and sugar. I tear the packet containing the alcohol swab. The skin on my upper left arm tickles. I pinch at the fat, pulling it down from the bone. A tight knot remains from last week. With my fingers, I feel for fresh skin, four centimetres lower, hoping the lump will go down. From the road leading to the river, you saw the roof of the car. Mallorca’s policia local. Vehicle unusually festive. Painted like a medieval flag, raucous red and purple, blue lights dull on the roof. No sirens yet. I insert the pre-filled syringe into the auto-inject, wipe my skin with alcohol. Seven seconds. Count. Never habitual, never comfortable. When you entered the car, the policeman swore. ‘It’s fucking freezing,’ he’d hissed as he rubbed his hands together. Unseasonably cold, colder than ever before. You offered him coca. Crumbs landing on his collar as we drove out of the village, away from the azure bell tower, the Charterhouse bold. Your anchor on the hill.
    Click. Click , goes the syringe, buckling against my skin.
    I am done.

At the appointed hour, Manel Fabregat opens the door to his flat, a simple address overlooking the Plaça de la Revolució. He is a short, heavy-set man in his late fifties, blessed with thick legs and a full, muscular torso, resplendent in a black shirt reminiscent of the uniform of Los Mossos d’Esquadra, the urban crime unit of Barcelona’s police force. Flesh handsomely creased, weather-worn and athletic. Though the pallor of his complexion has faded, his dark eyes are compellingly alive and his mouth remains tender, while the shadows of his lower lashes are filled with a baleful sadness.
    ‘Come in! Come in!’
    Eyes dart over my shoulder. I follow him to a luminous sitting room, white walls bursting with photographs of family, a pretty wife, a boy playing soccer, old men and women at a house in the country. A dog lopes forward, a German shepherd who shoves his black snout into my legs, wagging his tail.
    ‘Meet Panza,’ Fabregat booms. The inspector’s name is hard, factory-made vowels slamming into consonants. ‘Just push him out of the way, push him! There you go, girl.’
    Fabregat invites me to take a seat on the sofa across from him. He crosses his legs in his armchair and offers tea. A biscuit? Sugar? On the wall behind him there are also photographs of the policeman with his troops, and athletic awards from his youth.
    ‘My son wins these now.’ Afternoon light streams in.
    Fabregat’s sunroom is framed in white curtains harking to a past century. Light scatters through lace steeples and dewdrops. A small teacup filled with dried rose petals on the table. Bleached linen tablecloth. The air exudes a chalky mix of mint and sugar. On the wall, a devotional shrine to the Virgin Mary – ‘My wife’s,’ Fabregat explains. He offers tea, then settles into his chair. Panza rests his face on Fabregat’s knee, yellow hound eyes half closed. Fabregat runs his fingers through the dog’s coat twice before he meets my gaze.
    He smiles. Shark-like. Polite. ‘I’ve given it some thought, and I think you should know that Picatrix sounds like Pikachu . The Pokémon.’
    ‘It’s a reference to a medieval magician,’ I say tartly. ‘A man with three names.’
    ‘Huh,’ says Fabregat. He cracks a nut between his teeth.
    ‘You don’t look the part.’
    Of what? An academic? A treasure hunter? There’s almost a tinge of disappointment on his face. He studies me carefully. What was he expecting? Mouse hair, pinned back? Owl glasses?
    ‘How old are you?’
    ‘Twenty-seven.’
    ‘You look younger.’ He sniffs into a handkerchief produced from a pocket. ‘I wouldn’t take you seriously if I met you on the street.’
    I’ve hidden my frame in an oversized knitted sweater, thick grey wool, and retreat further into it, pulling the sleeves down to my wrists.
    ‘Generally,