The Riverside Palace hotel, an old mansion inspired by the Alhambra in Granada, still stands before the sea. In the garden behind, there is a small tomb, always covered in flowers. If you ask the hotel staff, any one can tell you the amazing story that happened not so long ago…

With the constant intrigue we are so used to in Juan Madrid’s masterful novels, this work relates not just a plot of crimes and action-packed adventure but also the smells and tastes of the south, its plants and vegetation, its sea and sky, and above all, a human mosaic of acts of heroism and meanness.

On the afternoon when this story begins, Tomás was in the hotel basement, walking along a dim corridor lit by low power safety bulbs. The thick heating pipes became lost in the bends and the deathly darkness of the corners. Drops of water were sliding down the walls, oozing out from undiscovered leaks. No one ever went down there.

EXCERPTS FROM THE BOOK

The youngest employees believed that ghosts scampered around down there. They claimed it was where the dungeons of the old Qaid of the fortress had been and that the souls of the executed groaned at night.

Tomás was no longer afraid of the place. He used to be, when he joined the hotel hardly a year ago when he couldn’t stand being anywhere that wasn’t lit. That was now a thing of the past, like his short, far off childhood in Tetuan (Morocco), those happy times when his mother was alive. But now, when he walked in the basement, he thought about his uncertain future. Everyone knew this was the last year the hotel would open. It was to be demolished the following autumn to build luxury apartments in its place. This had been decided by the owners. […]

That same afternoon, Café Cosmopolita in Larios street, Málaga, was full of locals, elbow to elbow at the bar and sat at the tables inside and on the terrace outside. Groups of men were drinking a coffee or a glass of spirit as they chatted in a cloud of cigarette smoke, sometimes alongside well dressed women who looked like civil servants.

A certain Joseph Marti, who was sitting at one of the tables at the back, stood up in the midst of the hubbub and signalled with his hands to a tall, slim man wearing a crumpled summer suit and carrying a small travel bag, who entered the establishment with a copy of Italian magazine Donna under his arm.

The newcomer caught Marti’s attention as he approached moving people out of his way. He had a funny, hooked nose and his movements were deliberate and cold. Don Enrico had mentioned that his name was Sousa and said that he was Portuguese by birth and a man of his trust.
That same morning, don Enrico had called him from Rome. Short, urgent sentences, just to arrange to meet at that café with that Sousa character. A slightly croaky voice. Nothing else.

Sousa sat beside him. His emaciated, tired look and icy eyes grabbed his attention. His hands were long and slender. They could be the hands of a musician, but Marti knew they weren’t.

Joseph Marti had been born in England, but he had been brought up in Gibraltar, proud of his genuine British passport. Thanks to that, he had done loads of more or less legal business, some of which had made him rich. He was of normal appearance, an ordinary sort —a family man— and that had proved quite advantageous to him in recent occupations.

—Joseph Marti? —asked the newcomer, as he rested his elbows on the table.

—Yes —replied the former—. Sousa? —the newcomer nodded and Marti added—: Have you brought the money?

The newcomer nodded once again. Then he asked:

—Have you managed to get what I asked you for?

—Yes, though it was a bit of a job. Especially the silencer. I have already made a hotel reservation —Marti looked away from his eyes and continued—: First of all I’d like tell you that all this wasn’t necessary. As I told don Enrico, we here can sort this out. I just want you to know that.

—Tell me exactly what happened.

—Would you like a drink or a glass of something?

—No —he replied.

—As you wish... It was... Three days ago. A security guard came to my office... He said he’s opened don Enrico’s safe and he showed me some documents to prove it... Letters from town councils, the promise to reclassify land use. He insisted that the rest of the documents, inside an envelope, were in a safe place. If anything happened to him, those documents would go straight to the police. He asked for a million euros. I told him it was madness, don Enrico would never agree to it. He gave him three days and I called don Enrico right away. That’s all.

—All he told you was that he stole some documents from the safe?

—That’s right, he only mentioned the documents.

—What about diamonds?

—Diamonds? —he said in surprise—. Well... no, not really... Why do you ask? Were there any diamonds in the safe?

Marti felt the full weight of the newcomer’s penetrating eyes upon him.