Free The Serpent Papers by Jessica Cornwell

better of Manel Fabregat.
    ‘It was a goat. Pull it together, tío .’
    Later Fabregat lights a cigarette and inhales fiercely. The effect is welcome. He walks to the look-out point, the stone bench on the side of the white dirt track that runs above Barcelona. He scans the hillside. How would he have approached?
    He thinks carefully.
    The zigzag cut above Bonanova and Sarrià. By the roundabout.
    Is it gated?
    Yes. He remembers. By a thin metal chain that runs between two wooden posts.
    He makes a call to his officers. They check the entry point. Sure enough, the lock of the metal chain that stretches across the turnout has been cut.
    The bolt hacked through.
    When Fabregat holds the cut metal in his hand, he runs his eyes over the surrounding apartments. A modern development with a swimming pool. Slick gated gardens. Surveillance cameras. His eyes light up. Hope. Someone will have seen him. Vehicles are not meant to pass through here. The headlights would have streaked into their windows. The investigative team checks all the apartments. A woman comes forward. Around two in the morning, she thinks. A city car pulled up. Lights very low. She could not see the make. It was black, she thinks, or silver . . . the witness says again. That’s not helpful, Fabregat barks. Any licence plate? Any number? The look of disappointment on Fabregat’s face makes the woman blush. But it is something. It is something to go on. When they check the camera there is no tape to record on. Fabregat turns purple with rage. What is the fucking point of a camera if it doesn’t record anything? He returns to the dark copse at the bend in the white track. Runners have gathered at either side, desperate to complete their daily circuit. Kicking up dust at their heels.
    Fabregat says: No. You cannot pass. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not for a while.
    Then he looks up at the trees and asks them: What have you seen?
    As if they would want to tell him.
     
    At first he had been confident that they would find an answer – no killer could commit these atrocities without leaving some piece of himself on the material. Discovery of a suspect was just a question of time, he told his team – keep looking, trace everything, study the ground – the pollen – the mud – their flesh. Look for anything in their gut . . . What had they eaten? What had they drunk? Look for the numbers of coffees they had consumed in a day, when they had last been to the bathroom. Look into their faces, the wounds on their throat and chest, the brutal severing of flesh – what knife had he used? What blade had caused these lacerations in the mouth, the markings of her stomach? In all his career of cleaning marital spats off the kitchen table, responding to rape, armed robberies, burglaries, breaking-and-enterings, pick-pocketing, smuggling and human trafficking, Inspector Fabregat has never worked on a case like this. His previous exposure to manslaughter had (fortunately) come in instances of ones and twos, generally male on female, and most often between two people who knew each other. Crimes of passion in which the perpetrator came forward within days or killed themselves or did any number of peculiar things that did not include (a) returning to kill again, or (b) sending cryptic letters by phantom post that looked like the holdings of the University of Barcelona’s archive of illuminated manuscripts . . . 
    He shudders at the thought of the copy of the latest document he had sent to the expert’s desk. It arrived as the others did. Another confessional. Another envelope addressed to Manel Fabregat. Inside:
     
Serpentarius!
One-who-is-arriving!
Know this:
Nine books of Leaves gave forth this rage of man
     
    Fabregat chews his lip. He smokes ruefully. Barcelona is not famous for its serial killers. Any loco comes here and they get distracted by the beach. Scenes like this? It’s just not in keeping with the atmosphere. On a personal level, it irks him.

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