A Portrait of Death

By Claudio Hernández

An artist whose canvas signifies death. A Deputy Inspector desperate for a child who’s caught in the middle. An Inspector who prefers to work alone. These are the essential elements of ‘A Portrait of Death’.

Deputy Inspector Lola Gúzman and her husband are on holiday innocently wandering around Barcelona, enjoying the sights and experiencing the culture, when all hell breaks loose as blood and death seem to occur all around her. However, the killing spree isn’t just confined to the Catalonian capital, but spreads to other cities all around Spain growing ever more gruesome. The massacres do have one thing in common; they come accompanied by works of art. Art created by the brush of a master.

Deputy Inspector Lola Gúzman teams up with Inspector Andrés López of the UCO, Spain’s elite organized crime department. They are confronted by no ordinary criminal, but a madman who will stop at nothing to produce the most grotesque paintings possible; paintings that will live long in the memory. However, the paintings don’t just include random members of the general public, as the two police officers find that the lives of the ones they hold dearest have also stepped into the killer’s cross hairs.    

• Language: English
• Publisher: BadPress
• Release date: Jun 3, 2019
• ISBN: 9781547584369

Book preview

A Portrait of Death

By Claudio Hernández

Translation by Paul Bowen

First Edition Ebook: January, 2019.

Title: A Portrait of Death

©  2018 Claudio Hernández

©  2018 Cover artwork: Higinia María

©  2019 Translation by Paul Bowen

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All rights reserved.

Registration code: 1901049523064

Registered work

No part of this publication, including the cover design, may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any manner and by any means, electronic, chemical, mechanical, optical, recording, on the Internet or photocopying, without prior permission from the publisher or the author. All rights reserved.

This time I can dedicate this book to my friend, Manuel DelPrieto, who is also an author. It he who came up with this story which I then wrote; a collaboration which we have enjoyed immensely. I also hope that you, the reader, like this as it is also dedicated to you. In addition to those already mentioned, it goes without saying that this work is also dedicated to my family, especially my father Ángel, who lends me his help and guidance through this scary endeavour, and my wife, who puts up with me every day.

The miracle of a novel written by two authors

The possibility of a novel written by two authors is by no means trivial. Rarely does the situation arise of being able to find a story in which two authors can roll up their sleeves and work side-by-side in pursuit of the same goal: to satisfy the needs of demanding readers.

How did the idea come about? Well, let me first introduce myself. My name is Manuel DelPrieto, and while I was in the middle of writing a romantic thriller, a new group of creative muses knocked on my door unannounced with a story under their arm. I left the work I was in the middle of putting together to one side and began to write the plot of a police novel, where the bulk of the story consisted of the crimes committed. The scenes, the pictures and the plot flowed through my fingers, creating the brilliant outline for a script and a novel in a matter of minutes. For a few moments I could hear and see every track and every detail of the outline of this new thriller.

I now had a good storyline: solid and original. But I needed a sublime narrative that created the right atmosphere, if this thriller based on works of art, were to become a collector's item for readers everywhere; this is where Claudio Hernández entered the equation.

I had already looked for possible candidates, but on examining his previous collaborative work with María G. Pineda; I knew I had to propose the job to him. Without thinking on the bright side so as not to get my hopes up, I asked him if he would like to co-author a story with me. I presented the story that I had elaborated and liked so much, and he accepted my proposal.

The agreement may have been simple, but we are from different generations. Claudio Hernández is a 50-year-old writer with more than 100 published novels. I, on the other hand, am 36 years old and have 7 published books. The contrast of the experience of a consecrated writer opposite the creative spark of an indie writer could be fraught with dangers... However, the result has been excellent.

With the outline of scenes and events, we needed to create the disturbing atmosphere that the story demanded and in that, Claudio Hernández is the master. A scholar of the works of Stephen King, who can distil distress with each metaphor or simile. Each phrase, dialogue or description encloses the reader in a bubble of horror and panic.

As its narrative advances, it evolves looking for the balance between dark gothic rhythm and the oppressive fear. Each phrase is a tasty morsel with multiple nuances, where its similes and details expressed through the omniscient narrator, take on a stratospheric dimension, giving rise to a vision that will fascinate the scholars of criminal thrillers.

In a partnership filled with opposites: Claudio and I, Toulouse and Jerez de la Frontera, inspiration and experience; imagination and narrative, all go hand in hand to create a different work, a literary experiment... Everything that can go into making the culture of written fiction richer and, of course, leave its mark on our audience ... You.

Without further ado, please enjoy, suffer and reconsider the genuine story in which you are about to submerge yourselves... And by the way, this story is not for the faint-hearted, so please recuse yourself from reading this if you are... if you dare...

Manuel DelPrieto

Chapter 1

The full moon had appeared out of the blue just hours earlier in the indigo sky above the famous Las Ramblas Boulevard of Barcelona, Spain’s second largest city in the North-Eastern province of Catalonia. It was now next to the rising sun, caught amongst its rays and gradually fading away as night turned into day. It had been clean, perfectly round, as if Sant Jordi, or rather Saint George himself had lanced it with his spear, nailing it to the sky. Then, the sun slowly began to seep into the horizon, haemorrhaging on one side until it stained the mountains. 

However, this had all been many hours before the artist-beggar had plonked his bony backside on the pavement; a surface both smooth and rough in equal measure. The street cleaners had already driven their heavy cleaning machines along the boulevard, flooding Las Ramblas de las Flores as it was also known due to its large number of flower stalls. In the height of the holiday season, Las Ramblas was a kaleidoscope of colours and a cornucopia of sounds and scents, most of which emanated from the flowers blooming ubiquitously along the boulevard.

The malnourished and dehydrated beggar seated on the ground could have gone almost unnoticed if it weren’t for the shadow forming at his side when the sun appeared, caressing his scruffy appearance. His thick bushy beard had yellowish-blond streaks running through it, and his lips were chapped and ragged, cracked by the passage of a tough life. His hair infested with lice was randomly matted and curled, and his waterproof raincoat that had once been a shade of white, was now various hues of black and grey. However, it still shielded him from the morning cold.

And as for his painting: the canvas had been adorned with the brush strokes of a master.

The Las Ramblas Boulevard was also known for its kiosks, pet stalls and artists that filled its long pedestrian walkway all the way up to the Columbus monument where the statue of Christopher Columbus stood, his index finger pointing in the direction of the harbour and beyond; a harbour where the impressive and imposing cruise ships berthed before they set sail.

But now, the sun was banishing the full moon; a moon that had looked as if it could create wild animals and mythical creatures during the night, making those who became jittery at the sight of even the slightest shadow jump out of their skin.

In a cosmopolitan city that abounded with all the races of the world, those who were most visible were the counterfeit goods’ sellers of African origin. They spent all day in the hot sun from early morning onwards displaying their goods; no sign of any identity papers, just frightened eyes squinting in their sockets at any unusual sound or at the merest glimpse of any high-visibility police garment that could be spotted from a mile away.

The artist-beggar took out his canvas and recommenced painting his masterpiece.

On Las Ramblas the stalls, whose awnings were flapping about like forgotten sheets on a washing line, formed an amalgam of colours. In addition, there were the ever-present and very talented street artists and performers that were forever immortalised by the crowds of tourists and passers-by taking pictures of them on their cell phones. This immense Catalan artery had now become the solid, almost blocked vein of Barcelona.

It was the 23rd of April; Sant Jordi’s day, the patron saint of Catalonia, the day when its inhabitants would give each other either a red rose or a book, and there were plenty of both on sale to choose from.

Soon it would become a bustle of books for sale that were autographed by the famous authors in attendance. Of course, there were the habitual sellers of red roses cashing in on the tradition of giving a red rose on this particular saint’s day.

Art, life, reality and marketing all came together as one, forming something magical and special. By night however, the place was a seedy area frequented by prostitutes and pimps. By day, it was full of sights, sounds, scents... and magic.

This was Las Ramblas, the cultural hotspot of Barcelona where very few people could say that they had never been before.   

The artist-beggar held a brush between his fingers that was too long, splintered and covered by thousands of different flecks of paint. In his other hand, he held his chosen palette of colours, predominantly shades of red, blood red being the most prominent. Each brushstroke was like a musical note showing just what could be done; each one a further clue to his final masterpiece.

Thus, everything began. After all, each of his paintings was a portrait of death.

Chapter 2

An hour later, Deputy Inspector Lola Guzmán was walking along Las Ramblas on the first day of her annual holidays. Her casual holiday attire consisted of Levi jeans and trainers, together with a light blue t-shirt over which she wore a zip-leather jacket. However, there was nothing casual about either the date or the destination of their holidays as both had been planned well in advance months earlier. Although she now lived and worked in Madrid, both she and her husband Ginés were originally from the southern coastal city of Malaga in the province of Andalusia. She was a typical Andalusian girl with a slim figure and a pair of sun glasses perched on top of her long glossy black hair. Her dark brown eyes looked like two ovals that were almost slanted at the corners. Ginés, her husband, by contrast had a chubby face with green-brown deep-set eyes and curly, mousy coloured hair in which his sunglasses were almost buried like a bird nested in a tree. He was dressed in a smart-casual manner with a pair of beige chinos and casual shoes. His short-sleeved shirt was half-surrounded by a sweater tied at the sleeves in front of his chest.

At first glance, Lola and her husband certainly didn’t appear to be the happiest of married couples as they walked along the boulevard some distance apart as if they were strangers. They had been encouraged by the IVF clinic that they had both attended in Madrid to take a vacation so that Lola could get away from the stress of her normal working routine. This, it was thought, could help her to become pregnant once more. However, she wasn’t exactly in the best of moods as the anxiety of conceiving a child was always on her mind. What’s more, her husband, an avid fan of art, knew it.

Suddenly, she stopped and, looking him in the eyes, asked,

What are we going to do today? Lola was thinking more about what they were going to do that night rather than during the day. She wanted to have a child before she turned forty and had already endured four miscarriages, but not this time. However emotionally painful the experiences of all those miscarriages had been, this time she would make it work and was more determined than ever to do so.

Well, since we're here, let’s go and see the street artists and performers, Ginés answered in a serious tone. There’s talent everywhere! He added with a bit of a wheeze that came from his throat. At that very moment, he pointed to where a cluster of people seemed to be making quite a fuss over something.

Okay, but afterwards, we’re going over to browse the book stalls. Lola said a little hesitantly, but then added. Someday, I hope I’ll be able to unveil my very own novel here for all the world to read.

However, Ginés paid no attention to what she had just said, distracted by a throng of people he had spotted earlier. Look at all those people. What the heck’s going on over there? He remarked.

The artist-beggar seemed somewhat bemused by the reaction of the small crowd as they were looking down at a sheet stretched out on the ground. His painting was almost finished.

What’s going on? Lola asked more out of courtesy that any genuine interest, her mind elsewhere.

It’ll be one of those mime artists covered in bronze or silver paint like a statue, probably performing an impossible balancing act...

Ginés took Lola's hand and practically dragged her towards the throng of people who were stepping forward and crouching down in an attempt to touch the surface of the canvas. It was clear to that whatever they were looking at was making them break out in goose bumps all over their arms.

My God! It seems so real! Exclaimed a young woman of Aztec descent, unable to comprehend what she was seeing on the canvas of that unkempt artist-beggar with his thick beard and haunting look that seemed to stare into the depths of one’s soul.

There was something in that painting that was very different to anything that any of them had ever seen before. On viewing it, Lola pursed her lips into a disconcerting wince. She was astounded.

Once the crowd had dispersed along the length and breadth of the Las Ramblas, just Ginés, Lola and the artist remained looking closely at the painting that had created so much fuss.

Lola swallowed and felt a lump in her throat as if someone had put their hands around her neck, restricting her breathing, or as if she was being strangled with one of those cords that were used to hang the banners lining the boulevard.

What the hell is this? Lola's voice rose like the whistle of a steam train.

Fantastic! This is brilliant! Ginés was practically jumping for joy. It was as if he had been thrown out of a plane and had bounced like a rubber ball on the ground without a scratch. It’s so sadistically realistic.

Lola and Ginés were now alone with wide eyes and stupid grimaces on each of their faces. Ginés was acting like a lunatic that had just come across exactly what he had always been looking for.

It's disgusting, she snapped. Look around! People have left because of that ... and she pointed at the painting that was lying face up on the ground, ... looks like blood. And those severed arteries look like they’ve been cut by the pair of scissors in the painting. It’s all too realistic, and it’s making me feel sick.

Ginés, an art aficionado always eager to know the mysteries behind paintings, looked as if his eyes were going to pop out of their sockets while one half of his jaw pulled back the corner of his mouth to reveal a diabolical smile. This contrasted with the artist-beggar who continued to make the most delicate brush strokes, oblivious to everything around him.

It's seems so real, Ginés said excitedly. His hands moved over one another again and again like the blades of a windmill, stirring the almost non-existent air. I don’t know why, but I think this man is creating a painting in a realistic style or pictorial style reminiscent of the Baroque movement. It’s as if he’s brought part of a story to life. Ginés was a scholar of the most acclaimed artists. Hence, he would always visit every museum wherever he went, if there were any.

Come on! Let's get out of here, everyone’s gone! Lola exclaimed, pulling on his arm with all her might, but she barely moved him an inch.

Ginés was rooted to the spot like a tree. And deep within, he felt like the second hand of a clock was ticking faster and faster as an intense tingling sensation rose from the pit of his stomach right up to his brain, exploding with positive energy.

No! I'm only interested in this painting! Ginés shouted, his eyes bloodshot. All that was lacking for him to look like a rabid dog was saliva drooling like white tennis shoe laces from the corners of his mouth.

Well, I couldn’t care less! Lola growled, still pulling on him now with both hands, but Ginés barely moved. She could even feel his pulse throbbing in his hands, beating like a drum inside him. She became frightened by it because she knew that it would push him to the edge of madness in order to satisfy an almost unquenchable desire.

In fact, he was so animated and so fervent that even the ever-present pigeons on Las Ramblas could sense something wasn’t right, and proceeded to take flight, flapping their wings so hard that it sounded as if they were at the point of rupturing themselves with the effort.

How much for the painting? asked Ginés in a serious and gravelly tone with just the slightest tremor in his voice. His eyes looked like two freshly washed dinner plates with the foam still dripping from them.

The artist-beggar did not answer, but he did stop brushing. His scummy hair hid a pigeon dropping.

Can’t you see he isn’t even paying you the least little bit of attention? Lola was starting to get mad.

Ginés gently pushed her away, something that left Lola feeling hurt and deflated. 

How much money do you want for the painting? Ginés repeated now baring his gleaming white teeth.

The artist-beggar looked up, his face serious