‘Like what?’ ‘A hundred.’ ‘This crisis, you know, it’s getting me down,’ said Brito. ‘It’s like every word costs money these days.’ ‘They’re taxing gossip now,’ said the concierge, ‘on advice from the Troika. They know the Spanish can’t live without it.’ ‘You know, if I wasn’t such an arsehole I’d believe you.’ Raul Brito was not like the young journalists at Interviú; he was an old-fashioned newshound. He used his computer only to file his stories and read match reports about his beloved Real Madrid, although he actually preferred to sit in a café with his copy of Marca and join in the endless speculation. ‘So what’s the extra I’m paying for?’ ‘The father stayed at the hotel too. I got copies of both their passports.’ Inside the envelope the concierge had photocopies of Amy and Charles Boxer’s passports, their registration forms, their home addresses and signatures. Brito handed over two fifties, no further questions.
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