As the last light of a sticky autumn afternoon ebbs towards darkness, Carles Conejero counts his syringes. ‘One, two, three, four, five, six, seven,’ he whispers to himself, tapping a grubby index finger on each as he goes. ‘Good, yes, that’s good.’
We are in a quiet residential street in the west of Barcelona. One side is lined by chic gated properties; the other by rough, unlit shrubland. A few metres away, three tanned, unshaven locals loiter with intent next to a white van. They are all wearing faded T-shirts and denim shorts. One carries a large stick; another an iPad; the third the air of a man who could do with a prop.
Worse than racoons?
