HE WALKED THROUGH the corridors in the half-light until he reached the passage leading to the autopsy room. A greenish halo filtered through the cracks in the door. He could hear the voices of the two men. They spoke like old friends, leaving silences that didn’t require explaining and making jokes to ease the job at hand. Standing on his toes to look through the tinted glass circle crowning the door, he studied Vargas’s profile as he sat on one of the marble slabs, and that of the pathologist, leaning over the corpse. He heard the doctor describe in all detail the fruit of his labours. He couldn’t help smiling at the skill with which the pathologist unravelled the details of Lomana’s last moments, without being disgusted by the smoothness of the cut or the precision with which he’d sliced the arteries and the windpipe of that lout, just to see him die on his knees and enjoy the panic in his eyes as the blood gushed through his hands. Among experts, it was only gentlemanly to recognize a job well done.
*
The pathologist also described the knife wounds that had been dealt Lomana on the torso when he grabbed the killer’s legs, trying in vain to avoid being pushed to the edge of the swimming pool. There was no water in his lungs, he explained, only blood. Lomana had drowned in his own blood before sinking into the putrid water. The pathologist was an experienced man, a professional who knew his job and whose teachings inspired respect and admiration. There were not many like him. For that reason alone, the man decided to spare his life.
Vargas, the old fox, dropped questions here and there with remarkable insight – the watcher had to give him that. But it was obvious that he was groping around in the dark and that, apart from the particulars of Lomana’s final agony, he would learn little from his visit to the morgue. While the man outside the door listened to the two inside, he debated whether he should withdraw for a few hours to take a rest or go in search of a prostitute to warm his feet until dawn. It seemed clear that Vargas’s inquiries had reached a standstill, and there would be no need to take further steps in the matter. Those were his orders, after all. Not to make a move unless there was no other choice. Deep down, he was sorry. It would have been interesting to confront the old policeman and see whether he still had the guts to cling on to life. Those who resisted the inevitable were his favourites. And as for the luscious Alicia, he was reserving the final honour for her. With her he would certainly take his time and savour the reward for all his efforts. Alicia was not going to disappoint him.
It was another half-hour before the pathologist concluded his examination and offered Vargas a glass of the liqueur he kept in the instrument cupboard. The conversation diverted towards topics that are de rigueur between old friends whose paths have parted – platitudes on the passing of time, on those fallen along the wayside, and other banalities on the tired subject of ageing. Bored, the listener was about to leave and let Vargas and the pathologist drift away to the back of beyond when he noticed that the policeman was pulling a piece of paper out of his pocket, examining it under the lights hanging from the ceiling. The voices dropped to a murmur, and the man had to press his ear against the door to make out the words.
Dr. Manero noticed that the door to the room was moving slightly. “Braulio, is that you?”
When he didn’t get a reply, the pathologist sighed and shook his head disapprovingly. “When I don’t let him stay, he sometimes hides behind doors to eavesdrop.”
“I don’t know how you put up with him,” said Vargas.
“I tell myself that it’s almost better if he’s here, pissing out, rather than wandering about in the big wide world, pissing in. At least this way we can keep an eye on him. Nice drink, eh?”
“What is it? Embalming liquid?”
“I keep it for when I have to take something along to weddings and first communions in my wife’s family. Aren’t you going to tell me about the case? What was this wretch Lomana doing in the swimming pool of an abandoned house in Vallvidrera?”
Vargas shrugged. “I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll try with the living. What are you doing in Barcelona? If I’m not mistaken, you’d promised never to return.”
“An unbroken promise doesn’t deserve to be called a promise.”
“And what’s this you’ve got here?” asked Manero, pointing to the list of numbers Vargas was holding. “I always thought of you as a man of letters.”
“Who knows? I’ve been carrying it around with me for days, and I don’t know what it means.”
Vargas handed it to the pathologist, who glanced at it while he sipped his liqueur.
“I was thinking that perhaps they were bank account numbers,” said the policeman.
The pathologist shook his head. “I wouldn’t be able to say what the ones in the right-hand column are, but the ones on the left are almost certainly certificates.”
“Certificates?”
“Death certificates.”
Vargas gave him a puzzled look.
Manero pointed to the column on the left. “Do you see the numbering? These numbers follow the old system. The numbering changed years ago, but in these you can still see the number of the document, book and page. These bits are added later, but here we generate these numbers every day. Even your friend Lomana will have one for the rest of eternity.”
Vargas downed his drink in one gulp and examined the list again as if he were looking at a jigsaw puzzle he’d been battling with for years, and it was suddenly starting to make sense. “What about the numbers in the right-hand column? They look as if they’re correlated, but the sequence of the numbering is different. Could they also be certificates?”
Manero looked closer and shrugged. “Looks like it, but they’re not from my department.”
Vargas let out a sigh.
“Does this help you at all?” asked the pathologist.
The policeman nodded. “And where could I find the documents that correspond to these certificate numbers?”
“Where do you think? Where everything begins and ends in this life: in the Civil Registry.”