BY THE TIME Fermín left the hospital and went down to the beach, the storm had passed. The wind blew onshore, dragging in waves that broke on the sand barely a few metres from the rim of the shantytown – a vast citadel of huts spreading as far as the eye could see, right up to the walls of the Pueblo Nuevo Cemetery. Even the dead had a better home than that lot of lost souls who scraped together an existence at the edge of the sea, Fermín told himself.
A chorus of suspicious looks greeted him as he walked up an alleyway flanked by hovels. Ragged children, haggard women, and men who looked twice their age watched as he walked by. Soon a quartet of wild-looking youngsters appeared, surrounding him and barring his way.
“Are you lost, payo?”
“I’m looking for Armando,” said Fermín, without a hint of nervousness or fear.
One of them had a scar across his face, running from forehead to cheek. He stepped forward with a menacing grin and looked defiantly into Fermín’s eyes.
Fermín held his gaze. “Armando,” he repeated. “I’m a friend of his.”
The youth sized up his opponent, whom he could have eliminated with a mere slap, and finally he smiled. “Weren’t you the dead one?” he asked.
“I changed my mind at the last minute,” said Fermín.
“On the beach,” said the young man, pointing with his head.
Fermín signalled his gratitude, and the youths stood to one side. Then he continued along the alleyway for about a hundred metres, his presence now ignored by the locals. The path turned towards the sea, and Fermín heard children’s voices and laughter coming from the beach. He walked on and soon became aware of what had drawn the children to the water’s edge.
The storm had pushed in an old cargo ship, which had run aground just a few metres from the shore. Its hull had listed to port, and the keel and propellers peeped over the foam. The waves had knocked most of the cargo overboard. A flock of seagulls fluttered among the floating remains of the wreckage while the crew tried to salvage what it could and the children celebrated the disaster in party spirit. In the distance rose an endless forest of chimneys and factories. Above them clouds slid along the sky, carrying the echo of thunderclaps and the glow of the storm.
“Fermín,” said a deep, calm voice next to him.
He turned to find Armando, prince of gypsies and emperor of the forgotten world of El Somorrostro. He wore an impeccable black suit and carried his patent leather shoes in his hand. He’d rolled up his trouser legs to walk along the damp sand and watch the children play in the surf.
Armando pointed at the scene of the shipwreck. “The misfortune of some is the bonanza of others,” he declared. “What brings you to these parts, dear friend, misfortune or bonanza?”
“Despair.”
“Never a good counsellor.”
“But very convincing.”
Armando smiled and nodded. He lit a cigarette and offered the packet to Fermín, who declined the invitation.
“They tell me you were seen leaving the Hospital del Mar,” said Armando.
“You have eyes everywhere.”
“I suspect that what you need are hands, not eyes. How can I help you?”
“By saving a life.”
“Yours?”
“I already owe you mine, Armando. What brings me here is a life I should have saved many years ago. Destiny placed it in my hands, and I failed.”
“Destiny knows us better than we know ourselves, Fermín. I don’t think you failed anyone. But I sense that haste is required. Give me the details.”
“It can be complicated. And dangerous.”
“If it were easy and safe, I know you wouldn’t insult me by coming to ask for my help. What’s the name?”
“Alicia.”
“A love?”
“A debt.”
*
Hendaya knelt down by the body and removed the blanket. “Is that him?” he asked.
When he didn’t get a reply, he turned around. Linares, behind him, was staring at Vargas’s corpse as if he’d just been slapped in the face.
“Is it, or isn’t it?” Hendaya insisted.
Linares nodded, closing his eyes briefly.
Hendaya covered the face of the dead policeman again and stood up. He walked calmly around the room, casually examining the clothes and objects scattered about. Apart from Linares, two of his men were waiting in patient silence.
“I’m told that before he came back here, Vargas was in the morgue with you,” he said to Linares. “Can you fill me in?”
“Captain Vargas had found a dead body the night before, and he called to inform me about it.”
“Did he say under what circumstances he found the body?”
“During the course of an investigation he was working on. He didn’t discuss the details of the case with me.”
“And you didn’t ask him?”
“I presumed that Vargas would give me the details when the time was right.”
“You had that much trust in him?”
“As much as in myself,” replied Linares.
“Interesting analogy. Nothing like having good friends in headquarters. And tell me, were you able to identify the body?”
Linares hesitated for a moment. “Vargas suspected it was someone called Ricardo Lomana. The name must ring a bell. He was a colleague of yours, I think.”
“Not of mine. But yes, the name sounds familiar. Did you file a report on these events to the relevant department?”
“No.”
“Why was that?”
“I was awaiting confirmation from the pathologist.”
“But you were going to do it.”
“Of course.”
“Of course. Meanwhile, did you tell anyone in the police station about Vargas’s suspicions regarding Lomana’s identity?”
“No.”
“No?” Hendaya insisted. “No assistant?”
“No.”
“Does anyone else, apart from the pathologist and his staff, the judge, and the police officers who came with you, have any knowledge of the removal of the corpse?”
“No. What are you insinuating?”
Hendaya winked at him. “Nothing. I believe you . . . And do you know where Vargas was going when he left the morgue?”
Linares shook his head.
“To the Civil Registry,” said Hendaya.
Linares frowned.
“You didn’t know?”
“No,” Linares answered. “Why should I know?”
“Didn’t Vargas mention it to you?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? Didn’t Vargas call you from the registry to ask you something?”
Hendaya was smiling, enjoying the game. Linares held his gaze.
“No.”
“Does the name Rovira ring a bell?”
“It’s quite a common surname.”
“Is it in the police station?”
“I think there’s someone there with that name. He works in the archives and is about to retire.”
“Has anyone asked you about him recently?”
Linares shook his head again. “Can you please tell me what we’re talking about?”
“About a crime, my friend. A crime that was committed against one of ours, one of the best. Who could have done something like this?”
“A professional, obviously.”
“Are you sure? To me it looks more like the work of a petty thief.”
“A petty thief?”
Hendaya nodded confidently. “This neighbourhood isn’t trustworthy, and God knows these Catalans are capable of stealing their mothers’ drawers on their deathbed while they’re still warm. It’s in their blood.”
“No third-rate petty thief would have had a chance against Vargas,” Linares argued. “You know that as well as I do. This wasn’t done by an amateur.”
Hendaya gave him a long, calm look. “Come on, Linares. There are professional petty thieves. Hard men, with no scruples. You know that. And your friend Vargas, let’s face it, wasn’t in very good shape. The years don’t lie.”
“The investigation will have to determine that.”
“Unfortunately there won’t be one.”
“Just because you say so,” snapped Linares.
Hendaya smiled with satisfaction. “No, not because I say so. I’m nobody. But if you know what’s good for you, you won’t expect anyone else to tell you.”
Linares bit his tongue, then said, “I’m not going to accept that. Not from you, nor from anyone else.”
“You’ve had a good run, Linares. Let’s not fool ourselves. You haven’t got where you have by playing the hero. Heroes don’t make it to the end. Don’t do anything silly now, two minutes away from a golden retirement. Times are changing. And you know I’m saying this for your own good.”
Linares shot him a look of contempt. “What I know is that you’re a son of a bitch, and I couldn’t give a shit who you’re working for. This isn’t going to stop here. Call whoever you need to call.”
Hendaya shrugged, and Linares turned around and headed for the exit.
Hendaya caught the eye of one of his men and nodded. The policeman set off behind Linares. The other one came over, and Hendaya gave him a questioning look. “Any signs of that whore?”
“There was only one body in the workshop. Not a sign of her. We’ve been through the apartment on the other side of this street. Nothing. None of the neighbours have seen her, and the caretaker assures me that the last time she saw her was yesterday, when she was going out.”
“Is she telling the truth?”
“I think so, but if you like, we can soften her up a bit.”
“That won’t be necessary. Comb the hospitals and first-aid clinics. If she’s in one of them, she will have given a false name. She can’t be very far.”
“What if they call from Madrid?”
“Not a word until we find her. Let’s make as little noise as possible.”
“Yes, sir.”