WHEN ALICIA LEFT the Gran Hotel Palace, the driving rain had stopped and a veil of vapour rose from the pavement. Thick beams of light stabbed the centre of Madrid from the dome of passing clouds, like spotlights combing through a prison courtyard. One of them swept through Plaza de las Cortes and revealed a Ford parked a few yards from the hotel entrance. Leaning against the hood stood a silver-haired man in a black coat, calmly smoking a cigarette and watching people walk by. She guessed he must be in his mid-fifties, but he looked well muscled and in good shape for his age. He had the solid appearance of someone who has made the most of his stint in the armed forces and spends little time at his desk.
As if he’d sniffed her in the air, he turned towards Alicia and smiled like a matinee idol. “Can I help you at all, miss?”
“I hope so. My name is Gris.”
“Gris? You’re Gris?”
“Alicia Gris. Of Leandro Montalvo’s unit. Gris. You must be Vargas.”
The man nodded vaguely. “They didn’t tell me—”
“Last-minute surprises,” she said quickly. “Do you need a few moments to recover?”
The policeman took a final drag of his cigarette and looked at her intently through the curtain of smoke he exhaled. “No.”
“Wonderful. Where do you want to begin?”
“They’re expecting us in the Somosaguas villa. If that’s all right with you.”
Alicia nodded. Vargas threw the cigarette stub onto the street and walked around the car while she installed herself in the passenger seat. He sat at the wheel, his eyes staring straight ahead, the car keys on his lap. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I didn’t think you were so . . . young.”
Alicia gave him an icy look.
“This is not going to be a problem, is it?” asked the policeman.
“A problem?”
“You and me.”
“I see no reason why it should be.”
He looked at her with more curiosity than suspicion. Alicia gave him one of those sweet, catlike smiles that irritated Leandro so much. Vargas chuckled and started the car, mumbling under his breath.
“Nice car,” Alicia remarked after a while.
“Courtesy of police headquarters. Consider it a sign that they’re taking this matter seriously. Do you drive?”
“I can barely open a bank account in this country without permission from a husband or father.”
“I see.”
“Allow me to doubt that.”
They drove on in silence for the next few minutes. Vargas kept looking at Alicia out of the corner of his eye. She pretended not to notice as through this methodical and intermittent observation the policeman X-rayed her by instalments, making the most of red lights and pedestrian crossings. When they came to a halt in the middle of a traffic jam on Gran Via, Vargas pulled out an elegant silver cigarette case, opened it, and handed it to her. Virginia tobacco, imported. She declined. He put a cigarette to his lips and lit it with a gold-plated lighter, which Alicia could have sworn had the Dupont logo on it. Vargas liked beautiful, expensive things. While he lit his cigarette, Alicia noticed him glancing at her hands, clasped over her lap, perhaps searching for a wedding ring. Vargas himself sported a rather large one.
“Family?” asked the policeman.
Alicia shook her head. “You?”
“Married to Spain.”
“Very exemplary. And the ring?”
“Other times.”
“Aren’t you going to ask me what someone like me is doing working for Leandro?”
“Is it any business of mine?”
“No.”
“Well, then.”
As they left the city’s traffic behind them and headed towards Casa de Campo Park, the awkward silence returned. Vargas’s eyes continued to scrutinize her bit by bit. He had a cold, metallic gaze, his grey irises shining like freshly cut diamonds. Alicia wondered whether, before falling out of favour, her enforced partner had been an acolyte or merely a mercenary. The first of these infested every layer of the regime and multiplied like infected warts, safeguarded by flags and proclamations; the second remained silent and merely kept the machinery working. She wondered how many people he’d rubbed out throughout his career in the Force, whether he lived with the guilt or whether he’d already lost count. Perhaps, with his grey hair, his conscience had also grown, and this had ruined his ambitions.
“What are you thinking?” asked Vargas.
“I was wondering whether you like your job.”
Vargas chuckled again.
“Aren’t you going to ask me whether I like mine?”
“Is that any business of mine?”
“I suppose it isn’t.”
“Well, then.”
Realizing that the conversation had no future, Alicia pulled out the dossier supplied by Gil de Partera and started looking through it. At first glance there wasn’t much there. Notes from the police officers. The statement of the minister’s personal secretary. A couple of pages devoted to the supposed frustrated attack against Valls; procedural guidelines from the two inspectors who opened the case; and excerpts from records relating to Vicente Carmona, Valls’s bodyguard. Either Gil de Partera trusted them even less than Leandro had suggested, or the top men in his department had been twiddling their thumbs for the past week.
“Were you expecting more?” asked Vargas, reading her thoughts.
Alicia fixed her attention on the trees of Casa de Campo Park.
“I didn’t expect anything less,” she mumbled. “Who are we going to see?”
“Mariana Sedó, Valls’s personal secretary for the last twenty years. She’s the person who reported the minister’s disappearance.”
“That’s a lot of years for a secretary.”
“According to gossip she’s much more than that.”
“Lover?”
Vargas shook his head. “I think Doña Mariana’s tastes lie more on the other shore. What people say is that she’s the one who steers the ship, and that nothing was done or decided in Valls’s office without her consent.”
“Behind every bad man there’s always a worse woman. People also say that.”
Vargas smiled. “Well, I’d never heard that. I’d been warned that you were somewhat irreverent.”
“What else have you been warned about?”
Vargas turned towards her and winked.
“Who is Hendaya?” asked Alicia.
“Excuse me?”
“Hendaya. Who is he?”
“Rodrigo Hendaya?”
“I suppose.”
“Why do you want to know?”
“One can never know too much.”
“Has Montalvo mentioned Hendaya in connection with this matter?”
“The name came up in the conversation. Who is he?”
Vargas sighed. “Hendaya is a butcher. The less you know about him, the better.”
“Do you know him?”
Vargas ignored her question. They made the rest of the journey without exchanging a single word.