CHAPTER 29

Following the raid at number 5, Calle del Alamillo, Inspector Manchego began to harbor the uncomfortable suspicion that his accomplice, the locksmith, had pulled the wool right over his eyes. After his quick search that night, another one was arranged in which several officers from the theft department participated, and they confirmed that the flat contained no fingerprints apart from Craftsman’s, Señora Susana’s, and those belonging to Manchego himself. Not a trace of Lucas.

What’s more, the inspector had spent a few days trying to get hold of his accomplice on his cell phone, and the only answer he got was from a robot assuring him that the number he had dialed was not in service.

The pieces of the puzzle had fallen into place of their own accord. Everything fitted.

First: The supposed locksmith didn’t have a clue how to open a door silently, which indicated that, in all probability, he wasn’t a bloody locksmith.

Second: The circumstances in which they had met, casually, in the street, one drunken night, and that scrap of paper with his name and phone number but no other details to link him to an address or a real identity made Manchego think he wasn’t even called Lucas, nor would he have any way to find him once he destroyed the SIM card, which he had probably already done.

Third: The guy was clever. He had got Manchego properly tied up, because now he couldn’t investigate the case without dropping himself in it for searching without a warrant and using a standard-issue weapon off duty, as well as making himself look absolutely ridiculous.

When he reached this conclusion, Manchego decided to launch a second line of inquiry, one that would be secret, personal, and probably related to the Craftsman case but would never appear in the file. The issue, which the inspector dubbed Dossier X, would consist of unraveling Lucas’s true identity and discovering what connected him with number 5, Calle del Alamillo. For the moment he wouldn’t say anything to Marlow Craftsman about this line of investigation because it was entirely possible that Lucas was involved in something unconnected with the Craftsman case—for example, that the flat, which had been empty for months, was being used as a base to store or deal drugs.

Since he couldn’t think of any other way to get new information that would put him on the scent, he decided to arrange a second meeting with Berta Quiñones, the editor of Librarte, because she was apparently the only element that linked Mr. Craftsman and the Calle del Alamillo flat.

In their first meeting, she had struck him as smarter than she let on. She knew when to keep quiet and spoke with carefully measured words. Such that, at one point during their conversation, the inspector had even suspected that she might have been hiding something.

“So, you have no idea where Míster Crasman might be?” he had asked her, his eyes firmly fixed on hers.

Those eyes, as dark as the bottom of a well, like the eyes of a nocturnal bird, and clearly shortsighted, had seemed strangely familiar. They had stuck in his prodigious photographic memory—about which he liked to brag to his friends, “I never forget a face”—and had been saved on the hard disk of his shrewd detective’s brain, where his subconscious had decided to store every face he saw on the off chance he needed it to solve a future case.

•  •  •

On this occasion, Berta was alone when she greeted him at her small office on Calle Mayor at eight in the evening.

“I told the girls to go home,” she explained as she served him tea in a porcelain cup. “They’re already worked up enough, what with Mr. Craftsman’s disappearance and all the questioning. I hope you’ll forgive me, Inspector, for saying that your methods are a bit heavy-handed. You’ve got us all worried, thinking that we’re on your list of suspects.”

“For the moment there is no such list, Ms. Quiñones.”

“Please, call me Berta.”

“Berta.”

“I assume you’ve come to tell me about the break-in at Señora Susana’s flat?”

“You already know?”

“Of course, Inspector.”

“Call me Manchego.”

“Manchego.”

They took a sip of the Earl Grey that Atticus Craftsman had left behind in the office kitchen. It was hot, and strong. It proved very comforting for a cold November night.

“Forgive me for saying so, Manchego, but it seems a very odd coincidence that you happened to be passing by at the exact time of the break-in.”

“I see.”

“The thing is, I don’t much believe in coincidences, you know?” Berta went on. “I’ve always been one of those people who think things happen for a reason. A few years ago I read a book that said just that. For example, it’s no coincidence that you’ve been put on this case, or that we’ve met, or that we’re here drinking tea right now.”

“Oh, really?”

“According to the book, no. Our meeting,” Berta explained, “is part of a universal plan. It’s necessary for both of us that this should be happening. Do you understand? Perhaps I’ve got an important role to play in your destiny, or you in mine.”

Manchego placed his cup back on the saucer and looked up. His eyes met Berta’s for a moment. Once again they seemed familiar. Like a long-forgotten dream. Like a lost memory.

“The thing is,” said the inspector, “you remind me of someone.”

“What nonsense!” Berta replied, blushing. “What’s happened is you’ve been influenced by my words. It’s like Merton’s self-fulfilling prophecy. Do you know what I mean?”

“Um, no.”

For the next few minutes, Berta gave a detailed breakdown of Robert K. Merton’s work, and Manchego listened carefully without interrupting, simply so that he could take a couple of sips of tea. He didn’t make much of an effort to understand the theory that Berta was so passionately describing, but he did take in a few words and ideas that seemed intriguing.

“It’s an interesting theory,” the inspector said finally. “And you’re a very knowledgeable woman, Berta.”

“Don’t kid yourself,” she replied, flattered. “I’m just a country girl. I come from a small town in the Cameros hills.”

“Me too!” said Manchego in surprise, opening his eyes as wide as dinner plates.

“Ortigosa,” she said.

“Nieva!” he replied.

All of a sudden, the case had taken a 180-degree turn. Berta and Manchego stood and each saw their surprise reflected in the other. They were about to hug and jump for joy, but they held back. In the end they simply laughed like two teenagers as they looked each other up and down, trying to see through the image they had in front of them—she, a plumpish mature woman; he, a big stocky man prone to a belly—to a corresponding image from their shared youth. The only thing they could rescue from that time was the same glimmer in the eyes and the same curve of a smile.

“I was sure I knew you from somewhere,” the inspector almost shouted, addressing Berta with the informal tú for the first time without realizing it. “You’re the girl from the balcony. Across from the telegraph office. With glasses and braids. I went around looking for you for months.”

“Looking for me?”

“Yes. That’s why your name seemed familiar: Berta Quiñones, I’d almost forgotten it. The theft from the post office in your village was my first case. I’d just graduated from the police academy and they put me on the case because I was from the area. It turned out that you were the most likely witness to the robbery. You were always watching the house.”

“A lot of water has passed under the bridge since then,” said Berta.

“I never found you,” the inspector went on. “But in the end the case solved itself. With the help of the man who ran the post office, who was, of course, the father of the girl who ran away with her boyfriend and the money—I don’t know if you heard about that.”

“I did hear something, yes,” Berta replied. “But it was five years after I’d left home. I was living in Madrid. Studying philology. In the end I wouldn’t have been much help.”

The tea was getting cold. Manchego lifted the cup to his lips once more, out of habit and to clear his throat, but now the brew was bitter and disappointing. He screwed up his nose and forced himself to swallow. He coughed.

“Berta . . .” And she was surprised when she heard him say, “What would you say if I invited you to dinner?”