13. ANOTHER BLOODY MONDAY

A bright, merciless day. Another scorcher. The temperature is already pushing twenty degrees and is set to rise even higher. Pepito is awake. He lies tangled beneath the sheets, face down, the sweat already trickling through his pores, waiting. Waiting for the crunch of the key in the lock and Gloria's soft shuffling footsteps as she enters the shop. He has to be honest with himself, he can't take this much longer. Not at this pace. Not when his mind is still reeling from the night before. Clogged with thoughts of Rosa, the manner of her death, the blow to the back of her head, the drowning, the bleach, her pregnancy and then there was the tramp. He sits up slowly and rubs his face with slick palms, dragging the skin downwards. Unwinding the sheet from his legs, he stands up, stretches, moves towards the door with short, hesitant steps. He opens it and peers into the hallway, his ears straining to catch any sound of movement from the shop below but Gloria hasn't arrived, yet. He hurries towards the bathroom and locks the door behind him. He turns on the shower and removes his underpants, stumbling heavily against the sink as his foot gets caught in the cloth. Then he steps into the shower, closes his eyes and lifts his face beneath the cold pounding jets.

Mariquita stands with her back to the room gazing through the window to the empty floor in front. She lifts the cigarette to her lips with trembling fingers and inhales. It's almost 9.30am and she's been waiting here for the police to arrive for the last half hour. It was her idea, this meeting in the club. Of all the places she could have chosen, this was the place she felt most at home. Even if it sickened her at times - and we know that it did - it was still her own. Her own hard work. Her own spit and sweat. Over twenty years of grinding and shaking and scrimping and saving, denying herself even the simplest of pleasures, so that one day she could own a place like this. And that was just the beginning. Once she'd caught the smell of money and all that it provides, there was nothing that would stop her. Like a drug she needed more. More money, more clubs, and ultimately more control. Control of everything from the charges on the bar tabs to the lighting on the walls. She was in charge, no-one could tell her what to do and she thought she had it all. Except, her son. The only love in her whole damn life and she'd had to let it go. She'd had to swallow her instincts and bury her doubts when she gave him up for adoption. And the hardest thing she ever had to do was to erase his image from her aching heart. Completely wipe him out of her conscience. It was the only way. The only way she could stop herself from running after those cradling hands and wrenching him free, folding him up inside herself and never letting him go. And after all that, he came back to her. After all those years, with her tits exposed and her eyes shut tight so she couldn't see, he'd come back to her. He'd found her out and tracked her down. Traced her to this very club and if he disapproved of her chosen path, he never showed it. Never reproached her life with a misplaced word. Never questioned her choices or judged her motives. Never doubted her heart when she told him she loved him. Had always loved him. And how she loved him. After all those years, could she ever stop? Could she ever take back the time that was lost? Did it really matter when all was said and done? He'd come back to her, he'd found her out and just as she'd given him a second chance, all those years ago, with another family it was his turn now with that second chance. Her second chance to be a mother. And for that alone, she was eternally grateful.
She glances at her watch and stubs the cigarette into the ashtray with only a hint of impatience before leaving the office. She moves downstairs, silently. Twisting around the tables with her bare feet padding across the polished floor and slips up to the imposing front door where she stands, craning her neck to the peep hole on the manicured points of her toes.

Gloria is a woman who cannot be denied although, to be fair to Pepito, he did try. He's trying not to notice now as she enters the shop with the sun on her back and a fine, translucent layer of sweat coating her top lip. Brushing past him she shrugs her cardigan from her shoulders and hangs it on the usual hook behind the counter. Recoiling almost to avoid the moment of impact as her arm brushes against his back, no more than a fleeting movement but a shudder runs through him, an involuntary spasm, at the moment they touch. Not that she disgusts him, not entirely. Let's just say that her presence unnerves him. And he can't say why exactly but it always has, from the second she stepped over the threshold, over twelve years ago and impressed him mother with her recently bereaved state.
She grabs her apron from a hook above the shelf, slips through the sleeves and sets to work. It's just another bloody Monday, as futile as all the rest. Except. Except for one small exception that's pressing on her mind. Pressing so hard that she can hardly guide the duster without it slipping from her hand. It flutters to the floor like a large ragged bat and as she stoops to retrieve it, she nudges Pepito with her shoulder. Was it an accident? She can't really tell. Perhaps, on some unconscious level, she is reaching out to warn him of her ardent suitor. Her paper-lipped man. Impatiently, she swipes the greying dots of debris from the shelves, gripping the duster tighter and working her arm faster. Faster and faster, the dust motes are dancing, doing pirouettes in the air as she works herself into an oily sweat. Works herself up to tell him that it was all an act, an innocent bit of fun. To open her mouth and spit out her heart and hope that it lands safely in his hands.

Mariquita sits casually on the edge of the sofa in her office, her fingers knitted together in her lap and legs - crossed at the ankles - tucked in neatly behind her. She waits for the policeman to finish his preliminary round of questioning before posing her own.
"And Carlos - how long will you be holding him?"
"Can't say really, at the moment we have no real grounds to charge him but there are a few more questions we'd like clearing up before we release him."
"So you're not going to arrest him then?"
"Not yet."
"What do you mean by that?"
"I assume your son won't do anything hasty when we do release him?"
"I guarantee it."
"You seem pretty sure of his innocence, don't you?"
She smiles secretly to herself. "I am his mother after all."
"And yet, you can't account for his whereabouts last Wednesday .."
"He was working a the club .."
"But you didn't actually see him and neither did the rest of the staff working that night until after midnight ... is that correct?"
"Well, actually," she clears her throat and pulls a strand of hair from her face, "I didn't see him at all that night, it was my night off, I left sometime after six and went straight home .. it wasn't until the next day I saw him." She swallows hard.
"Where?"
"He came round to the house, he told me Rosa hadn't come home that night and he was worried."
"Why didn't you call the police?"
"He wanted to right there and then but I told him to wait."
"Why was that?"
"It was only one night, she could have stayed over with friends ..."
"Did she ever do that before - stay out overnight?"
"I don't know .. I wasn't intimate with their private life."
"You're not that intimate with their private life. Then tell me something else ... when was the last time you saw her?"
"Tuesday, yes .. I remember it was Tuesday because we always order the liquor for the week on Tuesdays." The policeman nods his head, scrawling something into his notebook. "Well, she came by the club ..."
"What time?"
"A little after four."
"Was she working that night?" He lifts his pencil and scratches behind his ear.
"No, it was her night off but she came by to pick up her wages."
"You usually pay your girls on a Tuesday in the middle of the month?"
"Not usually no," her spine stiffens a fraction, "but like you said .. she was my son's fiance and she needed some money."
"So you gave her an advance on her wages?"
"Something like that ..."
"Something like that." He lifts his pencil and holds it poised above the page.
"You know what the money was for?"
She shrugs. "That's hard to say. Shoes?"

Pepito checks the stock in the back room, his finger running down the list he holds aloft and his eyes flicking over the boxes stacked on the floor. Reluctantly, he marks off their supplies with an impatient tick and draws a heavy line under those that are running low. He doesn't hear Gloria step up behind him, so close she can smell the soap he'd used to wash himself that morning. So near that if she were to stretch forwards, just a little, she could taste his skin with the tip of her tongue. She hangs back, swaying slightly on the balls of her feet and clears her throat with a grating rasp. Pepito jumps, startled at the sound.
"We're out of loose tobacco, " she says, lifting her tone like an apology.
"I know Gloria, thank you." He turns around and glances quickly at the list, his eyes nervously flicking over the neatly typed columns although he doesn't read a word of it.
"Thank you Gloria," he says again and lifts his head with his eyebrows knotted across his brow and his eyes roaming aimlessly over the stacks of cardboard boxes. But she doesn't move. She doesn't speak. Just stands there, her mouth opening a fraction as if she is about to speak and he can feel her eyes melt into his back. So he turns to face her and moves towards her and tries to pass but Gloria blocks his exit. She shifts towards the doorway with a lurching step and tries again. She moves her lips and tries to speak but the words stick, jammed in her mouth, refusing to move and she can only stand there, foolishly, her mouth opening and closing, like a land borne fish.
"Is there something else?" He asks and she wants to tell him, she really does but the moment is fragile. Too fragile to touch.

"At what point did you become worried about your son's fiance?"
She rises and walks to the window, turns, walks back to the desk and pulls out a cigarette from her purse. She lights it, drawing heavily on the filter, her lips pursed and her cheeks hollow. Turning, she walks back towards the window, her gaze spilling out absently over the stage in front.
"I heard it on the radio, Sunday morning ... I knew it was her .. the rose, it was the rose I recognized."
"So that was the first time that you thought there was something ..." the policeman stops, tapping the end of the pencil on the side of his chin, "that was when you knew she wasn't out shopping for shoes."
She flicks her eyes towards him, walks back towards the desk and grinds the end of her cigarette in the ashtray.
"So let's just see if I've got this straight .. your son's fiance .." he draws the syllables out, exaggerating each one, "was missing for three days before you thought of calling the police, in fact .. you still didn't call the police then did you? Someone else called us and if I remember correctly you called your son ... Carlos ... while he was being taken into the station for questioning."
She observes him carefully, her hands placed in front of her, flat on the desk. "I wasn't aware that I'd committed any crime by failing to call you."
"Technically, no but you must understand my - how shall I put it - curiosity."
She could give him that but only just. With a stiffening lilt in her step she moves out from behind her desk and crosses the room.
"You know that we received a phone call that led us to Carlos?"
She stops in her tracks, unwilling or unable to continue and turns back slowly to seat herself on the edge of the sofa. She draws in her legs so that they rest, clasped between her arms on the balls of her feet.
"Told us some very interesting things ... things you may know something about .." He waits for her reply but she sits, rigidly, on the edge of the sofa, waiting for him to continue. "I must say your son looked surprised when we told him she was pregnant ... seems she was planning to leave him too. Did you know she was planning to leave him?"
She shakes her head, her eyes falling to the floor.
"Did you know that she was pregnant?"
She shakes her head again and rises from the chair walking quickly towards the desk. "I must say myself ... Inspector .." drawing the syllables out exaggeratedly between her teeth. "Where is all this leading?"
"Just trying to build a picture is all .. put everything in its place."
She snorts derisively beneath her breath and reaches towards her purse for another cigarette.
"So you arrived home on the night she disappeared at what time?"
"A little after eight."
"Take two hours to drive home?"
"I usually make a detour .. drive through parts of the city before I head home."
"Any particular parts?"
She shakes her head.
"Any reason?"
She shakes her head again.
"So you arrived after eight .."
"That's right."
"Anyone see you?"
"Not that I know of .. no."
"Did you stay there all night?"
"Yes?"
"What did you do?"
"Had a shower, had something to eat, watched TV and went to bed."
"What did you eat?"
"I can't remember, I wasn't very hungry .. it was so hot, something light, I suppose .. something light and cold ... gazpacho, yes I think it was gazpacho ..."

"Señor Pons ..." she always calls him that, "Señor Pons ..." as though his first name is too intimate, "Señor Pons ..."
He hears her and turns his head slowly in her direction, resting his gaze loosely on her face.
"Señor Pons," she begins again, "I wondered .. well, I was thinking really .. perhaps we should organize everything alphabetically, I mean .. it would make it easier to find things, what do you think?"
What did he think. What. Did. He. Think. He rolls the words around his head, stretching their relevance, testing their worth. What did he think? He thinks Carlos is innocent but he doesn't know why. He thinks Rosa was murdered by someone she knew and he doesn't know who. And Mariquita? What did he really know about her? What did he know of any woman really, his experience had been so limited. Limited to only one relationship his whole life, over thirty years ago, to a shy, skinny woman whom he'd loved, or thought he had until his mother told him otherwise. It was then that he'd stopped thinking about that kind of life. What it would mean to have a girlfriend, a lover, or a wife. What did it matter anyway. He had his sources of pleasure, prostitutes mainly and one in particular. It was easier that way - no promises, no regrets, no messy loose ends. Just a simple passing of notes, just the way he likes it.

"When will you release Carlos?" The question has been bubbling up inside her since the policeman first stepped into the club and now it rises, surging up her throat, crashing over her tongue and she is powerless to stop it.
"Soon." The policeman answers, his head dipping downwards and his hand scrawling notes furiously into his notebook. "You'll know when the time comes." He lifts his head and takes a look around the room with his pen still poised on the page. "Nice place you have here," he eventually says, his head bobbing on his neck in silent affirmation. "Mind if I look around?"
She shrugs, her shoulders rising and falling with a lazy resignation.
"Not bad, not bad at all," he says as he pokes around the room, his pen prodding objects that catch his attention. "And you own this place too." It's more of a statement than a question and it slips from his lips with barely disguised wonder. "Must have have set you back a bit, I mean ... all this .." He opens his arms and sweeps the place with an all encompassing gesture.
"I worked for it." Her voice rises, shaking slightly as she bites her lip, stifling her rage.
"I bet you did." He stares at her for a moment before slipping his pen into the spirall of his notebook. "I think we've covered everything, for now ..." he twists his head slowly around the room one last time, as though checking the place for something he missed the first time. "But I'll be in touch if anything else comes up."
She rises as he turns to leave. Follows him downstairs, on the balls of her feet, across the floor and up to the door which she closes behind him with a resounding thud. Drawing the bolt, she turns around and leans against the sturdy frame, closing her eyes; her breathing deep and reckless. She knew his game, with a certainty that bursts from her heart and crashes through her veins, she knew what he was up to. He was trying to sniff her out. Trying to get her to trip up, say something she'd rather not but she was far too clever for that. Clever enough to keep her mouth shut.

Pepito stands by the opened door and waits for Gloria to depart. He's decided to close up early on account of the heat, at least, that's what he told Gloria but she seems reluctant to believe him. Reluctant to leave. Shuffling around the shop, her mouth flapping as she moves, he stands with one hand on the door and the other ready to draw the bolt. But she lingers. Crossing to the counter she pulls out the ledger, once more and opens it.
"Here," she says, "I've already started a list of the brands we sell the most, we could stack those at the front so they're easier to reach .. I think that it makes more sense that we stack them by demand, don't you? I mean these cigarettes don't sell half as much so we could push them to the back ..."
She's stalling and she knows it, trying desperately to prolong the moment, grasp whatever time she has before she tells him. Tells him that there is another man who wants her but she really isn't sure if she wants him, it all depends. It all depends on Pepito and her mouth is flapping but the words won't come, there are other words in their place. Empty words, foolish words, words that are wittering on about tobacco and she is powerless to stop them. Powerless to confess her love for him. Powerless to confess her mistake. And even though Pepito nods his head, he's not really listening. His mind is reaching outwards, beyond her gaping mouth, beyond the back room jammed with boxes, beyond the shop. He's thinking about his own list. About Mariquita, Rosa, Carlos, all of them. His thoughts spinning around the case in hand. He has a burning urge to speak to Carlos but now that the police are holding him, he doesn't have a chance. He'll have to wait but he's used to that. He scrolls downwards on his imaginary list to the phone call that led the police to Carlos. Again, he has to wait. He has to wait for Raphael to get back to him because he needs to know who placed that call and more importantly - why? What do they know that he doesn't? It was a vital piece in the whole damn puzzle and it could crack the case wide open but once again, he has to wait.
"What do you think then?" There's that question again, hanging temptingly before him. If he reaches forwards quickly he could snatch it from the air, crush it in the palm of his hand and throw it out the door with Gloria following close behind. But he doesn't. He doesn't dare. He hangs his head and moves his left foot slowly over the tiles, picking out a random pattern with his toe. Then he lifts his head, just a fraction, just enough to catch a glimpse of her shoe turned expectantly towards him.
"I think that's just fine Goria," is all he eventually says.

12. DATE WITH A DOG

Just two words. Four potent syllables. Detective Pons. That's what the pathologist had called him and you can call it fake or you can call it fate but Pepito feels his chest swell as he steps out of the hospital. He slips around to the side entrance and straddles his bike. Stuffs his fattened head into his helmet and checks his watch. 1.15am. It's late but is minding is racing onwards, cogs firing and neurons sparking as he kicks off from the ground and pulls out of the car park. Not a breath stirs the air or even ruffles the back of his shirt as he guides the Vespa through the silent streets and out to La Mina. He has to see it, there is no other way. He has to see the place where her body was found. And if he's lucky, he might just stumble on the tramp and his dog who found it.

Pulling the bike up behind him, he scans the street with a twist of his head and struggles to pull off his helmet. There's no-one around and he's nervous. Strangely exposed beneath the winking lights from the tower blocks as he makes his way on stumbling feet across the street. No-one to see as he trips through the dust to the building sight. Except a cat, which raises its head with a lazy grace to watch the middle-aged man with a gun at his hip, pick his precarious way through the rubble. There's no-one. And he's nervous. Never done this before so when he reaches the building, he pulls out his gun as he steps inside and pokes through the dark to the back. Luckily, the police have taped the spot so he has no trouble finding it. Ducking under the tape, he bends down to the hole where her body was dumped and peers inside. He reaches forwards, touches the sides with the tip of his gun, then climbs down with his right foot first and stands with his torso exposed.
Drowned, drowned ... a blow to the back of the head ... but it wouldn't have killed her, she drowned ... that was what killed her ... SHE DROWNED.
The words float around his head as he slips the gun in his holster and runs his hands around the empty space. Cautiously, his fingers skipping over the jutting concrete, broken tiles and tangled bits of metal. Searching. Searching for something. Anything really, that can give him a clue, a reason, or a lead. But there is nothing. Only a hole in the ground and a middle-aged man with mud on his hands, desperately groping in the dark. He straightens his back and wipes his forehead, smearing the sweat and dirt together across his brow. A noise, like a distant shuffle of feet distracts him and he struggles out of the hole with his arms pushing on either side and his feet kicking up off the ground. He struggles to stand, brushing the dirt from his buckling knees as the shuffling grows louder. Louder and closer with each panicked breath, his head swiveling round right and left as he flattens his back against the wall. But there's only one point of entry into this dingy room, the one he came through, the one in front of him and the one which heralds the shuffle of feet. He pulls out his gun, again. Raises it up, arms held out and points it at the doorway. He holds his breath. A tremor runs down the length of his spine so he braces himself with his feet spread out and calls into the darkness.
"Who's there?" No answer.
"I said who's there?" The shuffling is almost upon him.
A dog barks, echoing off the walls and bounds into the room. It stops when it sees Pepito and whimpers softly beneath its breath, paws scraping on the broken floor. Pepito lowers his gun. He lowers his gun and walks over to the dog and bending down on cracking joints, he scratches beneath its chin.

"You found the body?" he asks the tramp.
"My dog did."
"Your dog found the body?"
"Yep."
"Did you see the body?"
The tramp scratches his nose with the lengthened point of a grimy nail. Slowly, methodically with languorous strokes, he considers his answer.
"I already told the police .. I didn't see nothing."
"But you saw the body."
He considers again.
"Maybe."
"Maybe yes or maybe no?"
"Maybe yes."
"So you saw the body?"
The tramp nods, his eyes flicking up slyly between the dips of his head.
"I already told the police."
"Yeah and now you're telling me, so let's just run through it all again."
Pepito pulls out his wallet and opens it a crack. He peers inside, shielding the contents from the tramp who is craning his neck to get a peak himself.
"Notice anything unusual?" He peels out a twenty and holds it between finger and thumb.
"I saw that tattoo she had on her arm."
"The rose?"
"Yeah, the rose." His eyes are fixed on the twenty in Pepito's hand.
"How long you been staying here?"
"A few nights."
"Notice anything unusual on any of those nights?"
The tramp shakes his head, his eyes glued to the twenty.
"You sure about that?"
He dips his head then stops, flicks his neck to the side and scratches his chin.
"Maybe I seen something else .." he waits, cautiously watching the twenty still gripped between Pepito's fingers. Pepito nods his head and hands the note to the tramp.
"Yeah, that's right, it's all coming back to me now ... I seen a car, a couple of nights before pull up outside, over there ..." He points, the grimy tip of his nail stretching out towards the building site. "Yeah, it pulled up and I though it was funny 'cause it was out of place."
"Out of place?"
"Yeah, fancy .."
"Fancy?"
"Yeah, you know ... a nice fancy car, no roof."
"Did you see who was inside?"
"No, I didn't get too close and my eyes were kind of blurry."
"The car just stopped outside?"
The tramp nods his head.
"Did anybody get out?"
He shakes his head, crumpling the twenty in his fist and pushing it into the lining of his coat.
"Did you tell the police any of this?"
"About the car?" The tramp smiles, a lurid slit of blackened teeth.
"Nah ... I forgot to tell them."

A fancy car, not much of a lead but at least it was something. And there was something else. He digs his hand into his pocket and pulls out a handkerchief which he runs over his face in sweeping circles.
"She knew her attacker .." he speaks the words out loud, unconsciously spilling from his mouth, he repeats them, "she knew her attacker .." It is the only feasible conclusion he can make and what's more - the doctor was right. Her body was never meant to be found, at least, not yet. This was no random attack, no frenzied blow from the wrath of a stranger. This was well thought out. Her body was brought here on purpose, dragged through the debris and dumped beneath the floor. Out of mind and out of sight. At least, that's what her killer had thought. Placing one foot in front of the other, his toes scuffing over the dusty stretch of concrete, Pepito makes his way back to his bike. He stops when he reaches the street and turns to look back at the building. And then he recalls something else the doctor had said. She was pregnant. Had her killer known? Was that the reason? What kind of monster could take the life of a pregnant woman? Strike when she was at her most vulnerable. Pepito shakes his head and moves slowly, with sluggish steps towards the bike. Did Carlos know? Did he know she was carrying his baby? Was that what she had wanted to talk about the last morning he saw her? Of course, it was possible that he knew nothing about the baby. Possible that she hadn't told him because she didn't get the chance and while his mind is filling with possibilities it suddenly strikes Pepito that perhaps Carlos is not the father after all. It was possible. Anything was possible. Especially for Pepito. What did he know about her really? What did Carlos know about her, really? With each new piece of information he uncovers it seems as though he is being pushed further from the truth. Further from the girl in the photo. Further into something that is leading him into deeper waters and taking him out of his depth.

11. POST MORTEM

He's standing on the beach in Castelldefels, facing the water. His hands are bound behind him and his legs buried up to the knees in the course, grainy sand. If he looks to his left he can see bodies stretched out on the sand, basking in the bright mid-day sun. If he looks to his right he can see her, arm cupped over her breasts and the other stretched out towards him. She beckons him forwards, her lips moving but no words reach his ears. He tries to move his legs but with every movement they sink deeper into the sand. He tries to pull his hands free but the binding is too tight. And then he wakes. Suddenly. He sits up in bed. Scrunching his hands into clumsy fists, he rubs his eyes and shakes his head. It's all coming back. Falling deftly into its proper place, Rosa. Carlos. Mariquita. Pitchi. Four names, a body and a date with a pathologist that just won't wait. He rises, pulling his body sluggishly from the bed. There's a note on the bedside table, scrawled in lipstick. He picks it up and reads, sweet dreams Pepito. He shakes his head and crumples the note into his pocket then he moves methodically through the room like a man with a purpose. His main purpose now is to lay his hands on Pitchi. He pulls on his shoes and tightens his belt. He checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror and smooths down his hair with the spit on his hand. Gun in place and wallet intact he moves quickly down the stairs and out into the night before the clock above the church strikes midnight.

He pulls the bike up onto the kerb outside Pitchi's place and climbs the stairs to his flat. He knows this is breaking the rules of their arrangement, as defined by Pepito himself, but he doesn't really care. In fact, if pressed on the point, he'd have to admit that he doesn't really know why he's here except, it feels right and when something feels right, he follows it through to the bitter end. So he knocks on the door with the back of his knuckles and stands back. Pitchi takes his time, he can hear him stumbling through the flat, tripping over boxes and cursing under his breath.
"It's me Pitchi, open up." Eventually, Pitchi opens the door and peers out a Pepito.
"Hey," he says, "would you look at that, I'm just on my way out ..."
"Anywhere special?" But Pepito doesn't have to ask twice. He's already sussed it out. From the furtive sweep of Pitchi's good eye to the small package clutched in his hand, Pepito knows what's nestled inside and certainly, he knows where it's going.

Call it blind chance or perfect timing, Pepito finds himself pulling up outside the spacious entrance to the Hospital Clinic with Pitchi clinging to his back. This was where they'd taken her. Or rather, this was where her body lay, stretched out, cold and lifeless, oblivious to the systematic prods and scrapes of the pathologists craft, impervious to their findings. Which is just as well, really. Pitchi's contact is waiting inside, waiting for Pitchi to come around by the side entrance at a prearranged time and hand over the package. They slide from the bike and Pepito wheels it around to the side of the building, just in case. Just in case he needs to make a quick exit. It was one thing when he was dealing with criminals but quite another when it came to those who had nothing to hide. Except perhaps the cocaine but he is willing to turn a blind eye to that. Besides, hospitals unnerve him. Cold, clinical places you're lucky if you come out alive. They wait by the side entrance. Two, three, maybe four minutes and then a door swings open on rusted hinges and a man in a lab coat pokes his head outside. He takes a quick look around and then stretches his hand out to Pitchi who places the package in the upturned palm. He fingers the brown wrapping and runs his nose over the package, lifts his head up and smiles.
"Who's this?" He turns towards Pepito, regarding him with a suspicious air.
"Pons," says Pepito stretching out his hand, "Detective Pons."
Ignoring Pepito's hand, he flicks his eyes over to Pitchi.
"It's okay," Pitchi stumbles, taking his cue with his words tripping nervously over his tongue. "He just wants a word with the pathologist, something to do with the case he's working on an' the woman .. you know .. the woman that was found this morning." But the man in the lab coat has stopped listening and his eyes have flicked back over to Pepito and are wandering all over him. Taking in everything from the clothes on his back to the bristles on his unshaven chin.
"A private detective?" he asks with a smirk on his lips.
Shifting his weight to the other foot, Pepito looks around him nodding his head.
"Something like that." He eventually says.

They're shown inside to a brightly lit room in the basement and told to wait. Pitchi props himself against the wall, his good eye flitting over the white walls, the tiled floor and the pristine surfaces
with a giddy nervousness. The whole place reeks of disinfectant but beneath this lays a more pungent odour that cuts through the air like a Swiss army knife. Pepito sniffs and steps forwards, his nose wrinkling despite himself as he moves towards a large metal table in the middle of the room. He moves closer with faltering, hesitant steps but still his feet carry him onwards, skirting around the table until he stands at the other side of the room, across from Pitchi. He knows that it is Rosa's body that lays stretched out on top, cut and sliced beneath the surgical sheet. He can see the lumps of head, knees and feet, stares at them as though the force of his own mind will make them twitch.
"Ever seen a corpse before?" The voice startles him. He raises his head with a jolt and watches the short, lean man in his fifties step efficiently across the room towards him with his hand stretched out in front. But he doesn't have a chance to answer.
"You the private detective?" he asks as he grasps Pepito's hand and pumps it up and down with mechanical precision. Pepito nods, his lips pressed tightly together.
"Doctor Valdès," he says, dropping Pepito's hand and striding over to a desk in the corner. "The police have already taken my report but this is the gist of it." He picks up a sheet of paper and hands it to Pepito. Then he turns and looks at Pitchi, still slumped against the wall, as if he is examining a slide under a microscope.
"And you must be?"
"He must be leaving." Pepito interjects. Pitchi nods, glad to be let off the hook for a change and scuttles from the room with a brief glance at the body beneath the sheet as he closes the door behind him. With Pitchi gone, Pepito is eager to get down to business. He turns to face the doctor who has already turned his back and is shuffling through the papers on his desk, in no apparent order. Pepito swallows hard and moves towards the table on cautious feet.
"As you can see from the report," the doctor begins, with his back still turned towards him, "she received a blow to the back of the head but that's not what killed her .." he pauses, rubbing his eyes with the backs of both hands, before continuing, "that's not what killed her."
"How did she die then?"
"What?"
Pepito clears his throat, "I said - How did she die?" He steps around the table, being careful not to brush against the body.
"She drowned.
"Drowned?"
For the first time since entering the room the pathologist turns around to look at him.
"Surprised?"
Pepito shakes his head.
He turns back towards his papers littering his desk. "Well she certainly drowned, her lungs were full of water."
Pepito steps backwards, running the doctor's words through his head. The truth was - he is surprised. Surprised to hear that she drowned. Drowned in an abandoned building. His nose twitches despite his best efforts to restrict his breathing.
"I know what you're thinking," the doctor is standing with his back to the desk, a conspiratorial smile creasing his mouth. He moves towards the table and peels back the sheet without flinching, without warning. "How could she drown in a condemned building, right?"
Pepito nods his head, his eyes glued to the pathologists face in fear that they should slide downwards of their own accord and behold the sight on the table.
"It's a tricky dilemma, I'll give you that but I'm sure you've guessed already." He pulls the sheet over her body again and looks up at Pepito.
"She was killed elsewhere."
"That's what I'm thinking ..." He steps back towards his desk. "She would have survived you know, would have knocked her out but she would have survived ... skin wasn't even broken. She could have slipped of course, banged her head but then ... that doesn't explain where the body was found."
"Someone had to have taken her there."
"That's my guess. So you see where I'm going?"
Pepito nods his head. "She was killed somewhere else and her body dumped in the abandoned building."
"I can't tell you where she died just yet, I'd have to get the results back from the lab first ... test the water, so to speak."
Pepito nods again, his chin slipping towards his chest.
"But I can tell you this ... she'd been laying there a few days." Pepito perks up. "I can't give you an accurate time of death just yet but allowing for the rate of decomposition due to the heat, I'd say she must have died sometime on," he taps his chin, "Wednesday night." He stands back, arms folded over his chest and regards Pepito with a quizzical air.
"Feeling all right?"
Pepito takes a deep breath, which is probably a mistake and raises his eyes with a flutter in his lids. "I'm fine."
"Just checking, you know I've seen bigger men than you hit the floor at the sight of one of those things on the slab." He flicks his eyes over to Rosa's body and chuckles to himself. "Hit the floor like a puppet with its strings cut."
Pepito feels his guts churn so he covers his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. It's the smell that does it really. The sickening whiff of rotting flesh. He steps backwards, his eyes rolling in his head and braces himself against the wall but he can't leave just yet. Sliding his sleeve across his face he opens his mouth a fraction.
"So you think she died about four days ago?"
The doctor nods. "Four days at least but like I said, I'd have to wait to get the results back for the lab to give you an accurate time of death. And there's something else."
Pepito waits for the pathologist to continue, his brow damp with sweat and his stomach churning but he's not prepared for what comes next.
"She was pregnant."
When the words hit him he almost stumbles, he almost falls. Straightening his back he twists his head upwards, narrowing his eyes.
"How long?"

"Eleven weeks more or less .."
Pepito turns his head, turns his head and closes his eyes.
"There's one thing, strange really but I thought it worth mentioning to the police, anyway .. seems like she was cleaned after, you know .. washed down, her clothes had been removed and her body was spotless, I found traces of bleach on her skin."
"Which means?"
"Means someone was willing to put in the time and effort to wipe all trace of themselves from her ... hairs, fingerprints .. it's amazing what you can find when you know what to look for but with this one," he motions towards the table with a dip of his head, "with this one I couldn't pick up a single thing, there was nothing there that shouldn't be."
Pepito paces slowly around the table. "Was she using drugs?"
"That depends on what you mean exactly ... had she ever taken any? I can't be sure, there certainly are no needle tracks and I'd have to wait for the toxicology report to tell you if she'd been using anything recently."
"Okay," Pepito says, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back, wedging himself against the wall with his feet splayed out in front. "Let me see if I've got this straight. She was knocked on the back of her head, drowned, her body was wiped down with bleach and then dumped in a building where she could be easily found." He speaks the words out loud, not so much for the doctor's benefit but for his own, as if, by repeating them at an audible volume will help them make more sense.
"That just about sums it up." The pathologist moves towards his desk and starts riffling through the papers there as though searching for something. "Except .." He stops, ponderously shuffling the papers together with an absent pat from his fingers.
"Except?"
He turns on his heel to face Pepito, a bundle of papers sprouting from his hands.
"Except I don't think the killer wanted the body to be found so quickly, I mean, not for a while."
"What are you getting at?"
"Well, think about it," he walks ponderously towards the body, "she was found in an abandoned building, in some god forsaken part of the city ... dumped literally, in a hole in the floor." Pepito nods his head, although, he isn't so sure where this is going. "That building was due to be demolished, the whole thing pulled down ... chances are, they wouldn't have found her for weeks, if at all. If it hadn't been for that dog ... you and I would not be here having this conversation."
It makes sense, he has to admit. The longer Rosa stayed missing, the longer everyone, himself included, had to speculate what had actually happened. No body, no crime. Except, now they had a body, decomposing under his very nose and it was no accident. No suicide. Just murder. He folds the paper the pathologist had handed him and places it carefully in his wallet. He's heard enough and he needs some air.
"It's an interesting theory," Pepito says, his eyes flicking up but the pathologist has already turned back to his desk with the handful of loose papers.
"Anything else?" He asks without lifting his head.
"No," Pepito says in a muffled lapse of breath. "No, but thank you."
The pathologist nods and turns to face him. "You want those results when they come through?"
Pepito nods and reaching into his wallet with a practiced hand he pulls out a card.
"Here," he says, pressing the card into the other man's palm. "You've been a great help."
"Glad to hear it," his eyes skim downwards, "Detective Pons."

10. GLORIA IN EXCELSIOR

Smoothing her hair down the nape of her neck, she checks her reflection in the polished glass doors before stepping over the threshold and into the vestibule. She looks around, spots an older couple she is familiar with and lifts her hand in greeting, her palm flat, held high above her head and fingers stretched towards the ceiling. Then she turns with a smile on her lips and walks towards the ticket booth, her feet moving in a quick two by two formation as the sultry chachacha of a Latin rhythm filters through the air.

"Hey gorgeous," she says leaning in to the window, "how's life treating you?"
"Can't complain," the woman behind the window sighs her eyes flicking down to her hands as she peels off a ticket and pushes it through to Gloria. "How about you?"
"Oh, same old same old." She wags her head, her hand digging into her bag and her feet tapping the rhythm of the Quick Step while she searches for her purse. "Busy yet?"
"It's hotting up." And the two of them laugh as Gloria pushes the money through and picks up the ticket.
"Wish me luck," she says and winks at the woman behind the window.
"It's not luck you need," the other woman answers and they laugh again with their mouths opened wide and their heads pitched back in unison.

He hasn't arrived yet so she sways across the dance floor with a lightness in her step and sits down at their table. She smooths out her dress and adjusts the straps, her hand moving instinctively across her shoulders and up to her hair, patting the bottle dark strands with the soft pad of her fingertips. A waiter, black suit and bow tie, sidles up to her and leans over the back of her chair, his mouth just hovering by the side of her ear.
"Now what's a gorgeous gal like you doing in a crummy place like this."
She turns around and slaps ineffectually at his wrist before dissolving into girlish laughter, her cheeks flushing as her eyes flutter over his young, grinning face.
"Oh you," she says, her hands nervously cupping her neck, "you can get fired for saying something like that you know."
"What? For calling you a gorgeous gal?"
"No, for calling this place crummy." He laughs at this and steps around her chair to stand in front of her.
"Lookin' good tonight ... Is that a new dress?"
"This old thing?" She lifts her hand to swat his wrist again. "You know your just angling for a bigger tip this time."
"I'm here to serve." He bows, dipping from the waist with exaggerated pomp.
"Then you can start by bringing me a martini, dry, with lots of ice."
"Your wish is my command." He moves backwards, bowing all the while, his greasy dark mane of hair restrained in the elastic grip of a scrunchy. She smiles to herself and shakes her head, her hand still fluttering up to the bottle black hairs on her head. The she settles back in her chair, eyes drifting over the couples on the dance floor and waits. Every so often, one of the couples waves to her and she nods her head in recognition, or lifts her hand with that same confident gesture of flattened palm and fingers stretched towards the ceiling. She knows that most of them are married, enjoying what little time they have left as they sway together, lost in the rhythms of their youth and she can't deny them that. As for Gloria, she tells them her own husband is dead and although, technically untrue, she feels it's easier that way. Some things are better left unsaid.

"Uh-oh, here comes lover boy." The waiter leans over her shoulder and places her drink on the table. She lifts her head lazily and spots him skirting around the dance floor. A small boned, grey-haired man with a sprightly, nervous step. He's smiling as he hurries towards her, his lips stretched in a thin, papery line beneath his thickly peppered mustache.
"Been here long?" She shakes her head as he leans towards her and kisses the side of her cheek. His lips quiver on her powdery skin leaving a fleeting pressure like a gust of air on a damp Autumn day.
"Baptism," he says as he pulls out a chair and sits down beside her, "one of my sister's grandchildren, couldn't get away in time ... you know how it is."
She doesn't but she nods her head anyway and turns to the waiter who is still hovering behind her. "Another martini please."
The waiter nods and winks as he shuffles backwards before disappearing towards the bar.
"Nice boy," he says, pulling the chair towards her, "what's his name again?"
"Diego."
"Ah, that's right ... Maradona I always think ... Diego Maradona, that's an easy way to remember it." He shuffles in his chair, his hands tapping out a jagged rhythm on the surface of the table and his eyes flitting up to her face.
"You weren't waiting long I hope?"
She shakes her head again.
"Shall we dance then?"

It's always this way. At first. And then he takes her onto the dance floor and rests his hand in the small of her back, the other cupping her wedding band and she closes her eyes. They glide.
They glide backwards and forwards with her eyes shut tight and she loses herself in the sway of the music. She loses herself in this moment in time with a man who is small, slight and perpetually nervous. Almost a stranger. Almost, but not quite. They met a year ago, introduced by a mutual friend to the plaintive strains of Moonlight River. He was a widower and she was lonely so it seemed perfect. It could have been perfect. It should have been perfect. But she holds back. She holds a piece of herself, tightly inside, coiled around her heart.
When the music stops, she opens her eyes and steps backwards with the tips of her fingers pushing lightly on his chest. The spell has been broken. He smiles at her, that papery stretch of lip and she smiles back. Then he guides her back to their table, his hand skimming her elbow and pulls back her chair. She sits down, smoothing the folds of her skirt around her as he slides the chair beneath her.
"Always the gentleman." She laughs and tips the glass to her lips, her eyes peering over the top of the rim as the liquid slides down her throat.
"You know, I've been thinking .." He lifts his head to look at her.
"Now, now," she laughs again, placing her glass on the table and sinking back in her chair. "What do you want to do that for?" She hopes that she can lighten the moment this way, hold off whatever thought is creeping through his brain, making his eyes, those small black buttons pushed into his face, seek her out and claim her.
"Well," he says, a nervous smile twitching over his mouth, "I do that sometimes." He twists around in his seat, his fingers nervously tugging on the knot of his tie. "I've been thinking ..."
And she knows it's coming, the moment she was hoping to avoid. The moment she was forever skirting around with her flirtatious chatter and her half closed eyes and yet, now it is here, she is powerless to stop it. She sits, limp in her chair and waits for him to finish what she knows he wants to say.
"You know, I think about you .." He shuffles in his seat. "What I'm trying to say is ... I think about you when we're not together and I wonder what it would be like if we were together, I mean really together ... not just here, or the odd excursion but together ... living together." He stops, his head drooping to his chest and his fingers nervously pinching the edge of his mustache. Her moment has come and she knows it and yet, she is lost somewhere in the sound of his words. Lost somewhere deep inside herself, in that guarded place in the pit of her chest.
"I suppose," he stammers on blindly, "I suppose ... I suppose I'm asking you to marry me."
She knows that she should answer, by a look or a touch, a word even but the weight of the moment is too much and she can only sit there, with her eyes glued to the salmon pink nails that are smoothing the folds in her lap.
"Gloria?" He speaks her name and she rouses herself. Slowly, she pulls herself upright and leans in towards him but the laughter has gone and her voice is low, scraping the back of her throat.
"You're a good man," she says.
He blushes, the colour seeping through his skin and staining his cheeks. He reaches out and grasps her hands, squeezing her fingers.
"You know I'll be good to you, you do know that don't you?"
She knows. She knows that even though she tries to fight it. Even though she is scrambling at this very moment to reclaim some lightness in her tone, some playful gesture, some meaningless banter.
"You'll think about it won't you?"
She will. She nods her head, her eyes clouding despite themselves. He reaches out to take her hand and when their palms touch she shivers.
"Cold?"
She shakes her head but he removes his jacket anyway and drapes it over her shoulders. She can smell him close in around her. Smell the sweetened bite of cologne. Smell the dust nestled amongst the fibres. The hopefulness and the loneliness; the echoes of her life. She hangs her head and closes her eyes.

He walks her home. She walks in silence, both arms hanging loose by her side. He's thinking on his feet, already planning ahead. Chattering about the future like it's something they both have to look forward to and although she hears him, she's not really listening. She stopped listening when they left the dance hall and hit the street with the hot, damp air prickling her cheeks. If she turns towards him she can see his mouth moving but even if her life depended on it, she couldn't tell you what he said. So she stretches her neck upwards and looks into the inky black canopy above their heads. It's empty, there's not a star in sight and she wonders, with her neck arched back and her eyes searching for some point of light, if her husband is walking around somewhere beneath that same inky blackness. Somewhere, with his head pitched back on his strong, young neck does he wonder where all the stars have gone. She likes to remember him that way, after the shock and the hurt and the guilt had subsided. She likes to remember him the way she saw him for the last time, his head thrown up towards the sky and his lips moving, saying - I won't be long. Or was it? I won't be back. She can't quite remember now, those finer details, the important facts. Although, she does remember that he never came back and she waited. She waited right there on the street where he left her. An hour, or two, her memory fails her and then she gave up waiting and returned to their flat, hoping that perhaps, he had returned there. But the flat was empty so she waited some more. Waiting and wondering - has he lost his way? Met with an accident? Been knocked over the head and lost his memory? And while her imagination grew she checked the hospitals, phoned the police and asked the neighbours. But what did she learn as time progressed? As the days tripped by and the months stacked up until eventually, she knew that he was never coming back. Over all those years, she learned to stop waiting.

They stand outside her building looking up at the darkened windows to her flat. Shrugging the jacket from her shoulders she holds it out to him.
"Here," she says and he takes it, cupping the jacket in his speckled hands, hooking it over his shoulder.
"Are you warmer now?" She nods her head and wipes her hand across her brow to erase the sweat.
"You'll think about what I said, won't you?"
She dips her head and he tilts his chin and leans in close. Leans in close and kisses her. Kisses her gently on the forehead with his papery lips hovering over her skin. She lifts her head and tries to smile but her eyes close despite themselves, holding back the tears. When she opens them again her fingertips have already found their way to his chest and are pressing lightly on the dampened cloth. She can feel the pulse of his heart quicken beneath his skin as she pushes him from her. She steps back and wags her finger, a smile flitting round the edges of her mouth.
"Now, now, now," she laughs trying one last time to play with the moment but it's too late.
Too late to go back and start all over again.