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?"
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."
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."
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