24. PERFUME

Midday and the heat is relentless as Candy steps from the taxi and crosses the tarmac towards a derelict club in a patch of wasteland, somewhere on the edge of the city. She steps warily, balancing on the points of her toes with her arms held out on either side as she picks her way through the abandoned terrain. Picks her way around the odd rusted can, bottles papers and splinters of glass, the soles of her shoes sticking to the melted tarmac as she walks. When she reaches the entrance she stops for a moment, her fist poised in the air and her head turning from left to right as she checks the scene behind her. Then she knocks. She knocks firmly, with a three second pause between each rap and the door swings open, swallowing her inside. Pepito pulls slowly into the kerb and flips back his bug spattered visor. He slips from the bike and removes his helmet. He shakes his head in the hot, clammy air and holds out his hand for Raphael to wait. Wait behind him, wait by the bike. Moving closer, with his head whipping round, he scans his surroundings, digesting the place as he fixes his bearings on the building in front. They must be somewhere on the south side of the city, close to the docks. He can smell the sewage, warmed by the sun and the hot, sticky breath of the salty sea as it wafts up his nostrils in sickening waves. He steps forwards, undeterred by the stench of the place, with his heart beating loudly in the crook of his ear and his cheeks bulging outwards as he holds his breath. Closer to the building, a run down club, with bars on the ground floor windows, paint warped and peeling from the walls and a large neon sign that had slipped from its hinges and now lay in the dirt. Pepito moves towards it, closer and closer until he stands beside it with his head pitched down and his lips moving slowly as he tastes the letters in his mouth. GIRLS, GIRLS, GIRLS. ALL NIGHT LIVE ACTION. By the looks of the sign it seemed that those girls had been out of action a long time. How long - Pepito can't be sure. He lifts his head and steps up to the entrance. Steps up to the door with a hand on his gun. He waits for some moments, head twisting around and his breathing clipped, packed down tight in bottom of his lung. Then he slips into the shadows, with his back squeezed up flat against the wall and his feet shuffling sideways as he disappears around the side of the building. Raphael loses sight of him until Pepito pokes his head out and beckons him forwards with an impatient flick from his fingers.

They enter. But not through the front. Best to keep their heads down and safely out of sight, so they'd circled the place until they'd found their point of entry tucked around the back. Raphael had picked the lock. It was the least that he could do in the circumstances and worth the endless fiddling as the door clicked softly open and Pepito stepped inside. He cocks his gun, pulls back the safety catch with the hardened skin of a resolute thumb and steps forwards into the dampened gloom. He makes his way slowly down a long, narrow corridor with Raphael following close behind, breathing down his neck. A few more steps and they reach a staircase. They reach a staircase and stop. They listen. Pressed up tightly at the foot of the stairs, Pepito flicks his eyes up to the top and lifts his nose in the air. He sniffs. He sniffs deeply. Opens his nostrils and sparks his memory with the undeniable scent of cheap perfume. He knew it was cheap, it was the perfume his mother had worn supplied faithfully by Pepito himself for the last six years of her life. It was the perfume she had dabbed on her wrists and neck each morning, filling the flat and descending like a wayward gas to poison the air in the shop. The same perfume he had used to sweeten her corpse as she lay on display in their living room, eyes closed and lid up. He steps forwards, drawn by the pungent aroma and climbs the stairs to the top with Raphael still close on his heels. They grope their way down another darkened corridor until they come to a door at the farthest end. It's here that Pepito stops. Outside the door, he wrinkles his nose. He catches his breath as he presses his ear to the splintering paint and listens. He listens with his heart in his mouth. He listens to the pulse radiate from his chest and the breath, thick and fast in his mouth. Only when he's satisfied does he lay his hand on the rusted handle and twists with a tilt of his wrist.
Raphael is the first to see her. Darting from behind Pepito's back, shuffling around his shoulder he hops into the room. And he sees her. Ninotchka or Natasha, he can't quite remember but he knows her face. Knows the cut of her sharpened cheekbones, the mousy tint of her light brown hair. She doesn't stir when they enter, doesn't even lift her head but lays there with her spine folded and her head tucked into her chest on a small, wire framed bed in the corner. Raphael moves towards her with his hand stretched out in front of him and his mouth falling open at the jaw. He stops when he reaches the bottom of the wire framed bed and tentatively reaches out to touch her foot. He shakes the foot, gently at first and then when she doesn't respond, he shakes it again with growing insistence.
"Hey," he calls, his voice a whisper, "hey ... hey ..." Of course, she doesn't answer. No flicker in her half-closed lids, no light switches on in her pupils and her foot remains unimpressed by his touch. Pepito stoops down and places his ear by the side of her mouth.
"She's breathing," he says as he straightens his back. "But I think she must be drugged."
"What are we gonna do? We can't leave her like this." Raphael's voice is urgent, pushing through his teeth with a shrill whine as it cuts through Pepito's conscience like a well-placed knife. Pepito raises his hand in the air to silence him, then turns and paces across the floor with his hands clasped close to his chest. He needs to think. He needs to think on his feet. Wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand he crosses to the door with decisive steps and pulls it open, just a crack. He pokes his head out and checks the corridor. He moves forwards, easing his bulk through the crack in the door and presses onwards on the points of his toes to the top of the stairs. He stops and peers over the banister. He listens for a moment with his head to one side and his eyes narrowed in concentration. Then he turns back to face Raphael, who is watching him from the crack in the door, and beckons him forwards with a flick of his head. Raphael moves out from the room with hesitant steps and joins Pepito at the tops of the stairs.
"Detective Pons," he says in a hushed voice, "we must do something, we can't leave her here."
"I know but there's nothing we can do just yet, it's too dangerous ... if they find us ..." He stops himself and places a hand on the boy's shoulder, shaking his head. "Listen, listen to me carefully now. I want you to go back and get the bike."
Raphael hangs his head and shuffles awkwardly on the spot, his shoulders drooping beneath Pepito's touch.
"Bring it round to the back entrance ..." When he starts to protest, Pepito cuts him off. "It's the best chance we have right now ... we're no use to that girl if we're caught."
"But .."
"No buts ..." Pepito says, his voice climbing above a whisper. He checks behind him with a furtive twist of neck. "I want you to bring the bike around to the back door and wait for me there with the motor running."
"What are you going to do?"
Pepito extracts his gun from its holster and raises it up to his face. "Don't worry," he taps the gun against his nose with a practiced swagger. "I've got it all worked out."

He waits until Raphael is safely down the stairs and retreating along the corridor before he turns back to the room with quickening steps. He slips inside, closing the door behind him and moves towards the girl on the balls of his feet. How small she looks with her knees tucked up beneath her chin. And young, she must have been Raphael's age, at least. Stretching forwards, he takes hold of her wrist and cups her hand in his. He can feel her pulse beating beneath his fingers, beating fast but beating strong and he wonders with a pang in his foolish old heart, how far she is from home. Lured, no doubt, by a broken promise, a bogus contract and the additional threat of a debt she'd never even heard of weighing heavily on those small, white hands. But that's the trick in this growing trade. The trade of flesh, freshly plucked from God knows where, duped by the chance of a better life and sold into slavery for the highest price. Sexual slavery. See, there's the catch because she'll have to work off that debt on the flat of her back. Again and again. And it's never enough. She'll never quite pay for being lured from her home, or pay for the chance of a better life. Pay for believing in a distant land. Or pay for the chance to start again.
Bending over, Pepito grasps her foot and removes her shoe. Reaching into his pocket with his free hand he pulls out her passport. Flips through the pages until he finds her photograph and takes one last look before he tucks it snugly into the sole of her shoe. Just in case she ever wakes up. Just in case he ever works out what he has it do. He's tying her laces when he hears them approach. Half forgotten that they were in the same place. He can hear their footsteps as he fumbles with the knot, footsteps approaching up the stairs, their voices growing louder with each shuffling step. He has no doubt where they are headed. No doubt at all as he drops her foot and spins wildly around him, searching for an escape. But there's no time to panic, no time left to think as he lunges towards the window and scratches with frantic fingers at the rusted latch. Pulling, prizing, coaxing, praying but the latch sticks fast, clawing with his nails and it still won't budge. And the footsteps won't stop. They're moving nearer with a clutter in their step. Moving up those stairs and onto the landing with their voices growing louder. And clearer. Two men and a woman. Closer and closer, until they are almost upon him, outside the door. A hand reaches out to grasp the handle and Pepito freezes. His number's up for sure, so he does what any heavily perspiring middle-aged man in a tight spot would do.
He drops to the floor like a dead man and squeezes under the bed.

Six feet. Four stylish brogues and an expensive pair of heels step into the room. The make their way over to the bed and Pepito holds his breath.
"This the only one that's here?" Candy is the first to speak. She moves up close to the girl and bends forwards with the pointed toe of her stiletto skimming Pepito's head.
"No, there's more .. we had to split them up, stop them talking amongst themselves."
"She drugged?"
"We had to ... this one's a live one, started screaming down the place."
"She's not gonna like this."
"Yeah? Who gives a fuck ... she's not the one taking all the risks here ..."
"Okay, okay ..." It was Francisco's turn to speak. He stops for a moment as he dips his hand into his pocket and retrieves a pistachio nut which he slips between his teeth. "We all know who's taking the risks here so let's just keep calm." Biting down he spits fragments of the shell through the side of his mouth onto the floor at his feet.
"Yeah well, I'm only saying ... I've got enough things to worry about."
"We all do ..." He kicks the shells beneath the bed with a sideways sweep from his foot.
Candy walks over to the window and pulls out a cigarette. She holds it up to her mouth and lights the end with shaking fingers.
"When's the exchange?" she asks, blowing the smoke out through tightly pursed lips.
"Tonight."
"You sure."
"It's all arranged ... what's your problem anyway?" Francisco moves towards her, his feet stopping in front of her shiny patent heels. "Worried?"
She nods her head.
"There's nothing to worry about, it's all been taken care of .."
"And the detective?" She turns around to face him.
"Detective Pons?" He flips his head back and laughs, "I already told you, he's harmless .. and he doesn't have a clue ... he's never gonna figure it out and by the time he does, it'll all be over."
"You think?"
"I know." He moves back to the bed and reaches over the girl. He touches her face with the back of his hand. He strokes her hair. "Tell you what ... if he comes poking around after tonight, I'll take care of him."
"How?"
"How else ..."
"Do you think he knows who killed Rosa?"
Francisco stops with his hand poised in mid-air. "You kidding me? He's not even close ..."
"Maybe so but I think he's following the wrong trail ... he thinks you had something to do with it. You didn't did you? I mean ..." She laughs, a nervous flutter from the pit of her gut, lifts one heel and rubs it awkwardly against the back of her calf. Straightening his back Francisco turns to face her. He steps towards her with his hands clasped behind his back and the sides of his mouth arching upwards in a menacing grin. He stops in front of her with his head bowed and the grin spreading out slowly from the corners of his mouth. Then he lifts his head, leans in close and opens his mouth a fraction so that the words fall from his lips in a whisper.
"What do you think?"
She shakes her head and lifts her shoulders. Takes one step backwards for safety's sake.
"Nothing, I mean no, of course not."
He's watching her squirm, with her shoulders dropped and her spine flexing backwards.
"No, of course not," she says again, "I mean ... how could you? Why? You didn't ... did you?"
He shakes his head, slowly, holding her gaze with deliberate intent so that she doesn't have time to acknowledge the flat of his palm as it comes crashing in from the left. Strike one. Strikes just above her cheek. Strike two is far more obvious as it swings up from the right and lands across her mouth. She lifts her hands and turns her back. Turns her back and touches her face, with her fingers creeping gently over the long, red welts spreading over her cheeks.

Raphael wheels the bike around the back of the building and props it against the wall. He slips the helmet over his head and stands with his arms crossed over his chest. Cocking his wrist, he checks his watch. 11.46am. He lifts his head and stares at the door. Then he checks his watch again. 11.47am and counting. He steps backwards and tilts his head upwards and scans the upper windows. Calculating the distance between the top of the stairs and the door he guesses it'll take Pepito ten minutes to make his escape. Five for the run and five extra as a penalty for his age. After a moments thought, he adds another five minutes. Fifteen minutes in all - five for the run, five for his age and five for his gut. It had to be a hindrance. He steps forwards to the bike and pulls it upright. He swings his leg over and settles himself on the seat with his feet placed flat on the ground. He's already decided. He'll wait another fifteen minutes, it's the least that he can do and if Pepito's not out by then, he'll just have to go back in and get him.

All things considered, it took him a fraction of a second to squeeze out from under the bed. He stands upright and brushes the dust from the front of his shirt with impatient flicks from his hands. Tripping towards the door, he presses his ear against the blistered paint and listens. He listens with his tongue jammed to the roof of his mouth and his heart hammering hard in his chest. He can hear them in the hallway, talking amongst themselves. Francisco is giving orders and the other man responds in a low, gruff voice that scrapes the back of his throat.
"You want me to keep her doped up until tonight?"
"Yeah but make sure she's conscious by the time we have to move them. I want them all standing on their own two legs when we make the exchange."
"Okay."
"And you ..." He guesses he's talking to Candy. "You can tell her majesty that it's all set for tonight."
"She won't be there."
"I know, doesn't want to get her hands dirty." He lets out a low guttural chuckle. "Just make sure she knows it's all going ahead."
Pepito waits until the sound of their footsteps fade before he pulls the door open a fraction and squints through the opening. When he's sure that they've gone he eases himself out of the room with a backwards glance at the girl on the bed and makes his way with nervous steps to the staircase. He stands at the top gazing down with his foot hovering above the first step and his hand glued tight to his holster. And he's just about to take that first step when Raphael appears at the foot of the stairs with his helmet jammed to his head. He lifts his chin with a nonchalant slant and smiles through the streak on the visor. Cursing under his breath Pepito presses forwards but is stopped in his tracks by the sudden appearance of one of Francisco's men in the hallway behind Raphael. It's one of the goons, the one with the head, a squat, thick-boned man he stands for some moments in shock or surprise as he looks from Raphael to Pepito, then back again. But it doesn't take long for him to regain his composure as his mouth falls open and he shouts his disgust from the depths of his lungs and rushes towards Raphael. Raphael spins around in terror. Pepito knows that Raphael doesn't have a chance which is probably why, with a scissoring motion, a graceless leap, he throws himself from the top of the stairs in the general direction of the squat, thick-boned man at the bottom. Quick thinking really but if it wasn't for Raphael's timely push, he would have missed him altogether. They hit the floor in a messy heap and Pepito scrambles to his feet, grazing his shins on the squat man's teeth in their horizontal scuffle. Grabbing Raphael by the scruff of the neck, they run. The run for their lives. Back along the dingy corridor with their feet tripping up in their hasty flight and out through the door at the back of the building. Raphael is the first to reach the bike. He straddles the seat and starts the engine as Pepito clambers on behind him but he doesn't have time to slip the helmet over his head. Doesn't have time to pull out his gun as the door swings open and the squat man appears. Without thinking Pepito launches the helmet towards the thick-boned skull and with a crack of impact that cuts through the air they make their escape.
It was a close call but it would have been closer if Raphael hadn't been bored while he was waiting. So bored that he'd taken a walk over to their cars, a nonchalant little saunter, got down on his knees and carved his initials into their tyres. His own little token in Pepito's master plan and a chance for them to escape if anything should go wrong. Which is just as well really, after all - it's the little things like that, that can make all the difference.

23. A MOTHER'S KISS

Barely there and partially dressed, Carlos awakes. He sits up in bed, sluggishly, pulling himself from the depths of sleep and blinks in the light that floods the room. Slowly, his mind is returning. Reluctantly, he remembers. Drawing his knees up to the bulge of his chest he wraps his arms around his shins and squeezes. Just for a moment. But long enough for the light to fade behind his closed lids and the lump in his throat to soften. By the time Mariquita knocks on the bedroom door he is standing in front of the window with the blinds drawn up, staring out at the pool. She tiptoes in behind him and reaches for his hair. Looping her fingers through the strands at the back she leans forwards and kisses him softly on the nape of his neck. Kisses him softly just there, where his skin meets the fine, downy hairs on his hairline and inhales, drawing the scent deep into her lungs. A scent so hypnotically sweet, a mother never forgets it. He tilts his head towards her and rests his cheek on the top of her head.

"I checked on you a couple of times but you were so soundly asleep ... you were sleeping like a baby." She dips her head and extracts her hand from the coils of his hair. "I have breakfast for you if you're hungry."
He shakes his head.
Taking both his hands she turns him towards her. "Come on now ... you need to eat, a big strong hulk like you ..... you need something inside you." She leads him towards the door, pulling him forwards by the palms of his hands. "That's right," she coaxes, "you'll feel better once you eat something."

She leads him out to the pool and guides him into a chair with her hand pressing down on his shoulders. Then she circles around behind him and pulls out a chair for herself. Stretching forwards she picks up a carton of orange juice, pours some of the pulpy liquid into a glass and presses the glass in his hand.
"Here, drink some."
Carlos takes the glass from her outstretched hand and lifts it to his lips. He holds it there with his lips poised on the rim and peers at his mother. Mariquita nods her head, a smile oozing outwards slowly from the corners of her lips so he opens his mouth and tips his head back. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand and places the empty glass back on the table. Satisfied, she averts her eyes and reaches for the bread. Picking up a knife, she slices inwards with a heavy thrust and lays the two halves on the table. Then she reaches for a tomato, the biggest on the plate, slices it down the middle and squashes it onto the bread. Her eyes flick up to his face as she rubs one half of the tomato over the soft doughy flesh of the bread but his mind is elsewhere and his eyes are vacant, staring at some distant spot on the horizon. He doesn't seem to see her and she bites her lip as she reaches out and grabs a small bottle of oil which she drizzles all over the juice from the tomato. Drizzles with gusto, drizzles with force until the bread is soaking and the oil spills over, seeping onto the table.
"Damn." She rises from her seat and dabs at the oil with a fine cloth napkin. Dabs at the stain with her blood pressure rising, her back bent over at an awkward angle and her hair falling forwards, covering her face. Covering the stain, like a blood red tomato, that seeps through her skin, burning her cheeks. Leaning forwards, Carlos takes her wrist and gently extracts the oil soaked napkin from her hand. He lays it on the table and cups her shaking hand in his.
"Don't," he says and lifts his eyes to look in her face. "You don't have to."
But we know that she did because she wants to. She needs to. She needs to make up for all that time when she wasn't there and she wasn't his. She wasn't his mother and someone else made his breakfast, wiped the crumbs from around his mouth, comforted him when he wept and kissed that soft, sweet spot at the nape of his neck. Standing up, she slips in behind him and circles her arms around his chest. She pulls him tightly to her body and rests her chin on the broad expanse of his shoulder.
"You have to forget her Carlos," she whispers in his ear, "it's the best that you can do."
But Carlos doesn't think so, in fact, it's the last thing that he wants to hear as he struggles out from her tightening grasp and rises from the chair. He turns, turns quickly, roughly, trying to escape from her greedy arms and knocks the chair to the floor where it lands with a clatter, splitting a tile.
"Carlos ..." She moves to restrain him, her arms reaching out to gather him in again but he shakes her off and strides over to the pool. Bending, knees jutting forwards, he sits down at the edge with his arse kissing concrete and dips his feet in the cool, glossy water. Mariquita slips up behind him with the hem of her robe crushed in her hand and sits down. Sits down beside him, scrunched up close, her legs stretched forwards and swinging in the water and her hands, crosses at the fingers, laying mutely in her lap. She wants to touch him, wants to unfurl those fingers and walk them through his hair. Bury her face in the nape of his neck and breathe in that scent she could never forget. But she can't. She doesn't dare.
"Why didn't you call the police?" He's staring straight at her with his eyes opened wide and his lip curling upwards. She doesn't answer so he asks her again. And again.
"Why didn't I want to call the police when exactly?" She seeks to appease him, her eyes pitched down, avoiding his gaze.
"That morning ... Thursday morning, when I came here and told you she hadn't come home ... I asked you to call the police ... why didn't you want to?"
"Of course I wanted to Carlos ..." She reaches out towards him.
"But you didn't ... you didn't call them ..." He stands up abruptly like a petulant child and walks back towards the table leaving a trail of wet footprints in his wake. Reaching out, he picks up the bread which she so carefully prepared and crushes it into a ball in his fist.
"They asked me why I hadn't called them."
She stands up slowly. "Who asked you?"
"The police, who else?" He spins around to face her. "They thought it kind of funny that she'd been missing three days and I hadn't thought to call them."
She walks towards him softly.
"But I did, didn't I? I mean ... I wanted to ..."
She nods her head as she slips up beside him. "What did you tell the police Carlos?"
"What did I tell them?" he laughs, a slow release of air forced out between his teeth. "I told them you stopped me."
She stands before him and he turns his back. She reaches out and touches the soft, sloping curve of his neck with a cautious finger. A spasm ripples down his spine and she catches her breath. Catches her breath and clenches her fist.
"Carlos ..." Her voice is firm but trapped in her throat. "Carlos. I called in Detective Pons. I asked him to look for her. The police ... they suspect you for God sake, I knew they would, that's why I didn't call them. They don't give a shit for people like us, as long as they have someone to pin it on they're happy. But Detective Pons isn't like that, he's ..." she pauses, "he's different ... you'll see." She moves in to touch him again but he shakes her off. "Carlos please ..." Her voice is rising. "I did it for you. I did what I thought was best."
He spins around to face her with his hand beating off his chest. "Maybe they could have found her ... found her before ..." He breaks off.
Mariquita shakes her head. "No Carlos, no ... they wouldn't have found her in time." Stretching upwards she takes his head in her hands and shakes gently. And Carlos submits. He gives up the fight, the anger, the hurt and the waves of grief roll up from his body, flooding his throat and piercing his eyes.

She leads him back into the house with one hand cupping his neck and the other looped through the crook of his arm. Once more, she guides him to where she wants him to go. A chair, for example, plumped and worn, tucked in by the window.
"Here," she says, pressing him downwards with the tips of her fingers. "Everything will be all right, you'll see."
He tips his chin upwards and gazes into her face.
"Everything happens for a reason Carlos, sometimes things we don't like or things we don't expect but we just have to accept that and make the best of it." Kneeling down in front of him she takes both his hands in hers and kisses them, her lips moving over his knuckles and down to his wrists. "You have to be strong ... we have to stick together, if we stick together, we'll get through this."
He rolls his head back and closes his eyes. "i just wish it had never happened ... I wish we could go back, a week, a year, anything ... I wish we could go back and start again."
Turning her head, she picks out a spot on the floor where a shaft of light has slipped through the blinds and is basking on the polished tiles. If she could turn back the clock she would, in a heartbeat, turn it right back to the beginning, when he cried for life in his mother's arms. Cried for life and cried for her milk. And she would cradle him, soothe him, let him drink from her breast with his soft, pink lips. Cling to his body for her very life. And never let go.

22. THE BAIT

Across town, Pepito is banging on the door of Candy's flat with the flattened butt of a rigid palm. Raphael is positioned downstairs in the same doorway as the night before with a clear view to the flat and both ends of the street. His instructions are clear. Keep his eyes peeled and his head down. And it feels good to the boy to be useful - needed even. A worthy player who'd earned his stripes in the great detective's plan. It feels so good that his heart is pumping overtime, swelling up with pride. Better than fighting and scamming and stealing. Better than all that shit he'd had to do to survive because this time - this time he was batting for the other side. He leans back in the doorway with his hands thrust deep in the folds of his armpits and swivels his head up and down the street. Right, then left, then right again. Just to make sure. Just to double check, like Pepito told him, he leans forwards, just a fraction and swivels his head. Right, then left, then right again.
"Come on, come on ... open up." Pepito is shouting on the other side of the door with his blood pressure rising and his patience wearing out. I haven't got all day ... come one Candy, open up."
Eventually, she answers. Her voice sluggish and petulant through six inches of wood. "What do you want .... I told you everything last night."

"Just open the door .. come on, you want to help find who killed Rosa or not?"
"You not figured that out yet?" She snorts derisively as she pulls open the door. But Pepito is not prepared for what he finds standing before him with one hand reclining on the slope of her hip. He steps backwards then forwards and reaches out to touch the bruises on her face as she sways in the doorway. She winces, pulling backwards and turns to walk away.
"Who did this?" He closes the door behind him with a forceful nudge from his shoulder.
"I tripped."
"Tripped into a fist by the looks of it ..." He follows her into the living room.
"Something like that." She sits down at the table and pulls out the other chair with her foot.
"Take a load off."
He does. Tentatively, he sits down next to her and scrutinizes her face.
"Francisco?" She shrugs, lowering her eyes towards the table and picks at a smudge on the surface with an agitated nail. But Pepito knows that she would never admit it, even if he did. He sits back in the chair and taps his fingers restlessly on the table. He could taste the phlegm rising in the back of his throat. The phlegm of acid indignation, the phlegm of disgust. The more he learned about Francisco, the less he liked. He swallows hard and dips his hand into his jacket pocket. He pulls out the passport and opens it to the page with the photograph which he flips around and displays to Candy. She lifts her head and looks at the passport, her eyes slipping over the details on the page eventually coming to rest on Pepito's face with a troubled expression.
"Recognise her?" Pepito asks. She shakes her head.
"Take a good look."
She rises from the table and turns her back, moving towards the window. "I've never seen her before," she says, her voice muffled as she slips her head between the curtains and looks out.
"You can't talk? Is that it?"
She doesn't answer but continues gazing out of the window.
"Frightened what Francisco will do to you if you talk to me? Frightened that he might kill you next time?"
She turns around, her mouth opening to speak but decides against it. Shaking her head, she turns back and straightens the curtains. Pepito stands up, slipping the passport back in his pocket and moves towards her.
"Look," he says, "whatever you're mixed up in, I can help you but you have to trust me .. you have to give me a chance."
She turns around and rests her eyes on Pepito's haggard face. "How old are you anyway?" she asks, her head tipped to one side, sizing him up, "you think you're a match for a man like Cisco?"
Pepito shrugs.
"You get too close Detective, he's going to chew you up and spit you out."
"Am I getting close Candy?" He moves around behind her, his voice seductively close to her ear. "Is that it? Am I onto something?"
A shudder runs down her spine but she shakes it off, lifting her shoulders as she turns. "You're not even close."
But Pepito is not put off. He presses forwards with his back braced and his voice raised.
"Did Francisco kill her? Did he rough her up the way he did you, except ... maybe he went a little too far .." His voice is climbing higher, "did she find something out that he didn't want her to know? Was it to shut her up Candy?"
She turns her back but he reaches out and grabs her wrist. "Is that it? Am I closer now Candy?"
She pulls away from his tightening grip and crosses the room. She stands with her back to the wall and her arms crossed over her chest. "He was with me that Wednesday night .. got it?" She spits the words out between her teeth.
"What time?"
"All night."
"Where?"
"Here." She moves towards the window again and pokes her head between the curtains.
"What are you afraid of Candy ... nobody's watching ... nobody knows."
"And him?" She flicks her head down to the street below where Raphael is standing, slouched in a doorway.
"He's with me."
"You make a wonderful couple ..."
"And you and Francisco Turó ... did you make a wonderful couple?"
"It wasn't like that ..." She crosses over to the table with anxious steps and reaches for a cigarette. She lights it and sits down, expelling the smoke from deep inside her lungs with a forceful rush of air. "It was nothing, really .. a fling, we used to have something going a while back but then he met Rosa."
"Did he throw you over for Rosa?"
She laughs, throwing her head back, blowing the smoke out through her nostrils. "What? You think I killed her now? What's next Detective Pons ... you think I'd knock her off for a man like Cisco?"
Pepito shrugs, he knows stranger things have happened but if he's pressed on the point he'd have to admit that Candy is not at the top of his list, that place is already taken. Taken by Francisco Turó, who is the kind of person to shoot first and think about the reasons later. The only question left remaining was, what did Rosa know that Pepito didn't? Somehow, the passport is his only real clue and if he could work that out, he'd have his motive. As for her account of his whereabouts on the night of the murder, he didn't believe her. She was lying. Pure and simple. Lying because he'd told her to and most likely, he'd slapped her around to make his point. For the first time in a long time, everything was beginning to fall into place. He crosses towards her and sits down at the table, pulling the passport out and waving it in front of her swollen face.
"You see Candy, no matter how hard you try to cover for him, it won't work. I'll find out sooner or later ... I'll find out the truth with or without you." He rises tucking the document back in his pocket as he turns to leave. "And another thing ..." he adds with his foot through the door and his shackles raised. "If you happen to see Francisco again ... tell him my business is trouble."

He hoped that she would run to tell him of their recent chat, in fact, he's counting on it. Which is why, after all that was said and done, he waits further up the street with the motor running on his vespa and Raphael perched on the back. He thought it was wiser to leave the boy behind but after a moments thought, a reckless moment really, he decided to take Raphael with him. He may prove useful, after all, to guard the bike, keep a look out or even pick a lock. By the time Candy steps out onto the street Pepito and Raphael are ready. Ready to do whatever it takes, ready to step into action. They watch her trip lightly up the street with her tail swinging behind her. When she reaches the corner, she stops. She waits. She dips from the waist and fixes her shoe. Then she straightens her back, stretches a leg and flags down a passing taxi. She slips inside. The taxi moves off. And they follow. The follow her all the way to the edge of the city, with the air sliding clean off their backs.

21. LATE NIGHTS & HASTY MORNINGS

9.36am and Gloria hangs in the doorway watching the rise and fall of the sheet which barely covers his chest. She calls to him softly, her voice hardly rising above a whisper, fearful that he should actually hear her and wake. She moves towards him with hesitant steps and stands at the foot of the bed. His clothes lay scattered on the floor around her. She bends forwards and retrieves his shirt. Holding it up to the light she brushes the cloth with tentative fingers, running them down the length of the fabric with slow, careful strokes. Then she folds it. Places it on the chair by the wardrobe and stoops once more to pick up his trousers laying crumpled by her foot. Pepito stirs in his sleep. He turns over, mumbling a name which she can't quite hear. She drops the trousers over the back of the chair and moves towards him. Bending down over his slack-jawed frame she listens intently, her breathing restrained. But he doesn't stir again. He continues sleeping soundly with his eyelids twitching in the depths of some dream and she wonders. She wonders what he said. And she hovers. She hovers over him for what seems like an eternity, her hand rising impulsively and reaching out to touch the side of his face. Feel the sting of his bristles on the tips of her fingers. Have him murmuring her name. She checks herself in time, shakes her head with a wishful smile and lowers her hand with her fingers curling inwards, digging into her cushioned palm. Then she straightens herself. Lifts her spine with her chin tipped up and moves towards the door with silent steps.

Pepito opens his eyes and sits up in bed. Sliding out from the sheet he stands upright and rubs his face with both hands. He checks his watch. It's late. Stumbling towards the wardrobe he spots the shirt and trousers neatly folded over the back of the chair and swallows hard. He knew it. He knew it was her. Heard her breathing at the foot of the bed. Heard the soft rustle of cloth as she folded his clothes. Felt the air around his head dip and change as she moved in closer and then, with muffled footsteps, she was gone. Cursing softly he looks around the room, searching for his gun. But he isn't inclined to shoot her, at least, not for folding his clothes. He stoops down on cracking joints and checks under the bed. And there it is, dropped in exhaustion and tucked in its holster. He picks it up, cradling it gently in his hands and lays it on the bed. The thought of Gloria stumbling on his father's gun made his stomach turn and his stomach was strong. At least she hadn't found it. His secret is safe, for now. Still, it had been a close call, too close for comfort and somewhere along the way to his bedroom, she'd crossed a line. Throwing a robe over his shoulders, he moves towards the door with hasty steps and pokes his head out. He calls her name. Calls her name with his head pitched back and the volume turned up in his throat.

Downstairs in the stock room, she is moving boxes. Stacking them according to demand, regardless of their size, humming softly to herself as she works her way through the list. She knows that something is wrong. She can feel it in her gut. Like a bloodhound with the scent of blood in her nostrils, she knows how to sniff him out. She can smell the fear that springs from his pores whenever she's around but it's more than that. There's something else. Something that lurks at the back of his mind and keeps him out of her reach. Late nights and hasty mornings that would all add up in the end. Not to mention the shop. He'd been neglecting it, scuttling off without a moments notice and leaving her to run the place herself which, if the truth be told, she didn't mind. Not really. She could manage by herself and had been managing by herself for a very long time. Long enough to feel that she wanted something to change. Long enough to know that she wanted something else.
When she hears him call she lifts her head. She hesitates. Did he know? Did he know that only moments before she had stood in his room arranging his clothes? Had he been awake after all? She waits for a moment, suspended somewhere between doubt and desire until she hears him call again. Then she drops the boxes she's been holding and hurries out into the corridor. She lifts her leg to climb the stairs but something pulls her back. Pulls her back with a sudden jolt as she lingers by the stairs. Let him call. Let him call her name. Let him call to her again. Just one more time and she knows it's silly but let him call her name again. And again. Let him raise his voice a fraction, let him shout it from the stairs. Let him know that she is a woman, a woman consumed by a passion. A passion that knows how to wait.

"Is something wrong?" her fingers flutter over the skin at her neck. Pepito shakes his head but he doesn't know why. There was something. She'd been in his room and stood over his bed as she'd watched him sleep. Not to mention the clothes. A line had been crossed and he needed to tell her. He needed to tell her to back off but somehow, the words wouldn't come and no matter how hard he tried to form them in his mind, they wouldn't slide out from his throat.
"Gloria ..." he drops his head and rubs his brow, "it's just ..." he shuffles on the spot. "I won't be around much this morning that's all ... you'll have to take care of things yourself ..." he eventually chickens out. He looks up and catches her eye, those tiny bird-like orbs that peek out from her glasses and she returns his gaze with an intensity which alarms him. She waits with her chin tilted upwards and her lips parted then she moves towards him, a few bold steps, with her hand rising up in the air.
"There is something wrong isn't there?" She lays her hand on his arm. "You're in some kind of trouble aren't you? You can tell me, it's all right ..."
Recoiling from her words he pulls his arm from her touch and starts to speak with his mind reeling and his mouth flapping. "Now just a minute Gloria ..." He clears his throat and tightens his robe but she doesn't let that distract her. She pushes forwards, steps up closer and emboldened by the moment, she reaches out towards him.
"Mr. Pons, Pepito, I've been meaning to tell you ..." But she's already said too much and as the sound of his name escapes from her lips, Pepito is propelled into action.
"That's enough," he shouts with his hand held high in the air, gut protruding and the sweat popping out on his brow. "I have some business to take care off, that's all ... business that doesn't concern you .." he checks himself before he reveals too much. Swallowing hard, he resolves to be tough but he doesn't have to bother, really. She steps backwards, her hand rising as though she's just been slapped. She shakes her head with her mouth all twisted and slowly straightens her back.
"I'm sorry," she says with a glaze in her eyes and a voice that is trapped in her throat. "I made a mistake and I shouldn't have bothered you ... it won't happen again." She turns from him and reaches the stairs before Pepito has a chance to witness the tears that her crowding her eyes and threatening to spill over. Threatening to give her away as they slip down her face, burning shamefully over her cheeks. She couldn't bear that. Couldn't bear him knowing after all that had passed, over all those moments in all those years, that she could break - just like that. When she reaches the bottom of the stairs she stops. Steadying herself against the banister she twists her head and looks behind her. She waits. She waits until the tears stop falling, then hurries into the shop.
As for Pepito, he stands for a moment on the landing, his right hand raised to his temple and his left hand clutching his jaw. Scratching the lines sunk deep in his forehead, he turns back towards the bedroom and closes the door behind him with a disconsolate nudge from his foot. He closes his eyes and rests his back against the door frame, his chin tipped up towards the ceiling and considers the possibility that perhaps, he'd been too rough. What did she know of him really? What threat could she pose to his intricate life? Pushing his legs forwards he crosses towards the bed, flops himself down on top of the mattress and buries his face in the sheets.

Raphael wakes up somewhere in the Collserola hills and stretches. Despite the discomfort of the ground, he'd slept well. He stands up and looks out over the city that lays sprawling at his feet. He feels good. He feels that he has accomplished something of which Pepito will be proud. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out the passport and flips through the pages then he pulls out his phone and hits Pepito's number.
"What happened to you?" It's the first question Pepito asks when he hears the voice on the other end.
"What do you mean?" He bites down on his lip to stifle the details which are fighting for air at the back of his throat.
"Where did you go?"
"Oh, just hung around .."
"You hung around Candy's place?"
Of course, he has to tell him. In fact, he's bursting to divulge all the events of the previous night which now trip from his mouth with shocking embellishment before he can stop them.
"You what?" It was Pepito's turn to speak but after the initial exclamation he is lost for words.
"I was there .... Francisco's place."
"You mean you broke into Francisco Turó's house?"
"Not exactly .. I mean, the window was open."
"But you hid in his boot ..."
"Well, okay ... I admit I picked the lock for that one."
Pepito shakes his head as though the action itself will make the details any clearer. "You know how stupid that is?" He eventually says.
Raphael considers for a moment, his head cocked to one side, fanning himself with the passport. "Okay, it's a little stupid but at least I made it worth my while."
"You didn't steal anything did you?"
"That depends on how you look at it ..."
"Did you take anything from his place?"
"Maybe some things ..."
"Like what?"
"Nothing special, nothing to get worked up about ..." he was regretting having told him, "he won't even miss them and a passport but there was a few of them anyway so he won't even know that it's gone."
"A passport?" Pepito sits upright.
"Yeah, that's what I'm trying to tell you ... strange looking writing, I don't know where it's from but the girl .." he stops for a moment and flicks through the pages until he comes to the photograph. "The girl, she's a looker all right. A real looker."

Pepito picked him up on the other side of the hill from Mariquita's house. He was sitting by the side of the road still gazing at the picture of the girl in the passport. His lips moving as he tried to make out the writing by the side of the photograph but the only thing he came close to was her name and her date of birth which made her eighteen in October, a little older than Raphael. They drove downtown and stopped at a bar on the Rambles. Raphael was starving, he hadn't eaten all night. He devoured three bikini's and a plate of patatas bravas before he lifted his head and took a breath. Pepito had coffee with ice.
Dipping into his pocket he retrieves the passport and pushes it along the table to Pepito. Pepito picks it up and examines it, turning it over in his moist palms as he flicks through the pages. Then he sits back in his chair and throws it on the table towards Raphael with a satisfied plop.
"Russia," he says, "that's where she's from."
"You recognise the writing?"
Pepito nods his head. "How many more did you say there were?"
"A dozen or so."
"Did you get a look at any of them?"
Raphael slurps his coke and winks at Pepito over the rim of the glass. "They were all the same, more or less."
"And did they all have the same writing?"
"Yup."
Pepito props his elbows on the table. Somehow, Raphael had stumbled on something big. Hell, it may even turn out to be the thing he had been looking for in the first place. The crux of the matter, the missing link, the key to the whole damn case. He reaches out towards the passport and runs his finger over the curling script. Somehow, these girls held the key - the only question was how exactly did they fit? He taps his brow with an agitated finger. Rosa had to have stumbled on this herself. Was that why she was killed? Did she find out too much? The question stirs in his gut and he stiffens his back. But he has to be sure.
Raphael has been watching him. He knows he did good. Real good. He can tell by the way a subtle spasm tugs at the corner of Pepito's mouth, pulling downwards. He's deep in thought. Mind ticking over double time, picking up the pieces and jamming them together but not just any old way - the pieces had to fit. That was the key. That was what kept a man like Pepito, Detective Pons, right on track. An eye for the obvious and a nose for the rest and perhaps that's what guided Raphael too. Guided him to Francisco's place last night. Guided him into that room and towards that cabinet. And the rest, they say, is history.
"What do you think?"
"I'm not sure yet but if Francisco has these passports ..." He stops and strokes his chin between finger and thumb, observing Raphael through the slit of his lids. "What time did Francisco show up at Candy's place last night?"
"Not long after you left."
"How long?"
"Fifteen minutes maybe ..."
"You sure?"
"Sure as I'll ever be."
Pepito leans back in his chair with his hands stretched out in front and fingers drumming impatiently on the surface of the table. He considers his options for a moment, then leans forwards towards Raphael with his voice pitched low.
"She must have called him after I left."
"Who .. Candy?"
Pepito stands up and reaches for his wallet. Flipping it open he pulls out a couple of notes and throws them down on the table. He's a man in a hurry, a man with no change and right now, he doesn't have the time to wait for it.

Gloria turns the sign in the shop and closes the door behind her. Gathering her cardigan around the folds in her waist, she steps out into the street. With a hasty sweep of her head he looks right and left and crosses the road. She walks quickly with her head pitched down and her feet scraping the tarmac. She's angry, angry as hell but she doesn't top her movement. Doesn't stop the scene playing out again and again in her head. Or Pepito's voice, raised an octave and shouted out in her face. And she'd like to think that he didn't mean it but deep down inside, she knows that he did. Meant every word, shot through his teeth with the professional eye of a marksman. And they hit. They hit her hard. Hit her right in her foolish old heart.
She turns the corner and strides towards the spires of the Sagrada Familia. There's no way around it. Not today. And not in this mood. She presses onwards with her elbows pitched out and pushes past the tourists. Forces her way through the throngs of bodies milling around on the street. Colliding with maps and dancing round strangers, she doesn't break her stride. As she nears the park she quickens her pace and circles around the pond and there, through a break in the trees, she sees him. Back braced and feet together, he cups the ball to his chest. Runs his hand over its cool, hard surface, once, twice, for luck and then with a slow, graceful arch in his spine he bends forwards and delivers his shot. His best shot. The ball clips two others in its spiraling path and knocks them to the side of the pitch. He jumps backwards with a spring in his step and clasps his hands above his head. Someone claps him on the back and someone else shakes his head. And when he turns in his moment of triumph, he sees her approaching with her arms swinging loose. He smiles, that papery stretch of lip and raises his hand in greeting.
"Hello," he calls and the other men turn. "Did you see that?"
She nods her head as she walks towards him.
"A few more shots like that and we have a chance to win the tournament."
She smiles and stretches her hand towards him.
"So what brings you down here at this time?" He twists his wrist and checks his watch.
"Can they spare you for a minute?" She nods towards the huddle of men of the patanka pitch.
He turns his head and looks behind him. "Can you spare me for a minute?"
The huddle nods.
She leads him towards a bench facing a play park and sits down. He sits down beside her with his hands braced tightly in the crease of his lap.
"Are you all right?"
She nods her head and lifts her face towards him. "I'm fine really and I've been thinking about what you said on Sunday. I've been thinking about it a lot."
A bead of sweat springs from his brow and trickles slowly down his nose. He pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and dabs his face with fluttering little movements.
"I think, I mean ... I think we could ..."
He reaches out and clasps her hands. "Are you sure?"
She nods her head, closing her eyes. She closes her eyes to his face as he raises her hands to his papery lips and covers her fingers with dry little pecks. Over the tips of her salmon pink nails and down to the bone in her knuckles.

20. THE PASSPORT

But what happened to Raphael? That persistent young buck, secreted behind the door in Francisco's house with his ear to the crack and his heart in his mouth - what happened when the phone clicked down? Had he watched as Francisco strolled over to the bar, picked up a random nut from a plate and cracked it between his teeth? Or was his attention diverted? Suddenly, by the sound of a car on the driveway. As the tyres chewed gravel he'd spun around, his eyes nervously scanning the front door and his feet ready to take flight. He could have escaped. He could have run back up the stairs, two at a time, out of the window, climbed down the balcony and out into the night by the time they switched the engine off but he didn't. Call it persistence, call it what you like, as the sound of feet pounded closer and someone stumbled on the stairs, Raphael lunged towards the nearest doorway and threw himself inside.
The room was small and dark, stuffed with coats and suitcases and so much junk that he had to hunker down with his knees drawn in tight. And he waited. Waited until he heard the click of the front door and the sound of bodies in the hallway. How many bodies? He couldn't tell but they jostled past his hiding place and disappeared down the hall. And he waited still, for a few minutes more, before he dared to duck his head out and check if the coast was clear. It was. It was then that he could have escaped. Crept up to the front door and lifted the latch. Slipped out onto the driveway and no-one would have known and perhaps that's was where he was headed except, he never reached the door. He stopped right there. In the middle of the hallway, completely exposed with one hand reaching out to freedom and the other hanging back. He cocked his head. Cocked his head and strained his ears as the familiar voice of Pepito wafted through the walls. But he couldn't be sure so he edged a little closer, closer to that door. Pressed his eye against that frame and peered through the crack once more. And there he was. Detective Pepito Pons, seated on a chair with his back to the door, brushing the dirt from his jacket with harried flicks from his hand.

It was then that he bolted. Took off into the night with the front door swinging, telling tales of his flight. Snaking through the trees and tramping over stones, he kept on running. Running out of breath and running out of steam until his legs gave up beneath him and he collapsed in the dirt. Collapsed completely, his face streaked with tears and his lungs screaming for mercy despite his tender years. He rolled over and lay flat on his back. Stared at the sky and counted the stars. By the time he reached a hundred, he was already heading back.

He was waiting at the house by the time Pepito left. Waiting and watching as Pepito walked from the place on his own two legs. And when he saw that Pepito was safe, he waited still in the bushes, crouched down low, obscured amongst the trees. Waited until the car pulled out of the driveway and slid down the road. Then he waited a little longer until all the lights went out in the house. Only the crickets were there to witness as he sneaked back up the steps, around the side with pale light of the moon to guide him and up to an opened window. Opened just enough for him to ease his hands beneath and pull upwards. Upwards and in, he slid his skinny body through the opening and stood up. He looked around, moved through the room, touching every surface with the oily pads of his nimble fingers until he stumbled on a desk pushed up tight in the corner. He stopped, twisted his head to check all around him as he pulled open the drawers and rifled through them, pocketing hastily, whatever came to hand. A wrist watch, a letter opener, a lighter and some other odds and ends and with his pockets bulging and a film of sweat spiking his brow, he moved quickly towards the door. But he wasn't finished yet. He poked his head out and scanned the hallway. He counted the doors until he reached that one - the one that had held Pepito captive more than an hour before - and when he was sure that his legs could carry him he darted towards it. Then carefully, with his back bent double and his heart pumping the blood swiftly through his veins, he pushed it open and ducked inside. He walked to the middle of the room and stood there with his hands propped up on the side of his hips, as his eyes flicked over the place. Some things never leave you, some things are in the blood. Like an eye for detail, a nose for a bargain and fingers that are sticky and light in their touch. With one such finger, Raphael scratched his chin. He'd already pondered his options and noted the exits - window in front, door behind and an enticing cabinet pushed up against the wall. It seemed like a good place to start. So he moved towards it, stepping lightly, fingers flexing as his instincts took hold. Of course, it was locked but he'd half expected it. Breathing deeply, he bowed his head and dipped his hand into his pocket to extract a long hooked wire which he held aloft, squinting at the end before he poked it forwards into the mouth of the lock. Eased it forwards, sliding it gently, positioning it carefully. Then he twiddled and twiddled. And twiddled some more. Wiping the sweat that slipped down towards his eyes with hasty swipes until the lock clicked and the door popped open. The door popped open and he staggered back, nervously flicking his head around to check he was still alone. He was. He was reaching forwards. Reaching in and running his sticky fingers down the cold, hard spine of a semi-automatic pump action shot gun. He had to step back and take a deep breath, expelling the air from his lungs with a long, low whistle. Then he muttered to himself, shaking his head and riffled through the rest of the things, papers mostly, letters, deeds, official looking stuff and some passports. He picked them up and examined their covers attracted perhaps, by their curious script. Archaic letters, gently curling, like beautiful mistakes from a long lost age. Choosing one, he opened it and flicked through the pages until he came to a photograph of a girl not much older than Raphael himself. He ran a finger over her unsmiling face. Traced it along her piercing blue eyes and down a strand of mousy hair that had fallen across her broad set face. There were others too. Twelve in all. All with the same lettering, each with a different face - dark, fair, grey eyed and blue. All women, all young, peering out from between the pages with the same tentative smile lighting up their face. He read their names, rolling the letters around in his mouth, tasting their sound on the tip of his tongue.
Olga, Sylvia .... Natasha.
Before he left, he placed them back in the cabinet, picking out the first one of the blue-eyed girl with the mousy hair.
Her name was Natasha and he placed her carefully in his pocket.