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.

9. OF SCAMS & MEN contd.

Maybe he should have gone home. Back to the shop. Back to the flat. But he just couldn't face it. Instead, he finds himself cruising down the Ronda Sant Antoni on the lookout for a prostitute. Not just any prostitute either but a high-busted, round-cheeked chiquita named Carmen, although it wasn't sex that he was after. At least, not today. Sometimes, he just needed someone to slip his shoes off, rub his back even. And sometimes he just needed to talk and know that someone else was listening. He swings his bike over to the traffic lights, doubles back and takes a trip up the street again, just in case he missed her the first time. She's not in her usual spot, in an alcove by the electrical store and he's just about to turn around and head home when he spots her. She's standing in a side street, backed up against a wall while her pimp gesticulates some finer point with a clenched fist rammed in her face. As she crumples forwards, Pepito jumps from his bike. He sprints towards her just as the pimp is winding his fist up for another strike but Pepito is there before the pimp can sink it home. He grabs his wrist. He spins him around. He pokes his nose in the other man's face and growls.

"Don't even think about it." If there's one thing Pepito can't stand - it's violence, any kind of violence, especially against a woman. With a twist on the wrist, just to make his point, Pepito releases his grasp. The pimp takes one step back then two steps forwards. Stops. Rubs his wrist. Lifts his eyes to check out his opponent then turns on his heel and saunters off down the street. Only when he's safely out of Pepito's reach does he open his mouth for a parting comment.
"I'll be watching you .." His words ring out as he turns the corner and disappears out of sight.

He takes her back to her flat. Sits her down on the edge of the bed and asks her if she has a first aid kit. But when she looks at him with the arch of her brow rising in derision, he shrugs it off and searches through his own pockets without pressing the point any further. He pulls out a handkerchief which is a little soiled and even though the bleeding has stopped, he still dabs at her lip with the cotton. Small, cautious little flutters around her mouth like he's afraid he's going to hurt her. She pushes his hand away, grabbing the handkerchief with an exasperated gasp and throws it on the bed beside her. She stands up. She twists around, her back towards Pepito. Her hands rise to claw through her hair then fall abruptly by her side. She turns around to face him.
"What the fuck?"
"What?"
"What the fuck were you thinking?" She paces across the room.
"I thought .." He starts to speak, starts to explain but she cuts him off with an icy glare and the palm of her hand in the air.
"No, no, you didn't think and that's your fuckin' problem."
Pepito stands up, he reaches out towards her.
"You think that's it, that's the end of it?" She slips out of Pepito's grasp. "It's okay for you .. you can just go on back to your own life but me .." She jabs a finger into her chest. "This is my fuckin' life. And guy's like that ..." She swings her finger out, pointing roughly to the window. "Guy's like him are ten a' fuckin' penny." She snaps her fingers and slumps down on the bed.
"I'm sorry, really .." He moves towards her with his hands stretching out to placate her. "Really, I didn't mean to make it any worse, I didn't think ... your right, I didn't think."
"Yeah well," she touches her lip and dips her head, "next time you come chargin' in with your fists cocked .. you just think how it's gonna be for me."
He nods his head and tries to smile but he's not sure if he can manage it.
"You come for the usual?"
He shakes his head. "I just want to talk, that's all."
"Fair enough but it'll cost you just the same." She pats the bed beside her and he sits down.
"What do you wanna talk about anyway? The weather?"
He shakes his head again and eases himself backwards. His legs feel heavy, his head aches and the thing he wants to do most right now is curl up on her crumpled sheets and fall into a deep and endless sleep. He feels her lift his left leg and slip his shoe off, then the right.
"Tell me something .." His voice is curious, pitched down low in the depths of his throat. "How does a girl get into all this?"
"All this?" She twists her head and lets her eyes move slowly over the room. Picking out her things with a critical air, all those possessions she'd picked up along the way. "Easy money, I guess."
"Easy?" He feels his voice falling further from his body.
"Why not?" She leans in close. "Sure it has it's moments .." Unbuttons the shirt at his throat. "But it's not as bad as you think .. it's a job .. I do my work and I stay out of trouble, nothing kinky see and if I'm lucky it's all over in a couple of minutes ... you tell me where else I can make the same kind of money for a few minutes work?"
"Don't you mind?"
"Mind what?" She moves her hand down to unbuckle his belt.
"Different men .. strangers."
"Not all of them are strangers."
"Like me?"
"Like you ..." She slips the trousers from around his waist.
"It's okay," he says, his eyes closing despite themselves, "I'm too tired that's all."
"I know," she says as she tugs the trousers from his ankles and smooths them down on the side of the bed.
"And I'm sorry ..." He feels his voice growing fainter, trailing into the distance. "I'm sorry for everything."
"So they all say."
But he doesn't hear her. And he doesn't feel the warmth of her swollen lip as she brushes a kiss on the side of his head.

9. OF SCAMS & MEN

Always, the scam goes something like this: A man, an upturned cardboard box and a small, wary crowd of people. They look like they're on their way somewhere but have stopped, with a lazy interest, as they watch the man place an ace and two jacks down and swirl them around. Real slow. You know where the ace is. You kept track, watched it slide over the box and swirl around but you're not the only one, someone else says so. They come from behind and lay down their money and bet and win and bet and win until eventually, you're hooked. Then they wind you in so fast you can hardly keep your eyes on the cards, swirling and sliding, you were sure it was that one and you bet again and again until someone behind you shouts and they all run. In all directions. And for a moment, a few hasty steps, you run too, confused and dazed until you stop and think and pat your empty pocket. But there's one thing you should know, before you're too hard on yourself. They were all in on it. The man, the upturned cardboard box and the small, wary crowd of people. The only genuine schmuck was you.

Pepito stands a short distance away and waits for the sprint. He could have stood there all day, waiting for the moment, the perfect time to act. Just as he'd waited his whole life to play this part, standing patiently in the wings, watching and learning. Waiting for his life to start. And when did it start, truthfully? Was it his mother's death? Could he finally breathe when she drew her last breath? Perhaps it was then that he ceased to be the obedient son - respectful, courteous, obeying her every command. Tucking his dreams away for the meantime, out of sight but not out of heart. And the truth was; it wasn't so bad. She'd been good to him, sure. Cared for him, nurtured him, gave him everything he needed except, it was never enough. Not the business, not the shop. None of it. Not for a man like Pepito, with a restless dream in the pit of his gut and yearning to follow in his father's footsteps. Follow where his instincts led him and his instincts had told him to be wait. Be patient, for one day your life will start.
Waiting still, he observes the Menendez clan in action. He's seen them before and he has to admit they make a good team. A dying remnant of the hustling art. Holding its own against those outside forces that were flocking to the city from far flung places and changing the face of petty crime. But not in a good way. He steps forwards and watches Raphael's mother as she plays the bait. White streaked hair and darkened roots, nails like talons sharpened to a point, she leans over to place her bet. An uncle stands behind and throws some money down too. Now here comes the schmuck. He's stopped, he's interested, he kept track of the cards and while he convinces himself he'll win this time; Raphael has already slipped up behind him an palmed his wallet. Pepito catches him just as he's about to disappear into the crowd and takes his cue like a pro. Flashing his badge, Detective Pons takes control.
"Hand it over," he says.
"Wha?"
"You know ..."
"Wha?"
"The wallet."
"But .."
Pepito grabs him roughly and twists his arm.
"Okay, okay." He hands it over.
"Don't let this happen again." Pepito says and the schmuck nods.
He pulls Raphael over to the side of the road, cuffs him and leads him towards his vespa, a little too roughly perhaps, considering his ribs but what the hell, it's all for effect.

Who would have thought it, certainly not Pepito. His first big case, something to get his teeth into and here he was forced to relay on the dubious talents of a seventeen year old boy. He couldn't believe it and neither could Raphael.
"You wha?" He stands back an arm defensively placed around his ribs, blinking through the other blackened eye that Pepito knows wasn't there the last time. He nods to the eye and asks what happened but Raphael shrugs his shoulders, says he can't remember.
"Your old man?" He presses the issue but Raphael has already swung around with his back to Pepito.
"Leave it .. okay." His voice trails off and Pepito shakes his head. He pulls out his wallet, flicking through the notes, counts out fifty and holds them out to Raphael.
"Here," he says, "take it .. there will be more when you get back to me." Raphael takes the money grudgingly and asks again, for clarification's sake, what it is he has to do.
"It's easy," Pepito sighs, "Just find out who placed a call to the police about the body of a young woman found on a building site this morning. Okay?"
Raphael nods. He folds the money carefully and slips it into his back pocket. "Who is this woman anyway?"
"A stripper, worked at Mariquita's place .. you put me on to it, remember? She was missing and I was supposed to find her."
Raphael laughs throwing his head back and snorting through his nose. "Congratulations Detective Pons, you found her."
"Watch it," Pepito says moving to cuff him around the ear then thinks better of it. "Her name was Rosa ... heard anything about her?"
Raphael shakes his head, wipes his nose with a grimy paw and cocks his head to one side.
"She had a tattoo, just here ..." he points to the spot just above his wrist, "a rose."
Raphael stops for a moment, his face screwed up in thought. "Yeah," he nods, eventually, "yeah, that rings a bell but I heard she was a hooker not a stripper."
"A hooker?"
"Yeah, high priced too."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, sure I'm sure .." he trails off distracted by some tourists milling about on the other side of the street.
"How'd you know?"
"How'd I know wha?"
"How'd you know she was a hooker?"
"Friend of mine told me .." he answers absently, his eyes wandering after the tourists, impatient to follow. "Her and this other girl worked the hotels, businessmen, you know."
"Who?"
"Who wha?"
"Who told you?"
"A friend .."
"Which friend?"
"Does it matter?"
Raphael is already wandering off, his attention fixed on the tourists who are obviously lost. Pepito lets him go. He has more important things on his mind. Besides, he knows where to find him when he wants to. In one sense, Raphael was right; Rosa had been found. Found dead poor bitch. The case had been changed and the lines reset in one, windy night. Changed from a missing persons to a possible murder inquiry, something he wasn't prepared for. Although, he couldn't be sure - she may have killed herself. It was possible, anything was possible, especially for a man like Pepito. Possible but not plausible. Lifting his chin he squints in the harsh sunlight and slips his helmet over his head. Then he hitches his left leg behind him and slides onto the bike. His mind is ticking overtime, digesting the events of the morning and trying to reconcile them with the clear, smiling face of the girl in the photograph. He dips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the photograph. The same face with the dark eyes and the mouth stretched wide to reveal those perfect pearly teeth stares back at him and the more he stares the more he realizes that his knowledge of her is limited. Limited to a few simple facts of life. A short, troubled life but he needs more than that. He needs more information, more than Raphael can provide. He needs to know exactly how Rosa died and luckily, he knows just the man to help him.

Squat, bow-legged and in need of a shave he stands with his arms crossed and his back to the wall observing all who enter and leave the square with the hawk like twist of his one good eye. The other is glass, polished to perfection by Pitchi himself and his alarming habit of plucking it out between finger and thumb when the mood takes him. Rolling it in his soiled palm, admiring the crystal blue of the iris as it glints upon his skin, marveling at its perfection is the closest he'll get to love of any kind. And he loves that eye. In spite of its uselessness, or perhaps because of it, plucking and buffing in the crease of his crotch until it glimmers and shines like a marble. What fate befell the original is hard to tell because the story itself changes according to Pitchi's mood and the person with whom he's sharing it. In one breath it may have been mashed beyond hope in the depths of a fight. In another, it may have been extracted by the mob on the point of a knife. Or even, as had been his whim on one particular occasion, nibbled by a ravenous rat when he was just a boy. Wherever the truth lay, Pitchi didn't care to mention it, maybe it just wasn't as important as his many tales. Tall perhaps, but invariably entertaining, he took as much pride in their telling as he did in the buffing of the replacement.
Pepito has been watching him pluck and buff, hold it up to the light, cloud with breath and buff again until it shines like the sun itself. He waits for him to finish, wavering between respect for his right to this most intimate of moments and a powerful disgust at the sight. Slowly, he crosses the square towards him, slipping amongst the people gathered outside the Cathedral and edging fitfully forwards. He's careful not to startle him, knowing all the while that if his one good eye should spot him sliding furtively through the crowd, he'd be off with his best foot forward, like a rabbit out a trap. And Pepito is no greyhound. He takes it easy, moving closer, one foot in front of the other, hanging back and waiting for his moment to pounce. Pitchi turns his head for a moment, he's distracted by a group of nuns outside the Cathedral door, huddled amongst themselves and staring up at the carved stone walls, lost in reverence. One of them digs a small, beaded rosary out of a pocket in her shapeless grey dress and lifts it to her mouth, kissing the beads and dipping her head. Pitchi dips his own head, mimicking the sign of the cross on his own striped shirt - chin, sternum, left and right; while Pepito, timing his moment to perfection, moves in for the kill.
"Pitchi, Pitchi, Pitchi." He strides towards him, shaking his head with the practiced gesture of a pro and his arms stretched out in greeting. "Now, isn't this nice? Two old friends meeting by chance on such a fine day." Leaning towards a nervous Pitchi, a lazy smile playing on his lips, he enfolds him in his arms and stifles any chance the other has to escape.
"Walk with me Pitchi, walk with me," he coaxes and leads the little man away with a firm hand gripping his elbow. They turn down an alleyway and continue down, in silence, until they reach the bustling throng of the Rambles. Pepito stops, his arms resting heavily across Pitchi's shoulders his hand curling gently round his neck.
"You know Pitchi," he eventually says, "I have this little problem, nothing major now but nevertheless, it's something that needs fixing."
Pitchi starts to speak but a subtle twist from Pepito's hand stifles the words in his throat.
"Now," he continues, "now ... I know what you're going to say, you're going to offer me the benefit of your invaluable experience, aren't you Pitchi?"
The little man nods.
"Which is just as well really because today Pitchi ... today is your lucky day. Out of all the roaches that plague this fair city, you're the one that can help me with my little problem. You Pitchi ... you ..." he says patting his back with a firm hand as they push their way through the crowds to the other side of the Rambles. "You Pitchi ..." he continues as they turn off into one of the side streets, "yes you Pitchi ... are the right man for the job."
Of course, Pitchi was a wise choice, unorthodox perhaps, but what the hell, Pepito had no other means and he had to play it by ear. Make it up as he went along. Literally, pushing a nervous Pitchi a few steps ahead of him until they arrived at a dark little slit of a door, secreted between two dumpsters. Pitchi's place. His home sweet home. Pushing the door with his foot, Pepito steps inside pulling a reluctant Pitchi behind him. They climb the stairs to the first floor and stop outside a battered wooden door peppered with the tiny holes of termites.
"Don't worry." He says as Pitchi fumbles with the lock, "its not what you think."
But Pitchi is far from convinced, particularly at that delicate moment when the door creaks open to reveal a place, sparse in furniture but rich in merchandise. This is Pitchi's trade, a lifetime's work. An odd consortium of various goods and an entrepreneurial streak which loosely revolves around the principles of buying and selling. Anything. Anywhere. Anytime. From fake ID's to knocked off Nikes and everything in between with a liberal sprinkling of drug dealing on the side. If you need something in a hurry, cut price, bit of blow. Pitchi is your man.
Pepito brushes his way passed boxes piled high in the hallway and into what should be the living room but there's a bed in the corner, with the sheet laying twisted on tops as if the occupant has been spewed out and swallowed by the mess. Along the sides of the room are more boxes, piled one on top of the other, some open with their contents spilling over the top and onto the floor. Pepito steps over a selection of ladies footwear and crosses the room to the window. He pulls back the curtain and looks out. Pitchi moves around the room behind him, picking up a drawer full of watches as he goes which he thrusts with a vigorous kick beneath the bed.
"Sit down Pitchi." Pepito says, his face still turned to the window. Pitchi sits down. Pepito turns around, his rear end resting against the window ledge and his arms crossed over his chest.
"Here's the thing ..." He starts slowly, relishing the moment, rolling the words in his mouth, tasting their sound. "How are your connections these days in the world of medicine?"
For anyone else it would have seemed a surprising question, a foolish question in fact but Pepito was no fool, he knew his man. He knew that Pitchi supplied one of the lab technician's of the district's top pathologist with a choice of the finest Colombian cocaine, cut price of course. He presses his point home.
"Come on Pitchi, it's a well known fact."
Pitchi stands up, plucking his eye with nervous fingers and rubs it over his crotch. "Yeah, well."
"Yeah Pitchi, just like I thought." He turns back to face the window avoiding the crucial moment as the eye is pushed back into the socket.
"What's this all about?" Pitchi asks, his lids closing in rapid succession as a profusion of sweat trickles down from his hairline.
"What's it about?" He turns back to face Pitchi, his hands hitched up on his hips and his eyes bouncing over the boxes. He's reluctant to tell him, searching for an excuse but the more he thinks about it the more he realizes that it's safer to stick with the truth.
"There was a body found this morning on a building site in La Mina .. ring any bells?"
Pitchi steps backwards and shakes his head with his hands raised in the air. "Now wait a minute," he starts to speak but Pepito cuts him off.
"Relax Pitchi, it's not your style. I just wanted to know if you've heard the news, that's all." The little man breathes an audible sigh of relief and sits back down on the bed.
"No," he says, wiping his brow, "haven't heard a thing."
"That's a shame," Pepito continues, "ever heard of Rosa Perez?"
"The hooker?"
That was the second time he'd heard her described that way and he was still no nearer to accepting it. He crosses the room and reaches into one of the boxes, picks out a CD and turns it over, his eyes running down the play list.
"Was she?"
Pitchi nods his head. "One of the best they say."
"Who says?"
Pitchi shrugs. "Dunno, it get's around ... talk, you know ..."
But Pepito didn't. He throws the CD back in the box and moves to the window. He pulls back the curtain and gazes out over the narrow street. It would have been simpler if she was just a plain stripper. It would have been simpler if she wasn't dead.
"What do you want from me Detective Pons?"
Pepito spins around roused by Pitchi's voice.
"What do I want?" He moves towards him, slowly, one hand resting on the holster at his hip and the other smoothing the bristles on his jaw. "I want you to use your contact and find out how she died." A tall order perhaps but he has no other choice. Besides, Pitchi is an expert, an expert at getting what he wants, when he wants it. All it takes is a little persistence and the right kind of bribe. A taste for cocaine in this case. Everyone has their price.

He leaves him sitting on the side of the bed, clouding his glass eye with breath while the good one follows Pepito as he picks his way to the front door. There was no sense in hanging around, Pitchi had his orders and would get back to him when he had something to tell. Sometimes, a little trust goes a long way and even further when it's wrapped up in crisp, clean bank notes.
Like I said, everyone has their price. Even Pitchi.

8. ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE

Mariquita sits on the terrace at the back of the house staring out over the hills of Collserola down to the city below. She hasn't slept. The wind kept her awake most of the night, rattling the windows and whistling through the trees and when it finally died down it was almost dawn. She'd left the club early, earlier than usual. Usually, she stayed behind to count the takings and place them in the safe, making sure every penny was accounted for and recorded, with meticulous detail, in a big leather bound ledger. But last night she left early, just before midnight. Perhaps she was tired, it was a plausible explanation, a reasonable excuse but the truth was she was sick of the place. Standing, as was her custom, by the window in her office, her eyes flicking distractedly over the bodies on the stage in front she'd felt a weariness sink into her bones, pulling on her limbs. Pulling on her conscience. Resting her head against the window, she'd closed her eyes and relished the cold chill of glass as it stung her cheek. When she'd opened her eyes again nothing had changed, everything was still the same. The punters were still there pulling notes from their wallets, waving them in the air so that the dancers would move that little bit closer. Closer and closer. Bending down with their breasts swinging loose and the men straining forwards holding out those notes, creased and tempting, between their oily fingers. Her stomach had turned and not for the first time. Not even the thought of all those notes, piling up in the safe behind her could quell the nausea that lurched in her gut. So she told Carlos to put the money in the safe himself and enter the amount into the ledger. She trusted Carlos. She knew he would do as she said. And she left. Drove through the city with the streetlights glittering, the top of her convertible rolled down so that the wind whipped through her hair and blew it out behind her in a tangled mass. She didn't drive straight home either but made her usual detour through some of the most unsavoury parts of the city. The housing schemes, every city has them, the ugly slabs of concrete and crumbling debris that is pushed to the sides and tucked out of sight. And yet, she sought them out. For some strange reason, they soothed her, reminding her of where she'd come from and how far she'd had to crawl. She let the graffiti, the litter, the boarded up shops wash over her like a familiar hand swept across her brow because she needed them, after all this time. She needed them still. Like an addict needs a fix.

She must have arrived home sometime after two, although she couldn't be sure. She'd parked the car in the garage by the side of the house and walked around to the swimming pool at the back. And she'd stood for a moment by the side of the pool, looking out over the hill and down onto the myriad lights of the city below, letting her eyes wash along the length of the coast and out into the sea. Then she undressed. Stepped out of her clothes as if shedding a skin and danced. Danced alone. Danced for no-one. Throwing her head back and closing her eyes, weaving her arms through the stagnant air, grinding her hips slowly, luxuriously, her hands slipping over her breasts and down. Down to that restless place between her legs, over the fleshy slope of her thighs until she was breathless. Sweating and breathless, she'd jumped into the cool water of the pool with her body tensed, straight as a dart as she sliced through the surface. Sliced through the surface with her head tipped back and let the cool, clear water slide over her limbs, cleansing her. By the time she'd surfaced the wind had already picked up. Dripping wet, she'd gathered her clothes and hurried into the house.

She stands up, cradling the cup in her hands and moves back into the house. She glances at the clock, it's just after ten and continues to the kitchen, snapping the radio on as she goes. The voice of woman rolls over her as she reaches for the coffee; the words fired rapidly, the tone flat and emotionless drips slowly into her consciousness.
A body has been found in the early hours of this morning in La Mina, as yet unidentified ... She is only partially aware that she is listening. She cocks her head as she pours the coffee. Police are appealing to the public for any information ... She lifts the cup to her lips and blows chastely over the liquid. Distinguishing mark is a tattoo in the shape of a rose on the forearm ... Hot coffee splashes her robe as the cup hits the floor and she bites her lip to ease the pain, or shock. Or both. She runs through to the living room, grasping the wet material with one hand and turning up the volume on the radio with the other.
Police have no real clues but are anxious to trace anyone who may know anything about the woman believed to be around twenty years old ...
She turns the radio off, unable to hear the rest and paces around the room. "
Fuck .. Fuck ..Fuck .." She repeats it slowly to herself, like a mantra, a way to contain her thoughts and control her emotions. Her hand rises to her head and grabs a fistful of hair, squeezing and twisting until the pain shoots through her skull and she stops. She stops dead in her tracks. She moves through the house and into the bedroom, quickly, effortlessly and picks up her bag, rummaging through the contents until she finds it. She pulls it out. A small, unassuming card, no frills no logos no magic. Just a name and a number. She holds it up and grabs the phone, her mouth still repeating the mantra and her fingers trembling over the buttons as she punches the numbers home.

The persistent trill of the phone enters Pepito's consciousness like a distant drip of water and rouses him from his slumber with annoying insistence. He struggles out of bed and lurches towards the door, cursing under his breath. What time is is, he can't be sure but he knows it's Sunday and perhaps that's why he grabs the phone from its cradle and rams it against his head.
"Detective Pons," her voice sounds strained, close to breaking, "I need you to come here straight away .. it's Rosa, I mean, I'm sure it's her .. they found a body .."
"A body?" He repeats her words although he knows it's dumb but he's stalling, trying to rouse himself, unclog his brain, unfurl his memory. "Where .." he says, rubbing the sleep from his eyes, "Where are you?"
"I'm at home .." He can hear her breathing on the other end, a stifled, ragged gasp of breath, as though she has been crying or is trying not to. "You have to come now .. I'm sure it's her ... fuck ... fuck." She breaks into her mantra again and then stops, suddenly, as though she remembers something. She draws in her breath. "My God," she cries, "Carlos, I'll have to tell him ... I'll have to phone him now." Pepito manages to get her address before she hangs up but not much else. He hurries towards the bathroom and splashes cold water on his face, running a hand over the toughened bristles as he slaps himself awake. But there's no time to shave as he dries himself quickly and returns to the bedroom. He opens the wardrobe and pulls out the first thing that comes to hand, a pale blue shirt and dark brown slacks and dresses with unusual haste. When he's ready, he pockets the piece of paper and slips his gun in its holster. He doesn't even bother to check himself in the mirror before he runs downstairs, two steps at a time and grabs the Vespa. He's already out the door and on his bike before he has time to check his watch.

He hopes by the time he reaches her house in Vallvidrera she will have calmed down, calmed down long enough to make more sense at least. As it was he'd grasped the basic premise - Rosa's body had been found. She was dead. He castes his mind back to the day before. The flat, the random signs of life, the mundane scraps of evidence that spoke of her existence. Even Rosa herself laying on the beach, laughing, one arm cupped beneath her breasts and her hand stretched out towards the camera in silent protest at being snapped at that particular moment last summer. Last summer, when her life had begun again, her second chance. Pepito shakes his head, an image of her cold and lifeless body stretched out on the mortician's slab keeps flashing before his eyes. At least, that's how he imagines it.
He pulls up outside the house and Mariquita steps out of the doorway and comes running towards him. She must have been waiting there, watching and waiting for him to arrive. He slides off the bike and pulls the helmet from his head and then he hears her. She's sobbing, swallowing great lungfuls of strangled breath. Startled, he stands motionless and when she throws her arms around his neck he buckles slightly under her weight. He moves his hand around her waist and holds her steady while she sobs into his shirt soaking the material, the wet fibres clinging to his skin and her body shaking beneath his grip. She stops, suddenly, as if at that moment she has just become aware of herself. Slowly, she pulls her head up, she steps back, dabs her eyes with the sleeve of her robe, her lips pressed tightly together and walks towards the house. Pepito follows, his fingers picking nervously at the damp stain as he walks. She leads him towards the back of the house, her hips restrained from their usual strut and steps out onto the terrace. She sits down heavily on a chair and motions for Pepito to sit opposite. He nods, his head dipping just a fraction as he pulls it forwards slightly so that his knees almost touch hers. Almost but not quite. He waits there until she's ready to speak. Slightly confused but eternally grateful that out of all the necks in the whole damn town, she chose to cling to his.

Carlos had been arrested. She told him in fits and starts, rising from her seat and pacing back and forth, between controlled sobs and genuine disbelief she spat out her story. She'd called, that was the extent of it, she'd called his flat but instead of speaking to him, she'd spoken to the police instead. They were taking him down to the station for further questioning. Then she tells him with repetitive detail what she had heard on the radio that morning, her voice almost as flat and emotionless as the original.
A body had been found .. on a building site in La Mina, as yet, unidentified ... female, around twenty years old with a distinguishing mark ... a rose on the forearm ...
She trails off, slumps forwards and buries her head in her hands. Pepito sits back in his chair and scratches his head. He's confused. With his eyes skimming the back of her head and his hand moving over his jaw he hits the rewind button in his head and runs over her story again for a closer look. What did she say? The body was found this morning and she thought it was Rosa, but the body was actually unidentified, which meant she was guessing and by the sounds of it, so were the police. Then what did they want with Carlos? Unless. He considers the possibility, stroking his chin with ponderous fingers, laying all the pieces of information he has at his disposal before him, placing them together, turning them over, examining them until it finally strikes him, like a fist in the gut. Someone must have had some information after all. Someone must have told the police. Someone must have blabbed. Any information? Of course it was obvious, even to a man like Pepito, slightly out of his depth and yet curiously rising to the challenge - someone had filled in the blanks. Pepito knows how it works, he knows the score. Except, the police didn't pay for their information, they had other means and the weight of the law behind them, which helped. Which is unfortunate for Pepito, who at this moment is becoming increasingly aware that he's in over his head. He shifts in his seat and cups his chin, his fingers moving backwards and forwards along his jaw, snagging on the tough little bristles massed there. He needs to think, he needs to be sure. He needs to be sure of what he'll do next. Which, at this point in time is anyone's guess. But at least he is sure that the police are no closer to the truth than he, after all, they'd picked up the wrong man. The most obvious choice and yet, Carlos is innocent. He was sure of that. Although, he couldn't say why, at least, not yet. Right now, his main concern is who pointed the finger in Carlos' direction but he has to be smart. The police would be close behind him and it was only a matter of time before they worked it out themselves. The best he can do for now ... is stay one step ahead. He stands up abruptly and leans towards Mariquita placing a hand on her shoulder. She looks up and smiles at Pepito who, in his own awkward way, smiles back.
"There's something I think you should know," she starts to say, her eyes glossy and wet. "Carlos is innocent, you have to believe that."
Pepito nods his head. "I know."
"You have to help him," she rises moving towards him of softly padding feet, "you have to help him get out of this mess."
"I understand and I'll do all I can to help him."
She reaches forwards and grabs his wrist. "No, you don't understand ... he means more to me that you know .." Pepito listens his head drooping downwards, bracing himself for the sting, knowing all the while there was something else but reluctant to hear it from her own lips. Loosening her grasp on his wrist she turns and moves to the edge of the pool. She stares down at her reflection, shimmering on the glassy surface.
"Carlos you see .." she continues, "Carlos is my son."
And now he knows. The phone call. The tears. The drama. The arms around his neck. Yes, even the arms around his neck.
Suddenly it all makes sense.

7. THE BODY

It's early, too early for most people. This time on a Sunday morning, most people are still in their beds. Except for a lone tramp and his dog, the building site is deserted. They pick their way through the debris of rubble and dust on the ground to an abandoned building on the far side of the site. He'd stumbled on the place, literally, drunk on cheap wine, a couple of nights before as he'd trudged around the streets. It was a gaping black hole of concrete and dust earmarked for destruction by the end of the week but for now it would serve as home. The wind had already died down hours ago and the air is calm as the tramp and his dog make their way towards the building. The only evidence that remains of the wind are the broken fronds of palm trees littering the streets. Most people slept through it. Most people except for the tramp who picks up a stick that's been snapped from a tree and throws it for his dog. The dog bounds after it with great lolloping strides, leaving flurries of dust in its wake. It stops, picks up the stick between its teeth and bounds back to the tramp. He throws the stick again and they work their way through the building site in this silent complicity of man and beast. The dog never tires of fetching the stick and the tramp never tires of throwing it.
They continue like this for some moments until the tramp reaches the building and stops. He turns on his heels and whistles for the dog to follow and the dog scampers up with its tail beating behind him and the stick clamped tightly in its jaw. Ducking inside the tramp makes his way to a room at the back with the dog following wet nosed and obedient beside him. He sits down on a mat and empties his pockets, pulling out two tins and a knife from the lining. He stabs one of the tins and a small hiss of air escapes as he works the knife around the rim and empties the contents on the floor for the dog. Then he stabs the other and tips the tin to his mouth, his head pitched back and the red juice of the tomatoes staining his chin as he greedily gulps down the contents. He wipes his mouth with a grimy sleeve and places the can by the side of the mat. Reaching into his pocket he pulls out a bottle of wine and pulls the cork with his teeth which he spits on the floor. The dog watches cautiously as he laps at his meat. Then he clamps his mouth around the neck of the bottle and tips his head back so that the wine can flow down his throat without the need to swallow. The dog sits up and starts to sniffle around the floor, searching for more meat. He licks his paws and thumps his tail and the tramp lays a hand on his head, between his ears, which he draws down the length of his shaggy, matted coat. The tramp leans back on the stained mat and closes his eyes but the dog stirs. He's restless. He moves off on four paws with his nose close to the ground, snuffling through the litter of rusted cans and empty wine bottles. Leaving the room where the tramp lies dozing he pads through the place with his tail held high, occasionally stopping to lift his head and sniff the air. He moves through the building, cocking his leg from time to time, spraying his name as he goes.

He knows this place. Knows all the nooks and crannies. Knows all the good places to dig. And he's moving there now, on softly padding paws to a hidden, secret place at the back of the building. That's where he hid his bone. A dirty scrap of nothing, half gnawed by the rats but at least it's his. His bone. Scampering over the rubble, fallen beams and banks of stones he makes his way to his secret place. He stops and sniffs the air and knows he's close. His jaws, slack from panting, tongue lolling to one side dribbles saliva in a snaking trail behind him. He's closer now, he's almost there and as he reaches the spot he stops in his tracks. He stops dead still, his shackles rising and sniffs the air.

The tramp awakes with a start to the echoing sound of a dog howling somewhere in the building. He pulls himself upright on shaking arms and calls the dog's name. No answer. He waits, his skin prickling instinctively at the hollow sound of the dog's cries. He stands upright, the bottle falling from his lap and shattering on the floor. He curses and starts to make his way through the building, kicking cans and stones in his path, towards the empty howls of the dog. He calls again, louder, his voice bouncing back to him but the dog doesn't respond. He keeps moving, legs unsteady, eyes still crusted with sleep. He trips, he stumbles but he keeps on moving, hurrying through the gutted rooms, to the sound of a baying dog.
When he finds him, the dog is snuffling around the edge of a large pit in the floor. He circles the hole with his front paws scratching on the shattered tiles and his head disappearing inside. The tramp calls his name and waits for him to respond but the dog is still rooting around in the hole. He calls again, louder. Harsher, reprimanding the dog with his tone. And the dog looks up. Finally, he looks at the tramp but he doesn't move towards him, he stays where he is. His front paws scratching, digging, clawing with his tail wagging furiously as he pulls at something with his teeth. Pulls with a growl vibrating inside him and the tramp starts to walk towards him, still calling his name but he's dropped the impatience in his tone. He's curious now. Cautious and curious.
What's that you got there boy? What's that? You got a rat there boy?
He edges towards him, closer and closer, picking up his pace until he stands beside the dog and looks down. He places a hand on the matted coat and the dog sits back, his tail thumping on the ground, mouth open, panting, head cocked to one side. Waiting. The tramp moves closer, gets down on his haunches with his face stretching forwards, peering into the depths of the pit. He ruffles the dog's fur and squints at the thing sticking out of the dirt. He can't work it out. It looks like something, something familiar but he doesn't expect it and he can't quite place it. And then he sees it. He shakes his head. Shakes his head to erase it. Shakes his head to deny it but he can't ignore it and it all comes crashing down on his senses with sickening clarity and those tinned tomatoes, those tomatoes in his gut rise up to meet it. Rise all the way up the protruding arm. Scratched and dirty and limp at the wrist with the elbow twisted and the tattooed petals. The red tattooed petals etched beneath the skin.