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.

19. HOOK, LINE AND SINKER

He has no choice. He has to go back. A choice necessarily involves more than one option and he has less than that. He has no idea either which is why really, he has to go back. They left him where they'd picked him up, literally, by the side of the road with his bike on its side in the bushes. He pulls it out and props it up, running his hand over the scuffed leather of the seat and down over the tyres. Luckily, the damage is limited. Limited to a few scratches and a dented mud flap. Then he runs his hand over his ribs and down his back and hopes he can say the same for himself.

He returns to her house, leaving the bike propped by the kerb on the driveway. Standing in the moonlight, he takes a moment to collect his thoughts and smooth the hairs on his head. Then he steps towards the door and knocks twice, with his fist curled up in a ball and his heart beating fast in his chest. She answers, eventually. Calling out first for Pepito to identify himself and when he does she swings the door open and stands there with her head tipped to one side and her hands hitched up on her hips.
"Can I come in?"
"She dips her head and steps back. He enters, not for the first time and certainly not for the last. She follows behind as he strides to the living room and stands there, in the middle of the room. His head swivels round as she brushes past him and throws herself down on the sofa. She kicks off her shoes, stretches out her legs and tilts her head back, watching Pepito from behind her lashes as he crosses the room towards her. As for Pepito, he tries not to look, tries not to notice that her skirt is too short and has ridden up to reveal a fleshy expanse of thigh. And he tires not to remember that the last time he saw her she was wearing a robe and was barefoot. He clears his throat and positions himself by the window with his back to the night and his eyes skipping nervously around the room.
"Carlos?" He eventually asks because it seems like a good place to start. He's biding his time, steeling himself before he has to confront her and ask why she lied. Or, at least, why she failed to mention that fateful night.
"He's asleep." She stretches, pushing her arms high above her head as she stifles a yawn. "What brings you back here Detective Pons?"
He decides to come straight to the point.
"I've just had an interesting meeting with Francisco Turó."
He crosses towards a chair and sits down noting the subtle expression that flits across her face. Whether it was fear or surprise Pepito can't be sure, it only lasted a second. He presses onwards.
"He told me Rosa was here with you that Wednesday night."
He waits for her to respond with his eyes planted firmly on her face, searching for a shift in her expression like the one he saw before. She stares back at him, eyes wide open, except for a small nagging twitch in the corner of her eye, her face is an expressionless mask. She rises from the sofa brushing her hair from her face and crosses towards the window with her back towards the room.
"Yes, she was here." Leaning forwards she touches the glass with her forehead and sighs. Pepito sits forwards. A desire to rush towards her and hold her, kiss her, have her blurt it out, all of it, her whole damn life if she wanted to, rises up inside of him but he swallows the urge and restrains himself with the seat of his pants firmly stuck to the chair. She turns towards him slowly, her eyes finding some blank spot somewhere above his head and starts to speak.
"She was here ... I tried to talk some sense into her, make her see that she was making a mistake ... guy's like Cisco are out for themselves, they don't give a shit about anyone else ..."
"Something you would know." He aims his words precisely and hopes that when they hit, they'll sting. They do. She stumbles forwards, her eyes still fixed on that place above his head, her hand stretching out in front of her and her knees buckling but Pepito reaches her before she crumples. He props her up, one hand skimming the small of her back and the other hooked beneath her shoulders. He'd lift her up but his ribs protest so he guides her towards the sofa where he eases her down gently and steps back. She draws her knees up to her chest and wraps her arms around her ankles. Somehow, she looks smaller.
"I know how this must look but I couldn't tell the police ..."
"And me?"
"I couldn't even tell you ... she came here herself, I swear ..."
"What time?"
"Around nine, she said I owed her money, that's all she cared about ... money," she spits the words out through her teeth, "then she told me she was leaving Carlos ... what could I do?"
She unfolds herself and looks up at Pepito, her eyes large and confused.
"How long did she stay?"
"Not long ... half an hour maybe a little more .. there wasn't much to talk about, she was set in her ways and didn't want to listen."
"Did you give her the money?"
She nods her head.
"I just wanted to get rid of her ... she took it and left. That was the last time I saw her."
She stands up and moves towards Pepito with her hair falling across her face in tangled strands and her hands stretched out towards him.
"I couldn't tell anyone because I didn't want Carlos to know ... I didn't want Carlos to know anything ... when she told me she was leaving him I knew his world would fall apart, he loved her." She turns from him suddenly, stifling a sob in the back of her throat as she crosses towards a bar in the corner of the room. "I thought that maybe she would just go away and he would forget about her ..." Wiping her eyes with the back of her hand she uncorks the cap of a bottle of malt with the other and slops a generous amount into a glass. "But he didn't ... he wouldn't ..."
She raises the glass to her lips and tips her head back.
"I wanted to tell you," she says as she places the empty glass back on the counter, "I wanted to tell you everything."
She walks back across the room, back to the sofa and sits down, drawing her legs up beside her. Pepito turns his back. He closes his eyes and starts counting. By the time he reaches double digits, he's already made up his mind. He believes her. Why shouldn't he? He could see how things turned out. He could see Rosa standing in this very room, those smiling lips drawn back and her face distorted. He could see how they talked, argued, shouted. A mother and an ex. At least, that's how he imagines it and perhaps that's why he believes her but maybe there's something else. He stares out the window trying to pick out familiar shapes in the darkness; a lemon tree, a geranium, the dented fender on his bike but his eyes keep straying back to her reflection and those endless limbs stretched out beneath her, stretching out into the night. He turns around to face her.
"How long have you known Francisco Turó?" He has to ask, although he'd rather not hear all the sordid details. He walks back towards her and sits down beside her, forcing himself to listen with his heart beating hard in his chest.
"Too long ... I used to work in a small place down by the port and he'd come in from time to time, I suppose it all started then ..." She stops for a moment and draws in her breath, "but things were never serious between us ... we were both young and then, one day he just disappeared ... I later found out that he'd spent some time in prison and when he came out I saw him around but," she stops again, choosing her words carefully, "things were never the same, we'd both changed too much ... I'd had Carlos by then and was working on my first club."
"Was that when you had Carlos adopted?"
She stares at him for a moment before answering.
"I had no other choice ... he had a better chance with a proper family."
Pepito shakes his head, "I didn't mean ..." But it's too late, he's already said too much.
"You think it was easy?"
She rises quickly from the sofa and starts to speak, her fingers restlessly picking at the hem of her skirt. "There wasn't a day went by when I didn't think about him ... wonder where he was .. what he was doing .. what he looked like." She strides towards the window and looks out. "Then one day, he showed up ... can you imagine that?"
Pepito shakes his head. She starts to laugh.
"He'd tracked me down ... said he wanted to know who I was and we took it from there and after all my trying to protect him from my life he didn't even question it, never judged ..."
"And he started working at the club?"
She nods her head.
"I got a second chance," she turns to face him. "Do you know what it's like to get a second chance?"
Yes, Pepito does. He knows and he nods his head slowly, his neck bent and his gaze fixed on his father's shoes. He stands up, wearily pushing himself upwards on the palms of his hands and walks to the window. He stands before her.
"Don't worry," his breath brushes her cheek, "no-one's going to take him from you again."
She leans towards him. She reaches out and takes his hand, running her thumb over the ridges on the back. She lifts her head. She smiles.
"Thank you."
Two words. Sometimes, that's all it takes. He feels his cheeks ignite, burning up his face. He dips his head and extracts his hand from her tapering fingers. He turns around. He clears his throat. He opens his mouth with a click of his jaw and closes it again. Too scared to speak. Too scared of the words that may spill from his mouth, fearful of where they may lead him. And then he remembers Bogart. So he turns around to reclaim the moment but the moment has already passed. Behind his back it fled, taking it's object with it. She's already walked across the room and is standing behind the sofa watching him, her fingers extended over the cushioned back are tapping softly. She opens her mouth to speak then closes it again, shaking her head. He moves towards her. He stumbles against the coffee table, grazing his shin on the corner and curses under his breath.
"It's late," she says and Pepito nods with a disconsolate droop of his head.

3.16 am to be precise as Pepito slips the key in the lock and steps into the shop. He closes the door behind him with a weary nudge from his foot and walks towards the doorway at the back of the room. He climbs the stairs with his feet dragging heavily on each step and his heart sinking fast in his chest. He's close and he knows it, so close he could reach out and grab this case by the throat and yet, something is eluding him. Some crucial piece of information that would tie the whole damn thing together. He stops at the top of the stairs, his hand clutching the banister and runs through the facts once more. Once more for old time's sake. First, there is Rosa but the image of the smiling girl in the photograph with one arm shielding her breasts is becoming blurred. The more he learns about her, the less he likes and the further that image fades, becoming distorted and out of focus as each new piece of information falls into place until he hardly recognises her anymore. Hardly knows that smiling face. He crosses the landing at the top of the stairs and pushes the door to the bedroom. Then there is Carlos, he slips into his thoughts as he shrugs the shirt from his back. Poor dumb schmuck. Caught up in the events of the last few days with no knowledge of how he got there and no reason why he, of all people, should be the main suspect. After all, what did he have to gain? As far as Pepito is concerned he had loved her, loved her without question. Loved her too much, perhaps, too much to see the truth that was dangling before him. He stands at the edge of the bed and kicks off his shoes. First the right foot, then the left. He sits down on the crumpled sheets and leans backwards, his arms stretched out on either side and his legs hanging over the edge. The last thing he remembers before he plunges into sleep is Mariquita, with her eyes closed and her back arched.
And she is dancing. She is dancing for him, again.

18. THE BARBAROUS ENEMY

Pepito stands for some moments as the door closes behind him. He breathes deeply, drawing the air through his mouth so that he can savour the scent of her perfume still lingering in his nostrils. Holding his breath for a second, holding onto her scent for a heartbeat, until he opens his mouth and expels his breath with an explosive burst of air. He shakes his head, steps out from the doorway and moves towards his bike. Easing the helmet over his head, he tightens the strap beneath his chin with a swift jerk of leather and turns to gaze back at the house. A lizard darts out from a crack in the gutter and catches his eye. He follows its movements with an absent curiosity as it scuttles along the wall towards the light. It stops, flattening itself against the stone, rolls its eyes and waits. Waits for the insects to flutter into the light. Waits for them to dance themselves into a frenzy and then, when they're dazed and delirious, the lizard picks them off, one by one, with an artful flick of its tongue.

Across the street, tucked into the shadows, a black car waits. It waits for Pepito as he straddles his bike. Waits as he pushes out from the kerb with his left leg dangling and takes off into the night. Slowly, the black car creeps to life. Cautiously, it glides down the road behind him, headlights dimmed, engine purring. Slowly and cautiously until the time is right when the headlights click on and flood the night. Pepito is caught in their glaring beam, caught off guard in the blinding light. He slows the bike so that the car may pass and twists his neck to look behind him but the light from the headlights is far too bright. And the car speeds up, veering out from behind, swerving into the middle of the road. He turns his head and the car is beside him, lunging inwards, tyres screeching, brushing the hem of his brand new trousers. He can feel the weight on his outside thigh, pressing and pushing, trying to run him off the road so he twists on the throttle and turns up the gas. He springs into action, back hunched and head pushed forwards, he clings to the bike with his knees gripping hard. Harder and faster, he swerves round a corner, Pepito in front and the car close behind. But the car is gaining ground. It's catching up and closing in on his left hand side and his bike can barely take the pace as it shudders and sputters, veering round corners and shaking with speed. And still the black car sticks to his tail. Trying to overtake him, trying to nudge him and force him to swerve into the side of the road. But Pepito persists, he won't give up as he grips the handles tighter and twists, twists, twists. And he almost makes it. He almost succeeds until the bike shudders beneath him like a dying stead. It shudders and sputters and he loses control.
He sees the ground before he hits it. Looming in front of him, dark and dusty, he can taste the grit in the back of his throat as his body hits tarmac and the world turns over. Over and over as he rolls down the road. He lies there for a moment, not quite sure if he's alive or dead but long enough to know that he's definitely in trouble. Then all the lights go out.

He comes to in the back of the car, propped up between two large men, a throbbing pain coursing through his limbs. He turns to the side to look out the window but a big, fat head is blocking his view. He tries to sit forwards but a hand reaches out and pushes him back. Then he presses his side with a wary hand and checks his holster but the holster is empty. One of them has his father's gun clutched in his hand, the one with the head that is blocking his view. He holds it loosely in the crease of his palm with his thumb hooked over the trigger. And the fat head is smiling like he knows something funny, staring right at Pepito with the gun in his hand. He'd ask them where they're taking him but he's sure he'll find out, so he sits back and although he doesn't enjoy it, he tolerates the ride.
Eventually, they stop. The door swings open and they push him outside. He straightens up and takes a quick look around before they push him forwards, one at his back and two at his side. He's led up to a house, hustled really, two hands gripping his elbows, the other prodding the small of his back. When they reach some steps, Pepito stumbles. He lurches forwards, his hands flailing out but a forceful jolt from one of the goons pulls him up and onto his feet. They push him onwards. Up to the door and into the house where their claw like grip is loosened and Pepito is propelled forwards with a sharpened prod to his ribs. A sharpened prod from his father's gun. It pokes his back, nudging him onwards, forcing him through a doorway and down into a chair in the middle of the room. He sits there with his butt cheeks clenched on the edge of the chair and his eyes sweeping the room. The goons have dispersed, taken up their positions with their backs to the walls and are watching Pepito. Watching him brush the dirt from his shirt, running his hands over his ribs and down to his empty holster. And he takes his time. Takes it all in. Slowly, methodically, with his mouth clamped shut, he sizes up the place. The walls, the windows, the tables, the chairs and the bar at the far end of the room. And it's there, perched on a stool with his back to the gathering, that his eyes come to rest on the man that is picking pistachio nuts from a plate. He lifts them to his mouth, cracks them between his teeth and spits the shells onto the floor at his feet. One, two, three nuts, their shells shot out through the side of his mouth. When he's had his fill, he lifts a napkin from his lap and dabs at his mouth with the cloth. Then he swivels around on the stool and sits facing Pepito with his hands laying loose, cupped in his lap. He smiles, a crooked twist of lip, slips off the stool and moves towards Pepito with his chin tipped up and his hands perched on either side of his slender hips.

Pulling the sheet up around his chin, she bends forwards and drops a kiss on both his eyelids. A chastened kiss, an infinite kiss. The kiss of an anxious mother. The same kiss that brushed his blue tinged skin just after he was born. Just before they took him, out of her arms and out of her life. And even though she'd cried all night, deep down inside she was grateful. Grateful for his ten soft fingers and his ten pink toes. Grateful that she had another chance - another bite at the apple. Slipping out of the bedroom, she closes the door behind her. Slowly, softly, she's careful not to wake him as she moves through the hallway on the balls of her feet and picks up her bag. Picks up her keys and exits the house.
She drives through the night with the top rolled down and her hair whipping out behind her. She drives like a demon, a woman possessed. A woman who knows where she's going. It doesn't take her long to reach her destination. She pulls in by the kerb and partially mounts the pavement, one tyre up and one tyre down but she doesn't seem to notice. Cuts the engine with a twist of her wrist, pockets the keys as she slams the door and hurries towards the building. The lights are out in the fourth floor flat but she doesn't let it stop her. She pushes ahead and presses the buzzer with her finger stuck to the button. Eventually, someone answers. They let her in and she climbs the stairs. Pushes her way into the flat and with a nudge from her foot, closes the door behind her. They step back. She steps forwards. They step back with their arm raised because somehow, they know what's coming. And she doesn't disappoint, not even for a second, as she steps forwards with her elbow drawn back and her hand moving fast through the air. She wipes it across their face. A swift blow, merciless in its precision. Then another. And another. The slaps raining down on Candy with a dedicated passion. Finding their mark, not missing the moment. Harder, faster until, as suddenly as they had started, they stop. She steps back once again, her breathing quick and reckless. She rubs her palm and twists her head and rests her eyes on the ceiling. She breathes deeply, calming herself while Candy lays still on the floor. Curled in a ball with her head tucked in and her body gently quivering. Slowly, she unfurls, releasing her limbs like a tender bud.
Bruised and battered and swollen.

Pepito is aware that there is no way out. No way he can leap from the chair and make a run for the door. Not with those three goons slouching around the room. No way he can take them on, not at his age and not without his father's gun. He slumps back in the chair, wincing at the pain in his hip and resigns himself to his predicament with a practiced calm. The practiced calm of a pro.
"I'm sure you know what this is all about."
It was a statement rather than a question but Pepito nods his head anyway and opens his mouth to speak, although, it probably isn't wise.
"Let's just say I do so you can cut the crap and come to the point."
"He's got balls, I like that." He stops in front of Pepito, hands swinging loose and leans in close.
"Let's just say that there's something we both have in common." He steps back and stretches upwards.
Of course, Pepito has it all figured out. At least, concerning the sharp cut suit with the tightened face that is standing menacingly before him. It explains the car. It explains the goons and their means of grabbing his attention. He stands up, brushing the dirt from his jacket with hurried flicks of his hand and clears his throat with an exaggerated rattle.
"What are you going to do? Beat my teeth out then kick me in the stomach for mumbling."
Francisco strolls across the room with his hands thrust deep in his pockets and a fleeting smirk glides over his lips.
"I must apologise for my men Detective Pons ... sometimes they get carried away, you know how it is."
Unfortunately for Pepito, he doesn't, although, he's beginning to get the picture. He sits back down in the chair and opens his jacket to reveal the empty holster nestled against his side.
"I believe you have something which belongs to me." He pats the empty leather and raises his eyes to meet Francisco's but he's already turned his back.
"Don't worry," he says over his shoulder, "it'll be returned to you as soon as we've had this little chat."
"Is that why I'm here?"
"Of course .."
"Then let's get on with it ..."
He must have lost his marbles. Banged his head and lost his sense somewhere on the road. And there's a bilious taste that is rising up and filling his mouth and he is powerless to stop it. Distaste for the man in the well cut suit and the lifestyle which provides it.
"Mariquita paying you?" To give him his due he's stopped messing around and comes directly to the point. But Pepito doesn't answer, he stays where he is, arms folded and legs stretched out in front.
"You don't have to say anything, I know she is .. but tell me - why is it you think Carlos is so innocent ... you have something you want to share?"
Pepito shrugs.
"It's a hunch really, nothing concrete ..."
"But you're sure he didn't kill her?"
"Pretty much."
"Why?"
It's a fair question, Pepito has to give him that. He stands up and walks around the room, shaking the circulation back into his legs as he circles passed the goons.
"No motive." He eventually says with a simple tilt of the shoulders.
"You think him leaving him for me is no real motive?" Francisco starts to laugh but Pepito cuts him off.
"If he knew she was leaving him, I'd have to say yes ... but ..."
"But?"
"She never told him .. she never got the chance."
Francisco slips his legs from the table he is perched upon with the languid grace of a cat. He moves quickly towards the door and stands with his hand poised on the handle, ready to pull it open. But somewhere between the thought and the action, he changes his mind and with a flattened palm, pushes the door closed and moves back across the room.
"Tell me something Detective Pons .... how exactly did she die?"
"You don't know?"
Francisco keeps his eyes fixed on Pepito, he doesn't even blink, just waits for an answer but Pepito is growing restless. He isn't accustomed to having questions thrown out at him and certainly not in these circumstances. Besides, he reckons that out of all the people in the room right now, Francisco would know her last movements. Unless he had one of his goons do it, which was possible and the more he thought about it, most likely but he decides to humour him anyway.
"She drowned."
"Drowned?"
"That's right, although I suppose the knock on the head would have helped ... helped to take the edge off."
"Wasn't her body found in La Mina?"
Francisco was good, he had to give him that. He could almost believe him with his phoney expression of feigned concern. Almost, but not quite.
"Now you tell me," he begins with a subtle shift in the balance, "what exactly was your relationship with Rosa?"
"You mean .. were we fucking each other?" Pepito feels a hot flush of blood sting his cheeks but he presses onwards ignoring the lopsided grin of his captor.
"At least that would account for her being pregnant," he says and stops to regain his composure.
"Where did you meet?"
"Mariquita's place."
"You know Mariquita?"
"Who doesn't." Francisco dips into his pocket and pulls out a cigarette. "Got a light?"
Pepito shakes his head.
He nods to one of the goons who peels himself from the side of the room and slouches over to Francisco. He pulls a lighter from his pocket and holds it up to the end.
"What can you tell me about Mariquita ..."
"She a suspect?"
"Not quite, I'm just trying to tie up some loose ends .. find a connection."
"You want a connection between me and Mariquita?" He blows the smoke out over his head, "I'll give you a connection .. I knew her way back, before she had her clubs, we had a thing going back then ... off and on, she was something back then .. still is."
Pepito nods his head.
"And Carlos?"
"The prodigal son?" He picks a slither of tobacco from his teeth and flicks it into the air. "You know she had him adopted, thought he had a better chance while she concentrated on building her empire." He smiles secretly to himself and shakes his head.
"Who's the father?"
"That's anyone's guess ... but it wasn't me if that's what you're getting at ... we were definitely off around that time .. why don't you ask her?"
"I will."
"And while you're at it ... why don't you ask her why she wanted to see Rosa that night."
Pepito stops in his tracks, his spine clicks into place as if he's been grabbed by the neck.
"What night was that?"
"Last Wednesday .. Rosa told me she was going over but she didn't tell me why ... she'd already quit as far as she saw it, what else was there left to say .."
Suddenly Pepito is struck with uncertainty. If he is to believe Francisco then Mariquita herself may have been the last person to see Rosa alive. But why would she lie? Why didn't she tell him that Rosa was with her that night? He shakes his head and swallows the lump that is forming in the back of his throat. It can't be possible. There must be some mistake.
"When did you last see Rosa?"
He switches to another tack, afraid where the first one may lead him and waits for Francisco to answer. But Francisco takes his time, observing Pepito through a crack in his eyelids.
"What are you getting at Detective Pons ... you think I killed her?" He stands up and paces across the floor with his hand reaching up to his brow. "Why would I?"
"Did you love her?"
"You think love stops people from killing?"
Pepito isn't so sure, in fact, he isn't sure of anything anymore. The only thing he can say with certainty is that Francisco is beginning to sweat. A trickle of moisture runs down from his brow and slides all the way down to his neck.
"I had a stronger reason than that ... Detective Pons ... she was carrying my baby."
He moves towards the door with an impatient step and yanks it open.
"I know what I am Detective Pons, I've never tried to hide it but you shouldn't believe everything you hear ... you know what I mean?"
Pepito nods his head although, he doesn't believe a word of it.
"I know how word spreads, it gets around, out of hand and then, before you know it ... someone gets into trouble. Someone could even get hurt."
For anyone else these parting words could be taken as a threat. But not Pepito. Not Detective Pons. He isn't having any of it. He stands up, looping his jacket behind him and moves towards the door, with his hand hitched up on his hip, patting his empty holster. And he knows he's pushing it, he knows it's unwise to be playing with The Method but he just can't help it. He just can't leave with that fancy holster laying empty on his hip. So he keeps on walking and he keeps on patting until Francisco gets the message.
"Give him his gun," he eventually says, with a surly jerk of his head, "and get him out of my sight."
The gun is slapped into Pepito's palm as he's pushed through the doorway. Propelled forwards with a hefty hand slapped between his shoulders. And he almost trips, he almost falls but Francisco reaches out to steady him. He reaches out with a clenched up fist and grabs him by his lapels. Grabs him tight and grabs him fast, pulling Pepito towards him.
"Watch your step there Detective Pons, we wouldn't want you to hurt yourself now, would we?"