It was the pathologist's call that set him thinking.
"Thought you might be interested to know the results of the test ... just came in this morning."
"Test?"
"The test on the water."
"What water?"
"The water in her lungs. Are you all right Detective Pons?"
Pepito nods his head. "Let's just say I've had a busy morning."
"Too much on your plate?"
"Something like that."
"Well, here's something else for that plate of yours ... the water contained chlorine and there's only one kind of water that contains chlorine ..."
Even Pepito knows that. She drowned in a swimming pool. Public or private, it was hard to tell - the only thing he could be sure about was that she drowned in a swimming pool, in a derelict building, in the middle of a housing estate, in the poorest part of town. Pepito twists both taps and lowers himself to the floor with his back resting against the bathtub and his legs stretched out in front. His head throbbed. His stomach was churning. But at least he was safe. Here. In his bathroom, in the flat above the shop, where no-one could find him. In fact, no-one would ever think to look. He runs his hand down the side of his face and shakes his head in disbelief. Chlorine. Who would have thought it, certainly not Pepito who was struggling with the evidence and the direction it was beginning to take. Could it be that simple? Could the answer have been right under his nose the whole time? Teasing him, taunting him. Staring him in the face and poking its tongue out at his blind lunges at the truth. And there was something else, something else the pathologist had said. He knew her time of death - she'd died around midnight. Pepito already knew her movements on that night. She had been with Mariquita until around nine thirty, or so the lady said. But what if she never left? He stands upright, his legs shaking beneath him and turns off the taps. Lifting his foot, he steps over the rim of the tub and into the water. Was this how it felt? This liquid melting of flesh. Closing his eyes he leans backwards and lets the cool water lap over his body. He tries to imagine the scene, an accident maybe, a rising battle with words that ends with a blow to the skull and a body in the pool but he just can't see it. Or maybe, he just doesn't want to look. He sits upright, disturbing the water with lapping waves that splash the sides of the tub and rubs his face. Then he stands up and grabbing a towel from the rail, wraps it around his waist. He steps out of the bath and stands in front of the mirror, twists his torso left and right as he checks out his reflection. He has his own ideas, hunches really and they all pointed towards Francisco. After all, he was the one who had the most to lose if Rosa had found out about his link in the chain of girls being smuggled into the country. A chain that stretched all the way back to Russia and reached out to God knows where. She had to have known and if she hadn't, then she must have guessed that these girls weren't willing participants. So she must have confronted him, outraged perhaps but most likely, she'd wanted her cut, blackmailed him even for her pound of flesh. It was only a matter of time before the police caught up with him themselves. In fact, at this stage in the game, Pepito was counting on it. The way things were panning out, he could use their help. But he has to be careful, he doesn't want them messing with his method so the best thing for him to do is keep his head down, stay close to the trail and follow. Follow fearlessly and follow surely but always with just that one step ahead.
2.36pm and Gloria stands by the sink with her hands immersed in the suds. She hears the bathroom door close and the slap of his feet on the tiles as he moves through the flat but she doesn't stop. Lowering her head, she continues with the dishes, swirling her hands through the soapy water with a studied concentration. By the time Pepito enters the kitchen she's running the cloth over the worktops with her shoulders hunched up around her. She doesn't turn around. She doesn't stop. Pepito hangs awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before pushing his way through the stifling air towards the cooker. He lifts the lid on the pot and sucks in the smell of the juices wafting up from the bubbling meat. He closes his eyes and his stomach gurgles.
"Smells good," he says, moving towards the table but Gloria doesn't answer. "Want me to put out the plates?"
She shrugs, a silent dip of the shoulders and moves towards the cooker. But Pepito is not put off, he can tell that something is brewing so he moves towards the drainer and reaches for the plates. Grabbing the dishcloth he rubs the surface of each one with rough circular movements before setting them down on the table. One opposite the other. He's reaching for the glasses when Gloria suddenly breaks her silence. Turning around she rests her back against the worktop, her hands pitched up behind her.
"I didn't make as much ... didn't think you'd be back in time." She waits for him to answer, her eyes following his movements as he shuffles around the table. He's aware that she's watching so he lowers his head to avoid the full impact of her gaze. He lifts his shoulders briefly and dips his head towards his chest. By the time he looks up, she's already turned back to the cooker and is poking the bubbling meat with impatient prods from a fork.
"This is almost ready," she says, her voice tripping out tersely from her tightly pursed lips.
Pepito nods and sits down in his place with his back towards the cooker. She turns, the pot gripped tightly between the serving cloth in her hands and stares at the back of Pepito's head. She hesitates, for a fraction of a second before she moves around the table and places the pot in the middle. Then she sits down in her own place with her back to the door and picks up a spoon with the twitch still flickering through her slender fingers as she serves Pepito, letting the meat fall absently with muffled plops onto the plate beneath.
"You know ..." she begins with a clear voice, her head held high and her eyes level with Pepito's face but the more she stares the more her conviction falters. Her voice fades, caught in her throat and she drops her gaze, letting it fall to the lumps of meat and potatoes on her plate.
"It's no use," she eventually says, her voice a sigh in the back of her throat. "I can't work here anymore." She drops the spoon and sits back in her chair pushing the plate away from her with a sideways sweep from her hand. Pepito grips his fork tighter with his eyes caste down and his leg jerking spasmodically beneath the table. He knows he should say something but the more he gropes for the right words to speak the more he is convinced that they will somehow fall short. He sits mute, his hand pushing the fork idly around the plate and his stomach complaining audibly.
"Eat something." Her eyes flick up to his down turned face. Lifting the fork he places the meat tentatively in his mouth and chews, slowly. Chews methodically and the food slides down his throat as he raises another forkful to his mouth. Then another. And another. She sits in silence as he clears the plate, watching him chew and swallow with deliberate concentration. When he's finished, she pulls the plate across the table towards her and carries it to the sink where she drops it in with a reckless dash from an angry wrist and braces herself against the drainer.
"Not hungry?" He addresses her back, his eyes focused on the hunch of her shoulders as she bends towards the sink. She shakes her head and closes her eyes. Closes her eyes and clenches her fists. She could scream right now but she knows she can't so she bites her lip and throws her head back. Alone and defeated, but defiant.
"Gloria?" His voice touches her with a shiver down her spine and she grips the sink even harder. "It doesn't ..." He starts to speak but the words stick in his throat. He tries again but they clog in his mouth, smothering his tongue so he clears his throat with an agitated rasp and stands up. What? What should he say? What could he say? It doesn't have to be like this. But he knows in his heart that it does. He knows in his heart that when all is said and done, she deserves more than he can give. She deserves to be loved, she deserves to be treasured. She deserves more than this. And if he was any other man he would take her in his arms and what? What would he do with a woman like her? He shakes his head and rubs his brow because somehow he knows, he's not. He's not any other man. He's Pepito Pons. Detective Pepito Pons. Something he can never forget and something he can never tell her. She would never understand. This longing, this need for his other life, it's the crux of the whole damn method. Especially now, when he's getting close to the end, so close he can almost taste it.
Moving around the table he picks up her plate and scrapes the untouched meal back in the pot. She turns around and watches him, with her back against the sink. "I'll put an advert in the paper." She speaks but her eyes are fixed on some distant spot on the table. "I can stay until you find someone."
Pepito lifts his head and nods, slowly, heavily as if a weight is pressing down on his neck.
"All right," he sighs, "if that's what you want."
And even though he speaks the words he knows, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut, that it's not. It's not what she wants, at all. He stands there with his hands placed on the table before him and his chin tucked into his chest. Not daring to protest, not even daring to lift his head as she brushes passed him and out the door leaving only a silent ruffle of air in her wake.
Something was beginning to happen, although he couldn't say what. But it started in his loins and quickly spread, clawing upwards, infecting every restless nerve with cloying insistence. Pepito can feel it. He felt it that first morning when he slipped on the clothes. He felt it as the dusty fabric stretched to life over his crumpled flesh. He felt it the first time he walked into one of those shady dives with his gun clipped in it's holster and his hand hovering close to his hip. And he feels it now. Now he sits across the street, outside Mariquita's club and waits. He's careful not to arouse suspicion. Careful not to enter the place with his shackles raised and his gun blazing. So he sits back on the seat of his bike, by the seat of his pants and waits. He bides his time. If there's one thing he's learned in the fictitious life then it's when to watch, when to wait and when to burst in on the action.
4.15pm and the door swings open. Two goons, the one with the head, the crusted gash on the side of his head and his partner in crime step out onto the street. Pepito scrambles from the back of his bike and ducks behind a dumpster. Luckiy for him he parked so close. Lucky for us they don't see him. It could have been nasty, it could have been rough. It could have been the end of the story. Shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun they dip in their pockets and pull out their shades. Then they turn on their heels and walk, in a synchronized swagger with a menacing slant, up to the end of the street. When they reach their car on the corner, they stop. They pop their doors open. They slip inside. Start the engine. Pull out from the kerb and swerve down the road with a screech of tyres and a waft of burning rubber. Pepito stands up, stretching to life from his cramped position he rubs the front of his legs. Rubs them hard and rubs them long until the blood returns to his toes. Then he steps towards the club, moving fast on tingling feet and raps on the door with the back of his knuckles. Raps once with impatience and twice with anger until eventually someone answers.
"Mariquita's not here." It was the barman who told him this. "S'funny but two other guys were just here asking the same thing." He plucks a glass from a tray in front of him and clouds it with breath.
"What did they want?"
Holding the glass up to the overhead lights he squints at his reflection and buffs the rim with the end of a dishcloth. "Wouldn't say."
"When do you expect her in?"
He places the glass on the shelf behind him. "Hard to say ... since Rosa was last here she's been in and out when she pleases ... comes in late, leaves early."
"When was Rosa last here?"
"Last Tuesday." Reaching forwards he plucks another glass from the tray.
"Was she working that night?"
The barman shakes his head. Holds the glass up to the light, buffs some more and places it on the shelf.
"What did she come by for?"
"She quit ... came to pick up her wages." He dips into the tray again.
"Quit when?"
The barman scratches his head with his free hand and twists the glass under the light with the other. He closes one eye. "Tuesday." And lifts the cloth to the clouded rim.
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure ... they were back in her office but I could hear them out here." He places the glass on the shelf and turns his back, running the dishcloth over the bottles in front.
"And this was all last Tuesday?"
The barman nods his head and turns around. "She in some kind of trouble?"
"She?"
The barman lifts his chin and stares at Pepito "I mean Mariquita, the boss ... she done something wrong?"
Pepito plucks a glass from the tray in front and holds it up to the light, one eye closed and the other fixed on the barman. "That's hard to say."
Almost a week to the day since Rosa went missing. Pushing through the door with a heavy hand he steps out onto the street. Two days since her body was found. He cocks his leg and slides on the back, grabs the spare helmet and slips it over his head. Almost four hours since the pathologist called. He starts the engine with a twist of the key and turns the throttle towards him. And tonight, tonight in an abandoned club, somewhere close by the docks, a deal will go down for the fate of some girls. Launching himself from the kerb with a hefty thrust from his foot, he skids off down the street in the direction of Collserola. His mind is playing tricks on him. Acting up, spinning tales, creating diversions, even making up excuses. But it won't last long, he won't allow it. Won't give in to his foolish heart. Won't deny where the truth may lead him, even if the truth has long, dark hair and scarlet lips. Scarlet lips and eyes like honey, softly melting in her golden skin.
"Thought you might be interested to know the results of the test ... just came in this morning."
"Test?"
"The test on the water."
"What water?"
"The water in her lungs. Are you all right Detective Pons?"
Pepito nods his head. "Let's just say I've had a busy morning."
"Too much on your plate?"
"Something like that."
"Well, here's something else for that plate of yours ... the water contained chlorine and there's only one kind of water that contains chlorine ..."
Even Pepito knows that. She drowned in a swimming pool. Public or private, it was hard to tell - the only thing he could be sure about was that she drowned in a swimming pool, in a derelict building, in the middle of a housing estate, in the poorest part of town. Pepito twists both taps and lowers himself to the floor with his back resting against the bathtub and his legs stretched out in front. His head throbbed. His stomach was churning. But at least he was safe. Here. In his bathroom, in the flat above the shop, where no-one could find him. In fact, no-one would ever think to look. He runs his hand down the side of his face and shakes his head in disbelief. Chlorine. Who would have thought it, certainly not Pepito who was struggling with the evidence and the direction it was beginning to take. Could it be that simple? Could the answer have been right under his nose the whole time? Teasing him, taunting him. Staring him in the face and poking its tongue out at his blind lunges at the truth. And there was something else, something else the pathologist had said. He knew her time of death - she'd died around midnight. Pepito already knew her movements on that night. She had been with Mariquita until around nine thirty, or so the lady said. But what if she never left? He stands upright, his legs shaking beneath him and turns off the taps. Lifting his foot, he steps over the rim of the tub and into the water. Was this how it felt? This liquid melting of flesh. Closing his eyes he leans backwards and lets the cool water lap over his body. He tries to imagine the scene, an accident maybe, a rising battle with words that ends with a blow to the skull and a body in the pool but he just can't see it. Or maybe, he just doesn't want to look. He sits upright, disturbing the water with lapping waves that splash the sides of the tub and rubs his face. Then he stands up and grabbing a towel from the rail, wraps it around his waist. He steps out of the bath and stands in front of the mirror, twists his torso left and right as he checks out his reflection. He has his own ideas, hunches really and they all pointed towards Francisco. After all, he was the one who had the most to lose if Rosa had found out about his link in the chain of girls being smuggled into the country. A chain that stretched all the way back to Russia and reached out to God knows where. She had to have known and if she hadn't, then she must have guessed that these girls weren't willing participants. So she must have confronted him, outraged perhaps but most likely, she'd wanted her cut, blackmailed him even for her pound of flesh. It was only a matter of time before the police caught up with him themselves. In fact, at this stage in the game, Pepito was counting on it. The way things were panning out, he could use their help. But he has to be careful, he doesn't want them messing with his method so the best thing for him to do is keep his head down, stay close to the trail and follow. Follow fearlessly and follow surely but always with just that one step ahead.
2.36pm and Gloria stands by the sink with her hands immersed in the suds. She hears the bathroom door close and the slap of his feet on the tiles as he moves through the flat but she doesn't stop. Lowering her head, she continues with the dishes, swirling her hands through the soapy water with a studied concentration. By the time Pepito enters the kitchen she's running the cloth over the worktops with her shoulders hunched up around her. She doesn't turn around. She doesn't stop. Pepito hangs awkwardly in the doorway for a moment before pushing his way through the stifling air towards the cooker. He lifts the lid on the pot and sucks in the smell of the juices wafting up from the bubbling meat. He closes his eyes and his stomach gurgles.
"Smells good," he says, moving towards the table but Gloria doesn't answer. "Want me to put out the plates?"
She shrugs, a silent dip of the shoulders and moves towards the cooker. But Pepito is not put off, he can tell that something is brewing so he moves towards the drainer and reaches for the plates. Grabbing the dishcloth he rubs the surface of each one with rough circular movements before setting them down on the table. One opposite the other. He's reaching for the glasses when Gloria suddenly breaks her silence. Turning around she rests her back against the worktop, her hands pitched up behind her.
"I didn't make as much ... didn't think you'd be back in time." She waits for him to answer, her eyes following his movements as he shuffles around the table. He's aware that she's watching so he lowers his head to avoid the full impact of her gaze. He lifts his shoulders briefly and dips his head towards his chest. By the time he looks up, she's already turned back to the cooker and is poking the bubbling meat with impatient prods from a fork.
"This is almost ready," she says, her voice tripping out tersely from her tightly pursed lips.
Pepito nods and sits down in his place with his back towards the cooker. She turns, the pot gripped tightly between the serving cloth in her hands and stares at the back of Pepito's head. She hesitates, for a fraction of a second before she moves around the table and places the pot in the middle. Then she sits down in her own place with her back to the door and picks up a spoon with the twitch still flickering through her slender fingers as she serves Pepito, letting the meat fall absently with muffled plops onto the plate beneath.
"You know ..." she begins with a clear voice, her head held high and her eyes level with Pepito's face but the more she stares the more her conviction falters. Her voice fades, caught in her throat and she drops her gaze, letting it fall to the lumps of meat and potatoes on her plate.
"It's no use," she eventually says, her voice a sigh in the back of her throat. "I can't work here anymore." She drops the spoon and sits back in her chair pushing the plate away from her with a sideways sweep from her hand. Pepito grips his fork tighter with his eyes caste down and his leg jerking spasmodically beneath the table. He knows he should say something but the more he gropes for the right words to speak the more he is convinced that they will somehow fall short. He sits mute, his hand pushing the fork idly around the plate and his stomach complaining audibly.
"Eat something." Her eyes flick up to his down turned face. Lifting the fork he places the meat tentatively in his mouth and chews, slowly. Chews methodically and the food slides down his throat as he raises another forkful to his mouth. Then another. And another. She sits in silence as he clears the plate, watching him chew and swallow with deliberate concentration. When he's finished, she pulls the plate across the table towards her and carries it to the sink where she drops it in with a reckless dash from an angry wrist and braces herself against the drainer.
"Not hungry?" He addresses her back, his eyes focused on the hunch of her shoulders as she bends towards the sink. She shakes her head and closes her eyes. Closes her eyes and clenches her fists. She could scream right now but she knows she can't so she bites her lip and throws her head back. Alone and defeated, but defiant.
"Gloria?" His voice touches her with a shiver down her spine and she grips the sink even harder. "It doesn't ..." He starts to speak but the words stick in his throat. He tries again but they clog in his mouth, smothering his tongue so he clears his throat with an agitated rasp and stands up. What? What should he say? What could he say? It doesn't have to be like this. But he knows in his heart that it does. He knows in his heart that when all is said and done, she deserves more than he can give. She deserves to be loved, she deserves to be treasured. She deserves more than this. And if he was any other man he would take her in his arms and what? What would he do with a woman like her? He shakes his head and rubs his brow because somehow he knows, he's not. He's not any other man. He's Pepito Pons. Detective Pepito Pons. Something he can never forget and something he can never tell her. She would never understand. This longing, this need for his other life, it's the crux of the whole damn method. Especially now, when he's getting close to the end, so close he can almost taste it.
Moving around the table he picks up her plate and scrapes the untouched meal back in the pot. She turns around and watches him, with her back against the sink. "I'll put an advert in the paper." She speaks but her eyes are fixed on some distant spot on the table. "I can stay until you find someone."
Pepito lifts his head and nods, slowly, heavily as if a weight is pressing down on his neck.
"All right," he sighs, "if that's what you want."
And even though he speaks the words he knows, with a sinking feeling in the pit of his gut, that it's not. It's not what she wants, at all. He stands there with his hands placed on the table before him and his chin tucked into his chest. Not daring to protest, not even daring to lift his head as she brushes passed him and out the door leaving only a silent ruffle of air in her wake.
Something was beginning to happen, although he couldn't say what. But it started in his loins and quickly spread, clawing upwards, infecting every restless nerve with cloying insistence. Pepito can feel it. He felt it that first morning when he slipped on the clothes. He felt it as the dusty fabric stretched to life over his crumpled flesh. He felt it the first time he walked into one of those shady dives with his gun clipped in it's holster and his hand hovering close to his hip. And he feels it now. Now he sits across the street, outside Mariquita's club and waits. He's careful not to arouse suspicion. Careful not to enter the place with his shackles raised and his gun blazing. So he sits back on the seat of his bike, by the seat of his pants and waits. He bides his time. If there's one thing he's learned in the fictitious life then it's when to watch, when to wait and when to burst in on the action.
4.15pm and the door swings open. Two goons, the one with the head, the crusted gash on the side of his head and his partner in crime step out onto the street. Pepito scrambles from the back of his bike and ducks behind a dumpster. Luckiy for him he parked so close. Lucky for us they don't see him. It could have been nasty, it could have been rough. It could have been the end of the story. Shielding their eyes from the glare of the sun they dip in their pockets and pull out their shades. Then they turn on their heels and walk, in a synchronized swagger with a menacing slant, up to the end of the street. When they reach their car on the corner, they stop. They pop their doors open. They slip inside. Start the engine. Pull out from the kerb and swerve down the road with a screech of tyres and a waft of burning rubber. Pepito stands up, stretching to life from his cramped position he rubs the front of his legs. Rubs them hard and rubs them long until the blood returns to his toes. Then he steps towards the club, moving fast on tingling feet and raps on the door with the back of his knuckles. Raps once with impatience and twice with anger until eventually someone answers.
"Mariquita's not here." It was the barman who told him this. "S'funny but two other guys were just here asking the same thing." He plucks a glass from a tray in front of him and clouds it with breath.
"What did they want?"
Holding the glass up to the overhead lights he squints at his reflection and buffs the rim with the end of a dishcloth. "Wouldn't say."
"When do you expect her in?"
He places the glass on the shelf behind him. "Hard to say ... since Rosa was last here she's been in and out when she pleases ... comes in late, leaves early."
"When was Rosa last here?"
"Last Tuesday." Reaching forwards he plucks another glass from the tray.
"Was she working that night?"
The barman shakes his head. Holds the glass up to the light, buffs some more and places it on the shelf.
"What did she come by for?"
"She quit ... came to pick up her wages." He dips into the tray again.
"Quit when?"
The barman scratches his head with his free hand and twists the glass under the light with the other. He closes one eye. "Tuesday." And lifts the cloth to the clouded rim.
"You sure?"
"Sure I'm sure ... they were back in her office but I could hear them out here." He places the glass on the shelf and turns his back, running the dishcloth over the bottles in front.
"And this was all last Tuesday?"
The barman nods his head and turns around. "She in some kind of trouble?"
"She?"
The barman lifts his chin and stares at Pepito "I mean Mariquita, the boss ... she done something wrong?"
Pepito plucks a glass from the tray in front and holds it up to the light, one eye closed and the other fixed on the barman. "That's hard to say."
Almost a week to the day since Rosa went missing. Pushing through the door with a heavy hand he steps out onto the street. Two days since her body was found. He cocks his leg and slides on the back, grabs the spare helmet and slips it over his head. Almost four hours since the pathologist called. He starts the engine with a twist of the key and turns the throttle towards him. And tonight, tonight in an abandoned club, somewhere close by the docks, a deal will go down for the fate of some girls. Launching himself from the kerb with a hefty thrust from his foot, he skids off down the street in the direction of Collserola. His mind is playing tricks on him. Acting up, spinning tales, creating diversions, even making up excuses. But it won't last long, he won't allow it. Won't give in to his foolish heart. Won't deny where the truth may lead him, even if the truth has long, dark hair and scarlet lips. Scarlet lips and eyes like honey, softly melting in her golden skin.
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