‘And Domingo? Who is Domingo?’
‘Domingo is the name used to refer to the customs patrol boats.’
‘Is that as far as we’ve got?’
Mara Doval stands up to consult something on one of the charts. She removes a photo. Places it on top of the table. But first replies to Alisal’s question, ‘One other thing, sir. They don’t need a spy any more. They’ve hired a customs chief directly.’
‘I imagine these are all hypotheses,’ suggests Alisal.
‘Listen,’ says Fins. ‘They’re very careful, cover their tracks, but occasionally they let in a ray of light. Listen.’
He presses ‘play’. Leda is taking her leave of Guadalupe in a less formal tone than usual, and says that this will be their last conversation.
‘Why is that?’ asks Guadalupe in surprise.
Leda is obviously feeling very happy. ‘We’re going to move. It’s about time!’
‘And what about Domingo?’
There is a short pause. Leda finally lets out a laugh. ‘He won the lottery!’
‘But Mr Lima never told me anything.’
There is another pause. Leda, more distant, ‘You know you don’t just say those things.’ Then, ‘Ciao. Farewell!’ And she hangs up the phone.
‘That’s a beauty!’ remarks Alisal. ‘A real indiscretion.’
‘A rarity, sir,’ confirms Fins. ‘They have very good connections at the phone company. They always know when they’re going to be tapped. Here we were lucky. And very patient.’
‘Lots of patience with that pedicure, right, Mara?’ remarks the superintendent.
She nods.
‘How do we know Lima is Mariscal?’ asks the lieutenant colonel suddenly.
Fins Malpica stands up, unlocks a drawer in the filing cabinet and pulls out a folder. Inside, in transparent plastic sleeves, are several handwritten sheets of paper, some creased, torn and put back together.
‘The boss’s handwriting,’ says Fins with satisfaction. ‘He never places a call. Never shows himself where he doesn’t have to. Measures every single step he takes. Lives like a hermit. But here is his hand giving orders. In this scribble is the Old Man’s twisted mind. A treasure for graphology. At last!’
Lieutenant Colonel Alisal has come to check a report of corruption in the barracks of the Civil Guard. Superintendent Freire was right. But with these new revelations, the expression on his face is now that of a shocked, confused man.
‘What quantity of cocaine are we talking about? Our statistics say we’ve been keeping them under control…’
‘Statistics, as someone said, are the first lie.’
Fins feels he is able to be precise only through irony. ‘I believe some of them may even have been doctored by the hand of the organisation’s foremost lawyer, Óscar Mendoza.’
Alisal is downcast. Their gazes follow Mara Doval when, having opened a second drawer, she returns with another surprise. This time it’s a chess set. She places it on the table. The pieces are large, expertly made, and imitate medieval figures. The colours are striking. Red and white.
‘Would you look at that?’ exclaims Alisal. ‘Just like the Lewis chessmen.’
‘A fantastic imitation,’ agrees Doval. ‘For those in the know. Of course they’re not made of walrus ivory. Do you play chess, sir?’
‘There are few things I enjoy more,’ says Alisal. ‘Even on my own.’
‘Me too. Without pieces.’
Mara Doval unscrews one of the pieces, a pawn in the shape of an obelisk.
‘They think cocaine is just this…’
She turns the pawn upside down and a small pile of white dust falls on to one of the squares. She does the same with the bishop and the rook in the shape of a warrior. Till she reaches the king and queen.
‘But in fact it’s this and this and this…’
Suddenly she lifts the board, revealing a false bottom full of the drug.
‘And this! All of it flour.’
‘We’re talking about tons of the stuff,’ says Fins. ‘Thousands of kilos of cocaine. Thousands of millions in profit. Snow, blow, stardust! They want to turn this coast into the largest landing stage in Europe. It may already be that.’
Mara Doval adds, ‘They’ll buy out people, territory… They’ll buy out everything. That’s magical capitalism for you!’
Alisal is deep in thought, his gaze fixed on the chess set.
‘It’s the institutions that worry me. A worm is just a worm. The problem arises when the worm rots the apples. Superintendent, it’s time we had a comprehensive, definitive report. They can write it. And I’ll make sure it gets to where it has to.’
‘We’ve already written the odd report,’ remarks Fins.
‘This time will be different, I promise.’ Lieutenant Colonel Alisal bangs his fist on the table. ‘If it’s up to me, there’ll be tremors in Babylon!’
36
IN A SMALL bay next to Cons lighthouse, between the rocks, lay the body of Guadalupe. There were local police, Civil Guards and ambulance staff. They’d recovered the body from the inside of her car, which had left the road and fallen like a lead weight into the water. Mariscal was informed and soon arrived. He looked grief-stricken. An accident. A mistake. The light had blinded her. When the coroner arrived, he offered his condolences. Mariscal’s eyes were red. He looked old. Found it difficult to talk. The occasional murmur, apparent delirium. ‘Chaves da vida.’ ‘That carmine letter box…’ ‘I’m not going, I’m not going.’
‘As everyone knows, we spent some time apart. This wasn’t something I wanted. I was very sorry about it. She had this problem with depression…’
He mentioned this when the doctor from the Red Cross came over to compare notes with the coroner. ‘It must have been early in the morning. Judging by the corpse, I’d say she’s been dead for six hours.’
‘What condition is the body in?’
‘There’s nothing strange about it, sir. Not a scratch. Certainly no sign of violence. With what we’ve got, I’d say it was death by drowning.’
Mariscal talked to himself and to others.
‘She loved walking barefoot along the beach, feeling the water tickling her feet. She couldn’t bear to be a day without seeing the sea. It was in her veins. Ever since she was a girl, you know?… I’m sure you don’t… she worked over there, on the shore, gathering shellfish, the sea up to her waist. And that is where she died.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Brancana, but given the circumstances we’ll have to perform an autopsy. A forensic autopsy.’
He breathed in through his nostrils. An energetic, hoarse inhalation of air which distorted his face. A forensic autopsy. He glanced over at that woman, Malpica’s colleague, madly taking photographs of the corpse.
‘Of course, coroner. Everyone is here to do their duty.’
Mónica, who worked in Bellissima, arrived at the beauty salon at the usual hour. Guadalupe, the owner, was the one who usually opened up. She did so an hour earlier. There weren’t normally customers, but she used this time to make calls, place orders, etc.
Mónica rang the bell again. She was surprised. She looked at her watch. Tried to peer in through the frosted glass of the door.
This had never happened before. If there was some kind of problem, Guadalupe always let her know.
Nothing.
She got ready to wait. Half an hour at least. Guadalupe didn’t like being called at home. But if she didn’t turn up, Mónica would have to call. She took a pack of cigarettes out of her handbag and lit one.