The Hidden Assassins. Robert Thomas Wilson

are we trying to find out from the occupants of this apartment block?’

      ‘Keep it simple. Everybody’s in shock. If we can find witnesses we’ll bring them to this car park, ask whether they saw the Peugeot Partner arrive, if they saw anybody getting out of it, how many, what age and if they took anything out of the back.’

      At the police cordon Falcón called out the address of the apartment block. An old man in his seventies came forward and a woman in her forties with a bruised face and a plastered arm in a sling. Falcón took the old man, Ferrera the woman. As they passed the entrance to their block a bomb squad man and a fireman confirmed that the building was now clear. Falcón showed the old man the Peugeot Partner and took him back up to his thirdfloor apartment, where the living room and kitchen were covered in glass, all the blinds in shreds, the chairs fallen over, photographs on the floor and the soft furniture lacerated, with brown foam already protruding from the holes.

      The old man had been lying on his bed in the back of the apartment. His son and daughter-in-law had already left for work, with the kids, who were too old for the pre-school, so nobody had been hurt. He stood in the midst of his wrecked home with his left hand shaking and his old, rheumy eyes taking it all in.

      ‘So you’re here on your own all day,’ said Falcón.

      ‘My wife died last November,’ he said.

      ‘What do you do with yourself?’

      ‘I do what old guys do: read the paper, take a coffee, look at the kids playing in the pre-school. I wander about, talk to people and choose the best time to smoke the three cigarettes I allow myself every day.’

      Falcón went to the window and pulled the ruined blinds away.

      ‘Do you remember seeing that van?’

      ‘The world is full of small white vans these days,’ said the old man. ‘So I can’t be sure whether I saw the same van twice, or different vans in two separate instances. On the way to the pharmacy I saw the van for the first time, driving from left to right down Calle Los Romeros, with two people in the front. It pulled into the kerb by the mosque and that was it.’

      ‘What time?’

      ‘About ten thirty yesterday morning.’

      ‘And the next time?’

      ‘About fifteen minutes later on the way back from the pharmacy I saw a white van pull into the parking area, but not in that spot. It was on the other side, facing away from us, and only one guy got out.’

      ‘Did you see him clearly?’

      ‘He was dark. I’d have said he was Moroccan. There are a lot of them around here. He had a round head, close-cropped hair, prominent ears.’

      ‘Age?’

      ‘About thirty. He looked fit. He had a tight black T-shirt on and he was muscled. I think he was wearing jeans and trainers. He locked the car and went off through the trees to Calle Blanca Paloma.’

      ‘Did you see the van when it arrived in the position it is now?’

      ‘No. All I can tell you is that it was there by six thirty in the evening. My daughter-in-law parked next to it. I also remember that when I went for coffee after lunch the van had left its position on the other side. There aren’t so many cars during the day, except for the ones belonging to teachers lined up in front of the school, so I don’t know how, but I noticed it. Old guys notice different things to other people.’

      ‘And there were two men when it was going along Calle Los Romeros?’

      ‘That’s why I can’t be sure if it was the same van.’

      ‘On which side of the van did your daughter-in-law park her car?’

      ‘To the left as we’re looking at it,’ said the old man. ‘Her door was blown open by the wind and knocked into it.’

      ‘Did the van move again at all?’

      ‘No idea. Once people are around me I don’t notice a thing.’

      Falcón took the daughter-in-law’s name and number and called her as he walked upstairs. He talked her through the conversation he’d just had with her father-in-law and asked her if she’d had a look at the van when her door had knocked into it.

      ‘I checked it, just to make sure I hadn’t dented it.’

      ‘Did you glance in the window?’

      ‘Probably.’

      ‘Did you see anything on the front passenger seat?’

      ‘No, nothing.’

      ‘You didn’t see a book?’

      ‘Definitely not. It was just a dark seat.’

      Ferrera was coming out of the fourth-floor apartment as he hung up. They went downstairs in silence.

      ‘Was your witness injured in the blast?’ asked Falcón.

      ‘She says she fell down the stairs last night, but she’s got no bruises on her arms or legs, just the ones on her face,’ said Ferrera angrily. ‘And she was scared.’

      ‘Not of you.’

      ‘Yes, of me. Because I ask questions, and one question leads to another, and if any of it somehow gets back to her husband it’s another reason for him to beat her.’

      ‘You can only help the ones that want to be helped,’ said Falcón.

      ‘There seems to be more of it about these days,’ said Ferrera, exasperated. ‘Anyway, she did see the van arrive in its current position. There’s a woman on the same shift at the factory where she works, who lives in one of the blocks further down her street. They meet for a chat under the trees on Calle Blanca Paloma. They walked past the van at 6 p.m. just as it had arrived. Two guys got out. They were talking in Arabic. They didn’t take anything out of the back. They went up to Calle Los Romeros and turned right.’

      ‘Descriptions?’

      ‘Both late twenties. One with a shaved head, black T-shirt. The other with more of a square head, with black hair, cut short at the sides and combed back on top. She said he was very good looking, but had bad teeth. He wore a faded denim jacket, white T-shirt, and she remembers he had very flashy trainers.’

      ‘Did she see the van move again from that position?’

      ‘She keeps an eye on this car park, looking out for when her husband comes home. She said it hadn’t moved by the time he came in at 9.15 p.m.’

      The police were letting people through the cordon so that they could get back into their homes to start clearing up the damage. There was a large crowd gathered outside the chemist’s at the junction of Calle Blanca Paloma with Calle Los Romeros. They were angry with the police for not letting them back into any part of the block attached to the destroyed building, which was still too dangerous. Falcón tried talking to people in the crowd, but they couldn’t give a damn about Peugeot Partners.

      Pneumatic drills started up on the other side of the block. Falcón and Ferrera crossed Calle Los Romeros to another apartment building, whose glass was more or less intact. The apartments on the first two floors were still empty. On the third floor a child led Falcón into a living room, where a woman was sweeping up glass around a pile of cardboard boxes. She had moved in at the weekend but the removal company hadn’t been able to deliver until yesterday. He asked his question about the white van and the two guys.

      ‘Do you think I’d be sitting on the balcony watching the traffic with all this lot to unpack?’ she said. ‘I’ve had to give up two days’ work because these people can’t deliver on time.’

      ‘Do you know who was in here before you?’

      ‘It was empty,’ she said. ‘Nobody had been living here for three months. The letting agency on Avenida San Lazaro said we were the first to see