The Hidden Assassins. Robert Thomas Wilson

significant about his hands,’ said Pérez.

      Falcón and Ferrera exchanged a look.

      ‘Keep thinking, Emilio,’ said Falcón. ‘Anyway, it was planned and premeditated and it was important that his identity was not known. Why?’

      ‘Because the identity of the corpse will point to the killers,’ said Pérez. ‘Most victims are killed by people—’

      ‘Or?’ said Falcón. ‘If there was no obvious link?’

      ‘The identity of the victim and/or knowledge of his skills might jeopardize a future operation,’ said Ferrera.

      ‘Good. Now tell me how many people you really think it took to dispose of that body in one of those bins,’ said Falcón. ‘They’re chest high to a normal person and the whole thing has got to be done in seconds.’

      ‘Three to deal with the body and two for lookout,’ said Pérez.

      ‘If you tipped the bin over to the edge of the car boot it could be done with two men,’ said Ferrera. ‘Anybody coming down Calle Boteros at that time would be drunk and shouting. You might need a driver in the car. Three maximum.’

      ‘Three or five, what does that tell you?’

      ‘It’s a gang,’ said Pérez.

      ‘Doing what?’

      ‘Drugs?’ he said. ‘Cutting off his hands, burning off his face…’

      ‘Drug runners don’t normally sew people into shrouds,’ said Falcón. ‘They tend to shoot people and there was no bullet hole…not even a knife wound.’

      ‘It didn’t seem like an execution,’ said Ferrera, ‘more like a regrettable necessity.’

      Falcón told them they were to revisit all the apartments overlooking the bins first thing in the morning before everybody went to work. They were to establish if there was black plastic sheeting in any of the bins and if a car was seen or heard at around three in the morning on Sunday.

      Down in the forensic lab, Felipe and Jorge had the tables pushed back and the black plastic sheet laid out on the floor. The two large bins from Calle Boteros were already in the corner, taped shut. Jorge was at a microscope while Felipe was on all fours on the plastic sheet, wearing his custom-made magnifying spectacles.

      ‘We’ve got a blood group match from the victim to the white shroud and to the black plastic sheet. We hope to have a DNA match by tomorrow morning,’ said Jorge. ‘It looks to me as if they put him face down on the plastic to do the surgery.’ He gave Falcón the measurements between a saliva deposit and some blood deposits and two pubic hairs which all conformed to the victim’s height.

      ‘We’re running DNA tests on those, too,’ he said.

      ‘What about the acid on the face?’

      ‘That must have been done elsewhere and rinsed off. There’s no sign of it.’

      ‘Any prints?’

      ‘No fingerprints, just a footprint in the top left quadrant,’ said Felipe. ‘Jorge has matched it to a Nike trainer, as worn by thousands of people.’

      ‘Are you going to be able to look at those bins tonight?’

      ‘We’ll take a look, but if he was well wrapped up I don’t hold out much hope for blood or saliva,’ said Felipe.

      ‘Have you run a check on missing persons?’ asked Jorge.

      ‘We don’t even know if he was Spanish yet,’ said Falcón. ‘I’m seeing the Médico Forense tomorrow morning. Let’s hope there are some distinguishing marks.’

      ‘His pubic hair was dark,’ said Jorge, grinning. ‘And his blood group was O positive…if that’s any help?’

      ‘Keep up the brilliant work,’ said Falcón.

      It was still raining, but in a discouragingly sensible way after the reckless madness of the initial downpour. Falcón did some paperwork with his mind elsewhere. He turned away from his computer and stared at the reflection of his office in the dark window. The fluorescent light shivered. Pellets of rain drummed against the glass as if a lunatic wanted to attract his attention. Falcón was surprised at himself. He’d been such a scientific investigator in the past, always keen to get his hands on autopsy reports and forensic evidence. Now he spent more time tuning in to his intuition. He tried to persuade himself that it was experience but sometimes it seemed like laziness. A buzz from his mobile jolted him: a text from his current girlfriend, Laura, inviting him to dinner. He looked down at the screen and found himself unconsciously rubbing the arm which had made contact with Consuelo’s body in the entrance of the café. He hesitated as he reached for the mobile to reply. Why, suddenly, was everything so much more complicated? He’d wait until he got back home.

      The traffic was slow in the rain. The radio news commented on the successful parading of the Virgin of Rocío, which had taken place that day. Falcón crossed the river and joined the metal snake heading north. He sat at the traffic lights and scribbled a note without thinking before filtering right down Calle Reyes Católicos. From there he drove into the maze of streets where he lived in the massive, rambling house he’d inherited six years ago. He parked up between the orange trees that led to the entrance of the house on Calle Bailén but didn’t get out. He was wrestling with his uneasiness again and this time it was to do with Consuelo—what he’d seen in her face that morning. They’d both been startled, but it hadn’t just been shock that had registered in her eyes. It was anguish.

      He got out of the car, opened the smaller door within the brass-studded oak portal and went through to the patio, where the marble flags still glistened from the rain. A blinking light beyond the glass door to his study told him that he had two phone messages. He hit the button and stood in the dark looking out through the cloister at the bronze running boy in the fountain. The voice of his Moroccan friend, Yacoub Diouri, filled the room. He greeted Javier in Arabic and then slipped into perfect Spanish. He was flying to Madrid on his way to Paris next weekend and wondered if they could meet up. Was that coincidence or synchronicity? The only reason he’d met Yacoub Diouri, one of the few men he’d become close to, was because of Consuelo Jiménez. That was the thing about intuition, you began to believe that everything had significance.

      The second message was from Laura, who still wanted to know if he would be coming for dinner that night; it would be just the two of them. He smiled at that. His relationship with Laura was not exclusive. She had other male companions she saw regularly and that had suited him…until now when, for no apparent reason, it was different. Paella and spending the night with Laura suddenly seemed ridiculous.

      He called her and said that he wouldn’t be able to make dinner but that he would drop by for a drink later.

      There was no food in the house. His housekeeper had assumed he would go out for dinner. He hadn’t eaten all day. The body on the dump had interrupted his lunch plans and ruined his appetite. Now he was hungry. He went for a walk. The streets were fresh after the rain and full of people. He didn’t really start thinking where he was going until he found himself heading round the back of the Omnium Sanctorum church. Only then did he admit that he was going to eat at Consuelo’s new restaurant.

      The waiter brought him a menu and he ordered immediately. The pan de casa arrived quickly; thinly sliced ham sitting on a spread of salmorejo on toast. He enjoyed it with a beer. Feeling suddenly bold he took out one of his cards and wrote on the back: I am eating here and wondered if you would join me for a glass of wine. Javier. When the waiter came back with the revuelto de setas, scrambled eggs and mushrooms, he poured a glass of red rioja and Javier gave him the card.

      Later the waiter returned with some tiny lamb chops and topped up his glass of wine.

      ‘She’s not in,’ he said. ‘I’ve left the card on her desk so that she knows you were here.’

      Falcón knew he was lying. It was one of the few advantages of being a