Moments later he was locking his front door behind him and climbing into the 1955 duck-egg blue Giuletta Spider in his garage. It was a convertible, and the roof was still down from last night, and seconds later he was racing through the streets of La Moraleja and crossing the city on his way to Pablo Reyes’s address on the other side of town.
His salary alone could never have elevated him to La Moraleja, but there were others who paid him a high price in return for absolute loyalty. As he raced the Spider past the pool houses and palm-tree lined tennis courts he took none of this for granted. Rafael Ruiz was one of four boys raised by a single mother in Carabanchel in the city’s south-west. It had a well-earned reputation as one of the poorest and most deprived areas of the city.
There were certain ways out of poverty, but tonight was no time for reminiscence and nostalgia. Tonight his mind raced with the dozens of possible scenarios that could have played out in Reyes’s apartment. Perhaps the old man had been killed too — or even worse, kidnapped. The thought of what might happen if the professor’s work fell into the wrong hands filled Ruiz with a sense of deep dread, and he put the thought from his mind by flooring the accelerator and speeding into the night.
At the same time Ruiz was racing the Spider toward the scene of the crime, Cristina Fernandez was hurriedly getting dressed and running a brush through her long brown hair. An emergency was an emergency but she was still a professional, after all. She lived alone, except for Alberto, her ginger Kurilian Bobtail cat, left to her by an old aunt two years ago. Alberto watched her with his usual detached indifference as she unlocked her front door and slipped out into the street where she parked her car — an alpine white BMW 3 Series F30.
Seconds later she was roaring down the street and pointing the BMW’s nose south. She lived in Alcobendas, a small city to the north of Madrid and not far from Ruiz’s La Moraleja. Years ago, Alcobendas was a blue collar town with high levels of deprivation and low real estate prices, which Cristina bought into when she was new to the CNI. Recently the area had undergone the same magical transformation seen in so many suburbs across Spain, and she had benefited accordingly as the price of her small apartment had gone into the troposphere.
Now in her early forties and keeping a fixed eye on promotion, she was ready to move on. She had sacrificed everything for her career — a string of casual boyfriends over the years had left her single, childless and middle-aged, but all that mattered to her was the job. She loved her life, and never dwelt on the things she couldn’t conquer.
She raced the compact BMW through the emptying night streets of northern Madrid. She had to get to Reyes’s apartment as fast as possible. She pushed her foot down on the throttle and accelerated to seventy miles per hour.
FIVE
Harry and Lucia climbed the steps at the base of the Casino de Salamanca and walked out into the busy Spanish night. It was colder now and the wind was rising. The last time he had been in Madrid was back in August when what the French called the Sirocco, but the Spanish called the Lebeche, had blown into town. It was a strong southerly that blew in from the deserts of North Africa, pushed on top of Madrid in advance of a low pressure zone moving in from the Sahara desert, and describing it as hot was an understatement. But tonight was different, tonight there was even a little snow in the air.
He saw the traffic trundling along the Paseo de la Castellana, even at this late hour. They walked south on the Paseo for a few minutes and headed towards Pablo’s apartment in the nearby district of Chamberí. The Paseo de la Castellano, or the Castilian’s Mall, was one of the grandest avenues in the city, over six kilometres long and much of it lined with expensive retail outlets and cherry trees lit up with fairy lights, but neither of them saw any of this tonight.
They walked fast along the Paseo for another block, and then crossed over the Plaza Doctor Marañon and continued up the Calle Miguel Ángel. To his left, Harry could see the chrome, steel and glass of the Caixa bank building, partially obscured behind a line of horse chestnut trees. Pablo’s apartment was almost in sight.
They reached the residential block, and Harry led the way up the steps until they reached the third floor where the apartment was located, and then he saw it — Pablo Reyes’s front door, now shut from Lucia’s recent exit and still smeared with his blood. Sprawled out in front of it was the dead body of the professor’s neighbor, Mariana Vidal.
They heard a voice behind and swung around to see a scared-looking man standing in a white t-shirt and his underwear. He was holding a phone in his hand. “I told you I called the police, you murderer!” the neighbor shouted.
Lucia took a step back, but Harry walked over to him and grabbed him by the top of his t-shirt. “Why don’t you wait for them in there?” he said, and pushed him back inside his apartment. He slammed the door on him and moved back over to Lucia.
“I told you he called them!” she said.
Harry frowned and checked his watch. “You told me that seven or eight minutes ago back at the restaurant — only they’re not here, are they?”
“What are you getting at?”
“I don’t know — but that’s a little suspicious, don’t you think?”
“Should we call them?” she asked.
“No, not yet. They’ll only complicate things for the time being. I want to know what’s going on and fast. Involving the police is the best way to ensure we get cut out of the loop. Have you got the key?”
“No, sorry. I slammed it behind me without thinking.”
Harry pulled Mrs Vidal out the way and took a closer look at the door. He recognised the lock — a reasonable brand but the cylinder was a cheap affair and was no challenge at all. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key-ring, selecting a bump key. This was a key cut with the deepest possible grooves to allow the user to manipulate the springs and drivers inside the lock.
He slid the key into the cylinder housing and then pulled it out one notch before turning it very slightly to the right. He then gave the back of it a solid tap with the heel of his hand and pushed it back in.
Nothing happened.
“What’s going on?” Lucia asked, confused.
Harry flicked his eyes at her. “Takes a moment, just make sure your friendly neighbor’s minding his own business.”
He tapped the back of the key once again and this time it moved. This created a gap in the shear-line and raised the spring-loaded top pins inside the cylinder plug for a fraction of a second, giving him just enough time to turn the key and open the lock.
“How did you do that?” Lucia said with amazement.
“It’s called bumping a lock and it’s very naughty.”
“You’re a thief these days?”
Harry shrugged and gave her a sideways glance. “I’m not sure it’s called that when you’re paid by the government to do it, but whatever you want to call it I don’t do it any more. Come on — we need to get inside.”
The Englishman gently nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe and took a cautious step back as he did so. He wasn’t sure what the hell was going on here but if Lucia’s boyfriend really was dead he was certain he didn’t want to share his fate.
Inside the apartment, he turned to Lucia. “Where is he?”
She pointed to the end of the corridor. “He’s in there, the lounge.”
He nodded his head and swallowed hard. “All right, then you stay here while I take a look.”
He turned away from her and after making a quick search of the apartment to ensure they were alone, he walked the length of the apartment’s central corridor to the end door. Easing it back and peering his head around the open door, he knew in a heartbeat that the girl had been right and Pablo Reyes was dead.