Two other shelves were reserved for CDs and DVDs. Wolf’s taste in movies was as unusual as his choice of literature. Ben hadn’t known too many Special Forces guys who showed enthusiasm for European arthouse cinema. Wolf’s collection was diverse, with names like Werner Herzog and Andrei Tarkovsky jumping from the shelves that Ben only recognised at all because his ex-fiancée Brooke Marcel had been into that kind of thing and tried to get him to watch some with her. He’d finally drawn the line with Last Year in Marienbad.

By contrast, Wolf’s musical interests seemed far less wide-ranging. In fact, Ben noticed, his large CD collection was exclusively devoted to Spanish Flamenco, not a single rock or jazz album among them. Ben ran his eye along the spines and saw names like Sabicas, Carlos Montoya, Juan Martín and Manitas de Plata that he’d never heard of before. He slid a few down from the shelf and gazed at them. The images on the jewel cases were of swarthy, rugged men clasping guitars and sultry raven-haired dancing ladies in red dresses. You could almost hear the castanets and the stamping feet. Ben had visited Spain a few times during his K&R days, and spent a memorable evening or two in bars watching live Flamenco jam sessions raise the roof with raucous singing and guitar playing so violent it was a wonder they didn’t break the damn things.

It was as Ben replaced the CDs on the shelf and turned away from the bookcase that the pictures on the walls caught his eye more closely. Before, he’d only glanced at them to ascertain that they’d been knocked askew or taken down as the ransackers hunted for the elusive wall safe. Now he was suddenly looking at what they were pictures of.

He could be certain that the intruders hadn’t paid much attention to the pictures themselves, either. What kind of professional hardman gave a crap about fine art? The framed prints were modern in style, to Ben’s eye at least. Cubist, or something. He was no expert himself, though he could appreciate the skill involved, and the tasteful way that Wolf had arranged them on his wall. Four pictures had been hung in a neat row. Each one featuring a Spanish guitar, or a figure playing a guitar, conveyed in a semi-abstract style that you sometimes had to squint at to get what it was depicting. The prints were reproduced from paintings that were all obviously the work of a single artist. Ben looked more closely and saw the signature ‘Juan Gris’ in the bottom corner of each. He’d have bet that Juan Gris wasn’t from Latvia.

Spain, Spain, Spain. Interesting.