After a few minutes’ wandering around through a jungle of junk that had probably been there since before either of them had been born, they discovered a pyramid of boxes still sporting a tag identical to the one Alicia had pulled off. Vargas stepped forward and began to place them in a row, while she opened them and went through their contents.

“Is this what you were looking for?” asked Vargas.

“I don’t know yet.”

“A perfect plan,” muttered the policeman.

It took them over half an hour to separate the boxes containing documents from the ones full of books and office supplies. They were unable to examine the documents properly in the anemic glow of the bulbs hanging high above them, so Vargas went off in search of something that would provide a better light. He came back after a while with an old copper candlestick and a handful of thick candles that looked as if they had never been used.

“Are you sure those aren’t dynamite cartridges?” asked Alicia.

Vargas flicked on the lighter, holding the flame a centimeter from the first candle, which he handed to her. “Will you do the honors?”

The candles spread a bubble of brightness, and Alicia began to check, one by one, the spines of the folders that could be seen when they opened the boxes.

Vargas watched her anxiously. “What shall I do?”

“It’s arranged by dates. Beginning in January 1934. I’ll search by date, and you search by name. Start with the most recent files, and we’ll meet in the middle.”

“Search for what?”

“Sanchís, Metrobarna . . . Anything that might allow us to link Brians with—”

“Fine,” Vargas interjected.

For almost twenty minutes they checked through the boxes without saying a word, exchanging occasional glances or a shake of the head.

“There’s nothing here about Sanchís or Metrobarna,” said the policeman. “I’ve already looked through five years, and there’s nothing.”

“Keep looking. Maybe it’s under Banco Hipotecario.”

“There’s nothing about banks. All these clients are nobodies, to use the technical legal term—”

“Keep looking.”

Vargas nodded and submerged himself again in the ocean of papers and dossiers as the candles dripped, leaving a cluster of wax tears running down the candlestick. After a while he noticed that Alicia was silent and had stopped her search. He looked up at her. She was immobile, her eyes riveted on a pile of folders she had pulled out of one of the boxes.

“What?” asked Vargas.

Alicia showed him a thick folder. “Isabella Gispert . . .”

“Of the Sempere & . . .”

She nodded. She showed him another folder labeled montjuïc 39-45. Drawing closer, Vargas knelt down by the box and began to go through the folders.

He pulled out a few. “Valentín Morgado . . .”

“Sanchís’s chauffeur.”

“Sempere/Martín . . .”

“Let me see.” Alicia opened the folder. “Is this our David Martín?”

“That’s what it looks like . . .” Vargas stopped. “Alicia?”

She looked up from David Martín’s dossier.