Sanchís made an effort to keep his eyes open. By now he could barely feel his arms or his legs, which were tied with wire to the metal chair, so tightly that it cut his skin. “What have you done with my wife?”

“Your wife is safely at home. In perfect health. Who do you think we are?”

“I don’t know who you are.”

The voice acquired a face, and for the first time Sanchís confronted those crystal-clear, steely eyes, so blue they looked liquid. The face was angular, but with soft features. The man speaking to him looked like a matinee idol, one of those handsome men who well-to-do ladies steal a glance at and feel a rush between their legs. He dressed with extraordinary elegance. Gold cuff links engraved with the eagle of the national shield gleamed on the cuffs of his dry-cleaned shirt.

“We are the law,” said the speaker, smiling as if they were good friends.

“In that case, let me go. I’ve done nothing wrong.”

The man, who had drawn up a chair and was sitting opposite Sanchís, nodded sympathetically. Sanchís noticed that there were at least two more people in the cell, leaning against the wall in the shadows.

“My name is Hendaya. I’m sorry we’ve had to meet in these circumstances, but I like to think that you and I are going to be good friends. Friends respect one another, and don’t keep secrets to themselves.”

Hendaya gave a nod, and two of his men came over to the chair and began to cut Sanchís’s clothes into shreds with a pair of scissors.

“I learned practically everything I know from a great man—Inspector Francisco Javier Fumero, who has a plaque in his name in this building. Fumero was one of those men who are sometimes not fully appreciated. I think this is something that you, Sanchís, my friend, can understand better than most, because the same thing happened to you. Isn’t that right?”

Sanchís, who had started to tremble when he saw how his clothes were being snipped off him, stammered out, “I don’t . . . know what you—”

Hendaya raised a hand, cutting him off. “We’re among friends, Sanchís. Just as I said. We don’t need to keep secrets from one another. The good Spaniard has no secrets. And you’re a good Spaniard. The trouble is that sometimes people can be spiteful. We must admit it. We’re the best country in the world, nobody can doubt that, but occasionally envy gets the better of us. And you know that. All those comments about how you married the boss’s daughter, how you married for money, how you didn’t deserve being made director general, how this, how that . . . As I say, I understand you. And I understand that when a man’s honor and his self-respect are put in doubt, he gets angry. Because when a man’s got balls, he gets angry. And you’ve got them. A good pair of balls.”