“Where have you been all day?” asked Alicia finally.

“Wandering around,” Vargas replied. “Trying to clear my head.”

“Any luck?”

He turned and looked at her warily. “Are you going to forgive me for telling Leandro everything?”

Alicia took a sip of wine and shrugged. “If you’re looking for a confessor, there’s a church just before you get to the Ramblas. I believe they do shifts until midnight.”

Vargas lowered his eyes. “If it’s any consolation, I got the impression that Leandro already knew most of what I told him. That he only needed confirmation.”

“That’s what always happens with Leandro,” said Alicia. “One never reveals anything to him, just clarifies some detail or other.”

Vargas sighed. “I had no choice. He could sense something. If I hadn’t told him what we’d found, I would have shown you up.”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Vargas. What’s done is done.”

The silence grew thicker.

“What about Fernandito?” asked Alicia. “Hasn’t he come back?”

“I thought he’d be with you.”

“What else are you not telling me, Vargas?”

“Sanchís . . .”

“Out with it.”

“He’s dead. A cardiac arrest while they were taking him from police headquarters to the Hospital Clínico. That’s what the report says.”

“Motherfuckers . . . ,” murmured Alicia.

The policeman slumped down on the sofa next to her. They gazed at one another. She filled her glass of wine again and offered it to him. Vargas downed it in one gulp.

“When must you go back to Madrid?”

“I’ve been given five days’ leave,” said Vargas. “And a five-thousand-peseta voucher.”

“Congratulations. Perhaps you’d like to burn it all on a pilgrimage with me to see the Virgin of Montserrat. They say she works wonders for the troubled conscience.”

Vargas smiled sadly. “I’m going to miss you, Alicia. Even if you don’t believe it.”

“Of course I believe it. But don’t get your hopes up. I won’t miss you.”

Vargas smiled to himself. “What about you? Where have you been?”

“Visiting the Semperes.”

“How did that happen?”

“A birthday party. Long story.”

Vargas nodded, as if that made all the sense in the world.

Alicia pointed at Isabella’s notebook. “Have you been reading while you waited?”

Again Vargas nodded.

“Isabella Gispert died knowing that bastard Valls had poisoned her,” said Alicia.

The cop put his hands on his face and pushed his hair back. He looked as if every year of his life was weighing on his soul. “I’m tired,” he said at last. “I’m tired of all this shit.”

“Why don’t you go back home?” asked Alicia. “Make them happy. Take your pension and retire to your country house in Toledo to read Lope de Vega. Wasn’t that the plan?”

“And do like you? Live off literature?”

“Half the country lives off make-believe. I don’t think two more will make much of a difference.”

“How was it with the Semperes?”

“Good people.”

“I see. And you’re not used to it. Right?”

“No.”

“That used to happen to me, too. You’ll get over it. What are you planning to do with Isabella’s notebook? Are you going to give it to them?”