“Odder than two left feet. But that’s just the start.”

Vargas looked at her.

“All the deaths are certified in the Hospital Militar. How many children die in a military hospital?”

“And the births?”

“In the Hospital del Sagrado Corazón. All, with no exception.”

“Could it be a coincidence?”

“If you’re a man of faith. . . . And look at the ages of the children. They’re also in pairs, as you can see.”

Vargas took a closer look, but exhaustion was beginning to cloud his understanding.

“For every death certificate, there is one birth certificate,” Luisa once again explained.

“I don’t understand.”

“The children. Every one of them was born on the same day as one of the deceased.”

“Could I borrow all this?”

“The originals cannot leave the premises. You’d have to ask for copies and that would take at least a month, and only by pulling strings.”

“Couldn’t there be a faster way—”

“And more discreet?” Luisa completed.

“Also.”

“Move to one side.”

For the next half an hour, Luisa took paper and pen and wrote down an extract with the names, dates, certificate numbers, and codes of each document. Vargas followed her neat, elegant handwriting, trying to find the clue that would tell him what all of it meant. Only then, when his eyes were already drifting through the endless list of words and numbers, did he notice the names Luisa had just written down. “Just a minute,” he interrupted.

Luisa moved to one side. Vargas looked back among the certificates and found what he was looking for.

“Mataix,” he murmured.

Luisa leaned over the documents the policeman was examining. “Two girls. They died on the same day . . . Does that mean anything to you?”

Vargas’s eyes slid down to the bottom of the certificates. “What’s this?”

“The signature of the civil servant who issued the document.”

The strokes were clean and elegant, the handwriting of someone who knew about appearances and protocol. Vargas formed the name silently with his lips and felt his blood turn to ice.

24

The apartment smelled of Alicia. It smelled of her perfume, her presence, and the aroma left by the touch of her skin. Fernandito had been sitting on the sofa for an eternity and a half, accompanied only by this fragrance and an anxiety that was starting to eat him alive. Alicia and her gun had left a quarter of an hour ago, but the wait was becoming interminable. Unable to stay still for another moment, he got up and went over to the large double windows that looked out on Calle Aviñón, to open them and get some fresh air. With a bit of luck, that disturbing aroma would escape in search of a new victim.

He let the icy breeze clear his conscience and went back inside, determined to wait, just as Alicia had asked him to do. His noble resolve lasted about five minutes. Soon he began to wander around the room, reading the titles of the books on the shelves, stroking the pieces of furniture as he walked by, studying objects he hadn’t noticed on previous visits and imagining Alicia following that same path and touching the same things. This isn’t good, Fernandito. Sit down.