“Say what?”

“What you’re thinking.”

“What am I thinking?”

“That I look like Dracula’s girlfriend.”

Vargas frowned.

“That’s what Leandro always says,” said Alicia in a friendly tone. “It doesn’t bother me. I’m used to it.”

“That isn’t what I was thinking.”

“I’m sorry about earlier.”

“There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

The waiter came over carrying two dishes and an obliging grin.

“Fillet steak for the young lady . . . and the house stew for the gentleman. Anything else? A bit more bread? A glass of wine from the local winery?”

Vargas shook his head. Alicia glanced at the steak on her plate, flanked by French fries, and sighed.

“If you like, I can cook it a bit longer,” the waiter offered.

“It’s fine, thanks.”

They began to eat in silence, exchanging the occasional conciliatory look and smile. Alicia wasn’t hungry, but she made an effort and pretended to enjoy her steak.

“It’s good. How’s your stew? Makes you want to marry the cook?”

Vargas put down his spoon and leaned back in the chair. Alicia knew he was observing her dilated pupils and drowsy face.

“How much did you inject?”

“It’s none of your business.”

“What sort of a wound is it?”

“The sort a well-brought-up young lady doesn’t talk about.”

“If we’re going to be working together, I need to know what to expect.”

“We’re not engaged. This will last a couple of days. You don’t need to introduce me to your mother.”

Vargas didn’t show the slightest hint of a smile.

“It’s from when I was a child. During the bombings, in the war. The doctor who rebuilt my hip hadn’t slept for twenty hours, and he did his best. I think I still carry a couple of souvenirs in there from Mussolini’s air force.”

“In Barcelona?”

Alicia nodded.

“I had a colleague in the Force who came from there. He lived for twenty years with a piece of shrapnel the size of a stuffed olive stuck to his aorta.”

“Did he die in the end?”

“Run over by a newspaper delivery van as he stood outside a railway station.”

“One can never trust the press. At the slightest chance, they’ll do you in. What about you? Where did you spend the war?”

“Here and there. Mostly in Toledo.”

“In or out of the siege?”

“What difference does it make?”

“Mementoes?”

Vargas unbuttoned his shirtfront and showed her a circular scar on the right-hand side of his chest.

“May I?” asked Alicia.

Vargas nodded. Alicia leaned forward and felt the scar with her fingers. Behind the bar, the waiter dropped the glass he was drying.

“It looks like the real thing,” said Alicia. “Does it hurt?”

Vargas buttoned up his shirt again. “Only when I laugh. Honestly.”

“With this work, you can probably barely afford all the aspirin you need.”

Vargas smiled at last. Alicia raised her glass of water.

“A toast to our sorrows.”

The policeman held up his glass, and they toasted. They ate in silence, Vargas mopping up the stew with bread and Alicia picking at her meat here and there. Once she’d pushed her plate to one side, he started stealing her remaining fries, which was almost the whole serving.