The Hidden Assassins Read Free Page B

was at a microscope while Felipe was on all fours on the plastic sheet, wearing his custom-made magnifying spectacles.
    ‘We’ve got a blood group match from the victim to the white shroud and to the black plastic sheet. We hope to have a DNA match by tomorrow morning,’ said Jorge. ‘It looks to me as if they put him face down on the plastic to do the surgery.’ He gave Falcón the measurements between a saliva deposit and some blood deposits and two pubic hairs which all conformed to the victim’s height.
    ‘We’re running DNA tests on those, too,’ he said.
    ‘What about the acid on the face?’
    ‘That must have been done elsewhere and rinsed off. There’s no sign of it.’
    ‘Any prints?’
    ‘No fingerprints, just a footprint in the top left quadrant,’ said Felipe. ‘Jorge has matched it to a Nike trainer, as worn by thousands of people.’
    ‘Are you going to be able to look at those bins tonight?’
    ‘We’ll take a look, but if he was well wrapped up I don’t hold out much hope for blood or saliva,’ said Felipe.
    ‘Have you run a check on missing persons?’ asked Jorge.
    ‘We don’t even know if he was Spanish yet,’ said Falcón. ‘I’m seeing the Médico Forense tomorrow morning. Let’s hope there are some distinguishing marks.’
    ‘His pubic hair was dark,’ said Jorge, grinning. ‘And his blood group was O positive…if that’s any help?’
    ‘Keep up the brilliant work,’ said Falcón.
    It was still raining, but in a discouragingly sensible way after the reckless madness of the initial downpour. Falcón did some paperwork with his mind elsewhere. He turned away from his computer and stared at the reflection of his office in the dark window. The fluorescent light shivered. Pellets of rain drummed against the glass as if a lunatic wanted to attract his attention. Falcón was surprised at himself. He’d been such a scientific investigator in the past, always keen to get his hands on autopsy reports and forensic evidence. Now he spent more time tuning in to his intuition. He tried to persuade himself that it was experience but sometimes it seemed like laziness. A buzz from his mobile jolted him: a text from his current girlfriend, Laura, inviting him to dinner. He looked down at the screen and found himself unconsciously rubbing the arm which had made contact with Consuelo’s body in the entrance of the café. He hesitated as he reached for the mobile to reply. Why, suddenly, was everything so much more complicated? He’d wait until he got back home.
    The traffic was slow in the rain. The radio news commented on the successful parading of the Virgin of Rocío, which had taken place that day. Falcón crossedthe river and joined the metal snake heading north. He sat at the traffic lights and scribbled a note without thinking before filtering right down Calle Reyes Católicos. From there he drove into the maze of streets where he lived in the massive, rambling house he’d inherited six years ago. He parked up between the orange trees that led to the entrance of the house on Calle Bailén but didn’t get out. He was wrestling with his uneasiness again and this time it was to do with Consuelo—what he’d seen in her face that morning. They’d both been startled, but it hadn’t just been shock that had registered in her eyes. It was anguish.
    He got out of the car, opened the smaller door within the brass-studded oak portal and went through to the patio, where the marble flags still glistened from the rain. A blinking light beyond the glass door to his study told him that he had two phone messages. He hit the button and stood in the dark looking out through the cloister at the bronze running boy in the fountain. The voice of his Moroccan friend, Yacoub Diouri, filled the room. He greeted Javier in Arabic and then slipped into perfect Spanish. He was flying to Madrid on his way to Paris next weekend and wondered if they could meet up. Was that coincidence or synchronicity? The