'When I started investigating Velo-Granell Industries I discovered that Mijail Kolvenik didn't have a very clear past . . . There was no record of his birth or nationality in Prague. I suspect Mijail was probably not his real name.'

'Who was he then?' I asked.

'I've been asking myself that same question for thirty years. In fact, when I got in touch with the police in Prague, I did discover there was one person named Mijail Kolvenik, but he appeared in the registers of the WolfterHaus.'

'What's that?' I asked.

'An asylum. But I don't think Kolvenik was ever there. He simply adopted the name of one of the patients. Kolvenik wasn't mad.'

'Why would Kolvenik steal the ident.i.ty of a mental-hospital patient?' asked Marina.

'It wasn't that unusual at the time,' Florian explained. 'When there's a war going on, changing ident.i.ties can amount to being reborn, leaving an inconvenient past behind. You're very young and you haven't lived through a war. You don't really get to understand people until you've lived through one . . .'

'Did Kolvenik have anything to hide?' I asked. 'If the Prague police had information about him, there must have been a reason . . .'

'Pure coincidence, matching surnames. Bureaucracy. Believe me, I know what I'm talking about,' said Florian. 'Supposing the Kolvenik of their files was our Kolvenik, he left only a thin trail behind him. His name was mentioned in the investigation into the death of a surgeon in Prague, a man called Antonin Kolvenik. The case was closed and the death attributed to natural causes.'

'Why then did they take that Mijail Kolvenik to a mental hospital?' Marina now asked.

Florian hesitated for a few moments, as if he didn't dare reply.

'It was suspected he'd done something with the dead man's body . . .'

'Something?'

'The Prague police didn't explain what it was,' Florian answered dryly, lighting a cigarette.

We fell into a long silence.

'What about the story Dr Sh.e.l.ley told us? About Kolvenik's twin brother, the degenerative illness and-'

'That's what Kolvenik told him. Kolvenik could lie just as easily as he breathed. And Sh.e.l.ley had good reasons to believe him without asking any questions,' Florian said. 'Kolvenik financed his medical inst.i.tute and his research, down to the last centimo. Sh.e.l.ley was almost like an employee at Velo-Granell Industries. A henchman . . .'

'So, Kolvenik's twin brother was another invention?' I was disconcerted. 'His existence might justify Kolvenik's obsession with people afflicted with deformities and-'

'I don't think the brother was an invention,' Florian cut in. 'In my opinion.'

'I don't follow.'

'I think the child he spoke about was in fact himself.'

Marina and I exchanged glances.

'One more question, Inspector . . .'

'I'm no longer an inspector, young lady.'

'Victor then. You're still Victor, aren't you?'

That was the first time I saw Florian smile in a relaxed and open way.

'What's the question?'

'You've told us that when you investigated the alleged Velo-Granell fraud you discovered there was something else . . .'

'Yes. At first we thought it was a typical ploy: expense accounts with non-existent payments to avoid tax payments made to hospitals, to shelters for the homeless and so on until one of my men found it odd that some sets of expenses that bore Dr Sh.e.l.ley's signature and approval had been invoiced by the autopsy centres of various hospitals in Barcelona. In other words, by the mortuaries,' the ex-policeman explained. 'The morgue.'

'Kolvenik sold corpses?' Marina suggested.

'No. He was buying them. By the dozen. Tramps. People who died without family or acquaintances. Men or women who had committed suicide or drowned, old people who'd been abandoned . . . The city's forgotten dead.'

In the background the murmur of a radio drifted through the air like the echo of our conversation.

'And what did Kolvenik do with those corpses?'

'n.o.body knows,' Florian replied. 'We never managed to find them.'

'But you have a theory, don't you, Victor?' Marina continued.

Florian gazed at us.

'No.'

Even though he was a policeman albeit a retired one lying didn't suit him. Marina didn't insist. The inspector looked tired, consumed by shadows that poisoned his memories. All his fierceness had collapsed. The cigarette was shaking in his hands and it was hard to tell who was doing the smoking Florian or the cigarette.

'As for the greenhouse you've told me about . . . don't go back there. Forget the whole business. Forget the photograph alb.u.m, the nameless grave and the lady who visits it. Forget Sentis, Sh.e.l.ley and myself I'm only a foolish old man who doesn't even know what he's saying. This matter has already destroyed enough lives. Leave it alone.' He signalled to the waiter to add the bill to his account and concluded, 'Promise you'll do as I say.'

I wondered how we were going to stop pursuing the matter when in fact it was the matter that was pursuing us. After what had happened the night before, his advice sounded like wishful thinking.

'We'll try,' said Marina on behalf of both of us.

'Try hard. The road to h.e.l.l is paved with good intentions,' Florian replied.

The inspector accompanied us to the funicular station and gave us the telephone number of the cafe.

'They know me here. If you need anything, call them and they'll pa.s.s on the message. Any time of day or night. Manu, the owner, suffers from chronic insomnia and spends the night listening to the BBC, to see if he can learn languages. So you won't bother him.'

'We don't know how to thank you . . .'

'Thank me by following my advice and keeping out of this mess,' Florian cut in.

We nodded in agreement. The funicular car opened its doors.

'What about you, Victor?' asked Marina. 'What are you going to do?'

'What all old people do: sit down and remember, and ask myself what would have happened if I'd done everything differently. Go on, off you go . . .'

We stepped into the car and sat by the window. It was starting to get dark. A whistle blew and the doors closed. The funicular began its descent with a jolt. Slowly, the lights of Vallvidrera were left behind, as was the figure of Florian, standing immobile on the platform.

German had prepared a delicious Italian dish with a name that sounded like the t.i.tle of an opera. We had dinner in the kitchen, listening to his account of the chess tournament with the priest, who as usual had beaten him by dubious means. Marina was uncommonly quiet during the meal, leaving the weight of the conversation to German and me. I even wondered whether I'd said or done anything that might have annoyed her. After dinner German challenged me to a game of chess.

'I'd love to, but I think it's my turn to wash up,' I explained.

'I'll do the washing-up,' said Marina weakly, behind my back.

'No, really . . .' I objected.

German was already in the other room, singing softly to himself and lining up the rows of p.a.w.ns. I turned towards Marina, who looked away and started to wash the dishes.

'Let me help you.'

'No . . . Go in there with German. He'll be pleased.'

'Are you coming, Oscar?' came German's voice from the other room.

I gazed at Marina in the light of the candles burning on the windowsill. I thought she looked pale, tired.

'Are you all right?'

She turned round and smiled. Marina had a way of smiling that made me feel small and insignificant.

'Go on. And let him win.'

'That's easy.'

I took her advice and left her alone, joining her father in the sitting room. There, under the quartz chandelier, I sat at the chessboard ready to let him enjoy the pleasant interlude his daughter wished for him.

'Your move, Oscar.'

I moved. He cleared his throat.

'May I remind you that p.a.w.ns can't jump like that, Oscar?'

'I beg your pardon.'

'That's all right. It's the fire of youth. Believe me, I envy you. Youth is like a fickle girlfriend. We can't understand or value her until she goes off with someone else, never to return . . . Dear me! I don't know where all that came from. Let's see . . . p.a.w.n . . .'

At midnight a sound pulled me out of a dream. The house was in darkness. I sat up in the bed and listened. A cough m.u.f.fled, distant. Feeling uneasy, I got up and went out into the corridor. The sound came from the ground floor. I went past the door of Marina's bedroom. It was open, and the bed was empty. I felt a pang of fear.

'Marina?'

There was no reply. I tiptoed down the cold steps. Kafka's eyes shone at the bottom of the staircase. The cat meowed softly and led me along a dark corridor. At the end of it a thread of light glowed beneath a closed door. The cough came from inside. Painful. Agonising. Kafka walked up to the door and stopped there, meowing. I rapped gently.

'Marina?'

A long silence.

'Go away, Oscar.'

Her voice was a groan. I let a few seconds go by and then opened the door. A candle on the floor barely lit the white-tiled bathroom. Marina was kneeling, her forehead leaning against the washbasin. She was trembling and her perspiration made her nightdress cling to her skin like a shroud. She covered her face, but I could see she was bleeding through her nose and a few scarlet stains covered her chest. I was paralysed, unable to react.

'What's the matter . . .?' I whispered.

'Close the door,' she said firmly. 'Close it.'

I did as I was told and went to her side. She was burning with fever. Her hair was stuck to her face, which was drenched in ice-cold sweat. I was so scared I turned to rush out in search of German. But her hand gripped me with unbelievable strength.

'No!'

'But . . .'

'I'm fine.'

'You're not fine!'

'Oscar, I beg you, don't call German. He can't do anything. It's over now. I'm feeling better.'

The calmness in her voice was terrifying. Her eyes searched mine. Something in them forced me to obey. Then she stroked my face.

'Don't be afraid. I'm better.'

'You're pale as death . . .' I stammered.

She took my hand and placed it on her chest. I could feel her heart beating against her ribs. I pulled my hand away, not knowing what to do.

'Alive and kicking. See? You must promise you won't say anything about this to German.'

'Why?' I protested. 'What's wrong with you?'

She lowered her eyes, infinitely tired. I shut up.

'Promise.'

'You must see a doctor.'

'Promise, Oscar.'

'If you promise to see a doctor.'

'That's a deal. I promise.'

She dampened a towel and began to clean the blood off her face. I felt useless.

'Now you've seen me like this, you're not going to fancy me any more.'

'I don't think that's funny.'

She went on wiping her face quietly, without taking her eyes off me. Her body, swathed in the damp, almost transparent cotton, looked fragile and brittle. I was surprised not to feel any embarra.s.sment, seeing her like that. Nor did she seem at all shy in my presence. Her hands were shaking as she dried the sweat and the blood off her body. I found a clean bathrobe hanging on the door and held it out for her. She covered herself with it and sighed with exhaustion.