was headed by Jorrin’s wife and two children who the Count didn’t know, then Major Rangel and other high-ranking officers, all wearing uniforms and stripes. It was far too sad a spectacle for the Count’s tender sensitivities: his head, liver, heart and soul hurt; and when they were level with the cemetery’s main chapel, he told Manolo, “Go on, I’ll catch you up,” and he separated out from the procession that advanced like a sleepy snake. The sun was hurting Conde’s eyes, breached his sunglasses, and he sought out the shadow of a weeping willow and sat down on one side of the pavement. He was one of the few officers who hadn’t come to the ceremony in full uniform and he changed the angle of his pistol as he flopped on the low wall. The silence in the cemetery was intense and the Count was grateful. He had enough noises inside himself and declined to listen to the more or less predictable eulogy that would wind up the mourning for Captain Jorrin. A good father, good policeman, and good colleague? You don’t come to a cemetery to learn what you already know. He lit a cigarette and, the other side of the chapel, saw a group of women changing the flowers on a grave and dusting the gravestone. It seemed a social rather than meditative act and the Count remembered he’d been told about the existence of a Miraculous One, in that cemetery, and that people often came to ask for mysterious help from her understanding spirit that was in step with the times. He stood up and went over to the women. Three sat on a bench next to the grave and two were still cleaning briskly, sweeping up leaves and earth left by the wind, re-arranging bunches of flowers in the earthenware jugs. All wore black scarves round their heads, dressed like timeless Spanish village women, swapping more or less accurate rumours about up-and-coming reductions in the weekly egg quota price increases. Without asking their permission the Count sat on the bench next to the women and looked at the grave and the flowers, candles, black rosary beads and blurred picture of a woman behind a glass frame.
“She’s the Miraculous One, isn’t she?” the policeman asked the nearest woman.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you look after the grave?”
“It’s our turn once a month. We clean and tidy it and help people who come to ask for something.”
“I want to ask for something,” the Count replied.
He didn’t look like a pilgrim, so the woman, a black woman well into her sixties with arms of soft ham, looked at him for a second before she spoke.
“She’s given lots of evidence of her power. And one day the Church will recognize her for what she is: a miracleworking saint, a creature beloved of the Lord. If you can bring her flowers, candles, things like that, it helps when you ask, because it lights up her path, but all you really need is faith, lots of faith, and then you ask her for help and say a prayer. An Our Father, a Hail Mary, whatever you prefer. And ask from the bottom of your heart, with lots of faith. You understand?”
The Count nodded and remembered Jorrin. They must be saying goodbye to him now; no doubt the Boss, a companion of thirty years standing, would speak of his record of unstinting service to society, family and life. Then he looked at the grave opposite and tried to recall a prayer. If he was going to ask for something, he’d do it properly, trying to recover the scattered bits of the faith he’d reneged on, but he didn’t make it past the first lines of the Lord’s Prayer that he confused with fragments of Mario Benedetti’s
“Thanks a lot,” he said to the black woman when he stood up. She’d been looking at him all that time and smiled.
“Come back whenever you want, sir.”
“I think I might,” he said waving at the women, who’d switched from the topic of eggs to the chickens that had yet to reach the butchers. The usual story: the chicken or the egg? He walked back to the central avenue and, on his right, saw the mourners coming back from the burial. He adjusted his glasses and went to look for the car, hoping he’d be able to sit down. He felt weak and ridiculous and he knew he was going soft. It’s as if I were in meltdown. Bloody shit. He tried his door but it was locked like Manolo’s. He saw the radio aerial on the back seat. He distrusts even the dead, he thought. And then thought: will she grant me my miracle?
“How did it go?”
Greco, in uniform, was waiting for them under the almond tree planted by the entrance to the parking lot at headquarters. He barely saluted when Conde came over and replied.
“Plain sailing. We got to his house at eight, as Manolo told us, called in his mother, explained it was a routine investigation connected to Orlando San Juan, and then called him in – he was still asleep. The search carried out by Ciceron’s people brought nothing to light, Conde.”
“What did you make of him?”
“He’s a bit loud-mouthed and protested to start with, but I think it’s pure show.”
“Did you tell him anything else?”
“No, not a thing. Crespo’s with him upstairs in your cubbyhole. It’s all set up as per instructions.”
“Up we go, Manolo,” he then said and they went into a building that was quiet at a time when it was usually bustling. They found the lift waiting for them, doors open, in the lobby. Miracles already? wondered the Count and pressed the button to his floor. When they were in the corridor, Manuel Palacios took a deep breath and filled his lungs, like a deep-sea diver about to take the plunge.
“Shall we begin?”
“Be tough,” said the Count following him.
Manolo opened the door to the cubicle where bald Crespo and Lazaro San Juan were sitting. Crespo stood up and saluted Manolo with almost a martial air.
“Bring him here, Crespo,” asked the sergeant.
Still in the corridor, the Count saw the boy come out. He was handcuffed and he’d lifted his hands to his forehead.
“Take off the handcuffs,” he ordered Crespo and looked at Lazaro San Juan’s face; although it bore no similarity to Lando the Russian’s, family traits were in evidence – an apparently absent gaze and almost straight, lipless mouth. He looked older than a youth who’d just celebrated his eighteenth birthday. His body was endowed with a firm, adult bone structure, and layered in rippling muscle. A few spots on his face betrayed his youth, but not even the red acne pimples obscured his masculine grace. His hair was parted down the middle and he didn’t seem scared. Lissette was a woman who ate well and badly with equal relish, because it was a way to eat twice. That boy must have been her favourite dish, thought Conde. Tough on the digestion.
They processed awkwardly along the corridor and entered the lift. They went up to the next floor and walked out into a similar corridor, one lined with glass and aluminium doors. They went through two doorways and opened a wooden door that led into the tiniest of cubicles that was in semi-darkness. There was a curtain down one side. Manolo pointed Lazaro to the only chair and the youngster sat down. Crespo switched the light on.
“Lazaro San Juan Valdes?” asked Manolo and the youngster nodded. “An eleventh grade student at La Vibora Pre-Uni, correct?”
“Yes,” he answered.
“All right, do you know why you’re here?”
The youngster looked around him, as if trying to get an idea of where he was.
“I was told it was an investigation into Pre-Uni.”
“Do you know or can you imagine what kind of investigation?”
“I think it’s to do with Lissette the teacher. I was in the lavatories the other day when your colleague came in and asked about her.” He replied looking at Conde.
“That’s right,” Manolo continued, “it’s about her. Lissette the teacher was murdered on Tuesday the eighteenth, at around midnight. She was strangled with a towel. Someone had sexual contact with her just before. Someone gave her a good beating just before. But before that, lots of alcohol was drunk in her place and marijuana
