study last. The parquet was lighter under the desk, from where the bloodstained carpet had been removed. It took a while to check every drawer and every shelf. Two dozen insubstantial novels indicated Olmedo was not too keen on fiction. However, there were numerous books on history, biography, monographs on armament, military strategy, and recent armed conflicts. They had been obviously studied with attention, as some passages were underlined in pencil and annotated in the margins.
On the desk were the bank documents needed to change the name of the account holder on an investment fund, which Marinahad mentioned in their interview. They were signed by her, but not by the major, the other account holder. In a small cupboard Cupido found a wooden box with medals and decorations, the oldest ones dating from as far back as Olmedo’s time in the Academia de Zaragoza. Next to the box were several folders with old bank statements, income tax returns, and the title deeds to the house and a small farm in the countryside. The last folder he checked contained the dossier of a trial. Cupido sat on the floor – he didn’t dare sit down in the chair where Olmedo had died – and carefully perused the report: the judge found an anaesthetist called Lesmes Beltrán Villa guilty of criminal negligence at work during an operation which had resulted in the death of a patient called Pilar Rodríguez Pando. The lawsuit had been initiated by the victim’s husband, Camilo Olmedo, and the anaesthetist had been barred from practising for four years and sentenced to pay a hundred and fifty thousand euros in compensation to the family of the woman.
Cupido wrote it all down in his notebook for discussion later with Marina.
Over three hours had gone by when he went down to the garage. Even here, everything was impeccably tidy, with the tools in order and two old tyres placed on the back wall as buffers. A racing bicycle in perfect condition hung from a hook and made the detective want to take it down and go for a ride for a couple of hours, pedalling until he was exhausted. The car was open and he went through the glove compartment and looked under the floor mats without finding anything important.
He left the building with the feeling that the man who had lived there had no secrets. The surface of his life looked like a hilly landscape, with the inevitable accidents created by time, but it didn’t hide pits inhabited by unknown monsters, or caves full of bones and bats, or frozen, inaccessible mountains whose very existence was a mystery. Olmedo seemed to have led a sensible life, and on that evidence the theory of his suicide seemed strange and incongruous. Cupido now better understood Marina’s refusal to acceptit and her need to find another explanation. She could only rest if she came to understand Olmedo’s death just as she’d been able to understand his life.
At his request, Marina had arranged for him to meet with the colonel in charge at San Marcial. The appointment was for five p.m. but ten minutes earlier Cupido was already at the entrance to the base, showing his ID to the corporal on guard duty, well aware that military men appreciate punctuality, which they consider another daughter of discipline. At five o’clock, the colonel’s orderly, a soldier with South American features and accent, opened the door of the office and led him in.
Cupido had not set foot in an army base since the day he finished his compulsory military service, and for a moment he was taken aback by the air of authority emanating from the elderly colonel, who was looking at him from across his desk at the back of the enormous room, flanked by a Spanish flag and a picture of the king. Cupido was surprised to realise he hesitated between using the form of address employed in the army – ‘Colonel’ – which was more rooted in his memory than he’d suspected, and a more neutral kind of expression.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said eventually, standing
On the desk were the bank documents needed to change the name of the account holder on an investment fund, which Marinahad mentioned in their interview. They were signed by her, but not by the major, the other account holder. In a small cupboard Cupido found a wooden box with medals and decorations, the oldest ones dating from as far back as Olmedo’s time in the Academia de Zaragoza. Next to the box were several folders with old bank statements, income tax returns, and the title deeds to the house and a small farm in the countryside. The last folder he checked contained the dossier of a trial. Cupido sat on the floor – he didn’t dare sit down in the chair where Olmedo had died – and carefully perused the report: the judge found an anaesthetist called Lesmes Beltrán Villa guilty of criminal negligence at work during an operation which had resulted in the death of a patient called Pilar Rodríguez Pando. The lawsuit had been initiated by the victim’s husband, Camilo Olmedo, and the anaesthetist had been barred from practising for four years and sentenced to pay a hundred and fifty thousand euros in compensation to the family of the woman.
Cupido wrote it all down in his notebook for discussion later with Marina.
Over three hours had gone by when he went down to the garage. Even here, everything was impeccably tidy, with the tools in order and two old tyres placed on the back wall as buffers. A racing bicycle in perfect condition hung from a hook and made the detective want to take it down and go for a ride for a couple of hours, pedalling until he was exhausted. The car was open and he went through the glove compartment and looked under the floor mats without finding anything important.
He left the building with the feeling that the man who had lived there had no secrets. The surface of his life looked like a hilly landscape, with the inevitable accidents created by time, but it didn’t hide pits inhabited by unknown monsters, or caves full of bones and bats, or frozen, inaccessible mountains whose very existence was a mystery. Olmedo seemed to have led a sensible life, and on that evidence the theory of his suicide seemed strange and incongruous. Cupido now better understood Marina’s refusal to acceptit and her need to find another explanation. She could only rest if she came to understand Olmedo’s death just as she’d been able to understand his life.
At his request, Marina had arranged for him to meet with the colonel in charge at San Marcial. The appointment was for five p.m. but ten minutes earlier Cupido was already at the entrance to the base, showing his ID to the corporal on guard duty, well aware that military men appreciate punctuality, which they consider another daughter of discipline. At five o’clock, the colonel’s orderly, a soldier with South American features and accent, opened the door of the office and led him in.
Cupido had not set foot in an army base since the day he finished his compulsory military service, and for a moment he was taken aback by the air of authority emanating from the elderly colonel, who was looking at him from across his desk at the back of the enormous room, flanked by a Spanish flag and a picture of the king. Cupido was surprised to realise he hesitated between using the form of address employed in the army – ‘Colonel’ – which was more rooted in his memory than he’d suspected, and a more neutral kind of expression.
‘Good afternoon,’ he said eventually, standing
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