Tattoo by Manuel Vázquez Montalbán

that descended towards Waterloo Plein. He heard the sound of a car behind him, and dodged down another flight of steps until it had gone by.
    A few seconds later, a police patrol car glided past. The cops got out, and Carvalho saw them disappear through a brightly lit doorway. He spotted a narrow, dark street that came out a few metres this side of the police station. Just what he needed. He walked towards it, watching intently to make sure there were no signs of movement in the police station doorway.
    He slipped into the street and headed for Waterloo Plein, hoping that by keeping moving he would regain some warmth and take his mind off the stabbing pains that seemed to be coming from all over his body. The closer he got to his destination, the more confident he felt. He met a couplewho opened and closed their mouths in mute astonishment. His eye had almost completely closed by now. He skirted Waterloo Plein and went on towards Rembrandt Square. As soon as he caught sight of the open space in the distance he let out a great sigh of relief.
    He flung himself in through the hotel’s revolving doors. The amazed receptionist handed him his key and stammered out a couple of concerned questions about what had happened to him.
    ‘Some people tried to rob me, and in the struggle I fell into the water.’
    ‘Have you informed the police?’
    ‘Yes, of course. It was them who brought me here.’
    The receptionist accompanied him to the lift, emphasising how lucky he had been.
    ‘Amsterdam seems like a quiet city, but at night the canals get filled with bodies. You had a lucky escape.’
    When he was in the lift, Carvalho slumped against the side, his mind a complete blank. The menu for the hotel dinners was pinned above the instruction panel. It looked promising.
    Carvalho opened his eyes. He was almost conscious that there was somebody else in the room. At the foot of his bed he could make out the same inspector who had interrogated him the previous day. Now he was staring at him concernedly. Carvalho could not return the favour because one of his eyes was throbbing violently.
    ‘They gave you a good going-over.’
    Carvalho shrugged his shoulders. A stabbing pain in his ribs warned him not to do that again.
    ‘You know the city. It’s surprising you let yourself be jumped on.’
    ‘They tried to rob me.’
    ‘So the receptionist told me.’
    ‘Did he call you?’
    ‘You passed out in the lift.’
    Carvalho opened his pyjamas and saw bandages and plasters on his wounds. He could also feel something sticky on his bad eye. Someone had patched him up.
    ‘Was anything stolen?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Would you recognise your attackers?’
    ‘No. It was completely dark, and it was all over very quickly.’
    ‘It’s odd. Odd that they should throw you in a canal without tying you up.’
    ‘They thought I had passed out.’
    ‘But anyone who has passed out can wake up in a cold bath.’
    ‘Maybe they were kind hearted.’
    The inspector came closer to Carvalho. He sat in a chair next to the writing desk.
    ‘It would be much better if you were straight with us. You were in the Paradise Club last night.’
    ‘How do you know?’
    ‘You became a member. We know the names of all the Paradise Club members.’
    Carvalho wondered how many cops there had been disguised as hippies among the dreamy crowd in that particular paradise.
    ‘Did you make any friends in there?’ asked the inspector.
    ‘I went dressed as a Martian, but they were in ordinary clothes. No chance of any small talk.’
    ‘Did you smoke?’
    ‘At my age you can’t get used to that kind of thing. I’m almost forty.’
    ‘Me too.’
    ‘So you know what I’m talking about.’
    ‘No, I don’t. But that doesn’t matter. What did you do when you left the Paradise?’
    ‘I went to the red light district.’
    ‘Did you go in any of the shop windows?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Did you get drunk?’
    ‘No.’
    ‘Where were you attacked?’
    ‘As I was going past an