room
was every bit as chaotic as he remembered. The concrete
floor, for example, was almost lost under a layer of dried
paint, thin veins of random colors that crackled underfoot
like dry twigs on a forest floor. Discarded sketches and half-
finished canvases were gathered in the corners as if blown
there by the wind, empty paint tubes and worn brushes emerg-
ing from the gaps between them like the masts of a ship half-
buried in sand.
And yet not everything was the same. A chair had been
flipped over on to its front, its legs extended helplessly into
the air, its innards spilling through the deep gash that had
been cut in its seat. Two easels were lying prostate on the
ground. All the cupboards and drawers had been yanked
open and their contents scooped out on to the fl oor beneath.
Tom’s face set into a grim frown. Whoever had turned over
Rafael’s apartment had clearly been here too.
Kneeling down, he plucked a small photo frame from
where it was sheltering under a crumpled newspaper. Al-
though the glass had been shattered, he recognized Rafael’s
grinning face through the sparkling web of tiny fractures. He
had his arm around Tom on one side and Eva on the other,
and the three of them were sitting on the edge of a fountain
in the Alcázar. The mixture of anger and disbelief that he
had felt on seeing the crime-scene photographs welled up in
him again. Why ?
There was a thud downstairs. Steel on concrete. The pad-
lock falling off the chair he’d left leaning against the shutter.
Someone had come in behind him.
He placed the frame back on the ground and crept over to
the top of the stairs, positioning himself out of sight to the
left of the doorway. From below he heard the sound of care-
ful footsteps and then the tell- tale creak of the staircase. The
third step, he remembered from when he had made his own
way up.
He readied himself, ready to send whoever was coming up
sprawling across the room, when the faint scent of perfume
reached him. A perfume he recognized.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
7 9
“Tom?” An uncertain voice filtered through the open door-
way.
“Eva?” Tom edged forward, his shadow further obscuring
the already dark stairwell. A figure advanced toward him.
“Still using that old chair routine?” A flash of white teeth
amid the gloom.
“Still wearing Chanel?” Tom smiled as he stepped back
and let Eva into the room.
“If that’s a line, it’s a bad one,” she sniffed, brushing past
and then wheeling to face him. In the intermittent neon glow
she looked even more striking than he remembered: dark
oval eyes glinting impetuously, an almost indecently sugges-
tive mouth, shimmering black hair held off her face by an
elasticated white band and tumbling down on to olive-
skinned shoulders that might have been modeled on a Canova
nude.
“I heard you’d gone straight.” She sounded skeptical.
“I’d heard the same about you,” he said softly, trying to
keep his eyes on her face rather than tracing a line from her
slender ankles to her skirt’s embroidered hem and the sugges-
tive curve of her legs. Now, as when he’d first met her, she ra-
diated sex. It wasn’t deliberate, it was just the way she was.
The animal dart of her pink tongue against her lips, the gener-
ous heave of her breasts under her black silk blouse, the erect
nipples brushing the material, the open thrust of her hips. Sex
seasoned with a hint of unpredictability and a dash of temper
for good measure.
A pause.
“It’s good to see you again, Eva.”
He meant it.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Her tone didn’t surprise him. Their break-up had been
messy. She’d been hurt. No reason she should be anything
other than cold with him now. In fact, it made things sim-
pler.
“Same as you. Looking for answers.”
“He’s dead.” Her voice was hollow. “What more of an an-
swer do you want?” She paused, her eyes boring into his.
8 0
was every bit as chaotic as he remembered. The concrete
floor, for example, was almost lost under a layer of dried
paint, thin veins of random colors that crackled underfoot
like dry twigs on a forest floor. Discarded sketches and half-
finished canvases were gathered in the corners as if blown
there by the wind, empty paint tubes and worn brushes emerg-
ing from the gaps between them like the masts of a ship half-
buried in sand.
And yet not everything was the same. A chair had been
flipped over on to its front, its legs extended helplessly into
the air, its innards spilling through the deep gash that had
been cut in its seat. Two easels were lying prostate on the
ground. All the cupboards and drawers had been yanked
open and their contents scooped out on to the fl oor beneath.
Tom’s face set into a grim frown. Whoever had turned over
Rafael’s apartment had clearly been here too.
Kneeling down, he plucked a small photo frame from
where it was sheltering under a crumpled newspaper. Al-
though the glass had been shattered, he recognized Rafael’s
grinning face through the sparkling web of tiny fractures. He
had his arm around Tom on one side and Eva on the other,
and the three of them were sitting on the edge of a fountain
in the Alcázar. The mixture of anger and disbelief that he
had felt on seeing the crime-scene photographs welled up in
him again. Why ?
There was a thud downstairs. Steel on concrete. The pad-
lock falling off the chair he’d left leaning against the shutter.
Someone had come in behind him.
He placed the frame back on the ground and crept over to
the top of the stairs, positioning himself out of sight to the
left of the doorway. From below he heard the sound of care-
ful footsteps and then the tell- tale creak of the staircase. The
third step, he remembered from when he had made his own
way up.
He readied himself, ready to send whoever was coming up
sprawling across the room, when the faint scent of perfume
reached him. A perfume he recognized.
t h e g i l d e d s e a l
7 9
“Tom?” An uncertain voice filtered through the open door-
way.
“Eva?” Tom edged forward, his shadow further obscuring
the already dark stairwell. A figure advanced toward him.
“Still using that old chair routine?” A flash of white teeth
amid the gloom.
“Still wearing Chanel?” Tom smiled as he stepped back
and let Eva into the room.
“If that’s a line, it’s a bad one,” she sniffed, brushing past
and then wheeling to face him. In the intermittent neon glow
she looked even more striking than he remembered: dark
oval eyes glinting impetuously, an almost indecently sugges-
tive mouth, shimmering black hair held off her face by an
elasticated white band and tumbling down on to olive-
skinned shoulders that might have been modeled on a Canova
nude.
“I heard you’d gone straight.” She sounded skeptical.
“I’d heard the same about you,” he said softly, trying to
keep his eyes on her face rather than tracing a line from her
slender ankles to her skirt’s embroidered hem and the sugges-
tive curve of her legs. Now, as when he’d first met her, she ra-
diated sex. It wasn’t deliberate, it was just the way she was.
The animal dart of her pink tongue against her lips, the gener-
ous heave of her breasts under her black silk blouse, the erect
nipples brushing the material, the open thrust of her hips. Sex
seasoned with a hint of unpredictability and a dash of temper
for good measure.
A pause.
“It’s good to see you again, Eva.”
He meant it.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
Her tone didn’t surprise him. Their break-up had been
messy. She’d been hurt. No reason she should be anything
other than cold with him now. In fact, it made things sim-
pler.
“Same as you. Looking for answers.”
“He’s dead.” Her voice was hollow. “What more of an an-
swer do you want?” She paused, her eyes boring into his.
8 0
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