How could sleep be such toil? He surfaced, blathering like an old unvisited fool in a home for those close to the final terminus. His mobile was ringing, scintillating through the bones of his face. His mouth was as dry as bone meal. The phone ceased. He sank back into the felt grave of drugged sleep.Was it hours later or just minutes? The mobile’s trilling madness seemed to be tunnelling through his sinuses. He burst out of sleep, flailing. He found the light, the phone, the button. He sucked cool water in over the clod of tongue in his mouth.‘Inspector Jefe?’‘Did you call earlier?’‘No, sir.’‘What is it?’‘We’ve just had a report of another body.’‘Another body?’ he said, his brain as thick as wadding.‘A murder. The same as Raúl Jiménez.’‘Where?’‘In El Porvenir.’‘Address?’‘Calle de Colombia, number 25.’‘I know that address,’ he said.‘The house belongs to Ramón Salgado, Inspector Jefe.’‘Is he the victim?’‘We’re not sure yet.
