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results?’
    ‘The results?’
    ‘Of the tests,’ said Caldas. ‘Were any positive?’
    ‘No, Inspector.’
    ‘None of them?’
    ‘None, Inspector. I hardly drink.’
    Caldas thought the caller sounded puzzled rather than angry with the police. Caldas shared his bewilderment.
    ‘What can I do, Inspector?’
    While he was trying to come up with an answer for the caller, Caldas saw Losada signal to the sound technician. A tune, more suited to a cartoon than a police phone-in, began to play in his headphones. It was highly distracting, and he had to glance at the caller’s name on the sign again before he could answer him.
    ‘Here’s what we’re going to do, José,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you comedown to the radio station the day of our next show and afterwards we can go and have a word with the chief of the City Police. Let’s see if he can persuade his officers not to stop you all the time. How’s that?’
    The caller hung up and Caldas wrote in his notebook:
City Police eight, Leo nil.
    After another two calls,
Patrolling the Waves
came to an end. Caldas freed himself from the oppressive headphones while Losada sonorously exhorted his audience to tune in for the next show.
    When the red light indicated that they were off air, Caldas asked Losada: ‘What was that music?’
    ‘What music?’
    ‘The jingle you had playing when I was about to answer the breathalyser man, and all the callers after that.’
    ‘Ah!’ smiled the presenter. ‘I thought it would be a great idea to play a tune while you’re thinking.’
    ‘What?’
    ‘To make it more fun for the audience. Just while you’re thinking,’ he said, smugly sure of himself.
    Caldas was horrified. If he didn’t stop this arrogant fool right now, pretty soon there’d be a trumpet fanfare after each answer.
    ‘Didn’t it occur to you that it might do the exact opposite – that a silly little jingle like that might actually distract me?’ said Caldas. ‘Anyway, what do you mean “while I’m thinking”? What the hell do you suppose I’m doing the rest of the time?’
    ‘Look, Leo, if that’s how you’re going to be about it, no more music for you.’
    Caldas left the studio and, as he looked in on the control room to say goodbye to Rebeca and the technician, he switched his phone back on. He’d missed two calls. The first was from Guzman Barrio. The pathologist had agreed to phone as soon as he finished the autopsy on the drowned man. The second call was from his father.
    ‘See you Thursday,’ said Rebeca with a wave.

Justo Castelo
    The rain was still pouring down when Caldas got back to the police station so he asked his assistant for a lift to the Town Hall. Estevez waited with the engine running while the inspector delivered the string of complaints gathered during the radio show to the City Police. Then they went to see the forensic pathologist.
    ‘Go and see if he’s in his office,’ said Caldas, checking his mobile again.
    Estevez peered round a door abruptly, then looked back to Caldas and shouted: ‘Yes, boss, he’s here!’
    ‘Bloody hell, Estevez,’ said a startled Guzman Barrio. He’d been slouching in an armchair, trying to catch up on his sleep. ‘Do you always burst in like that?’
    ‘No, he usually kicks the door down,’ said Caldas from behind his assistant. ‘You left me a message on my mobile.’
    ‘It’s about the man who was washed up this morning in Panxón,’ said the pathologist. ‘You know about it?’
    Caldas answered with a question: ‘Have you finished the examination?’
    The pathologist rose, stretching discreetly, and made his way towards the door past the two policemen.
    ‘If you’d like to see the body …’ he said, heading out into the corridor. ‘It’s just been stitched up, so it can be handed over to the family.’
    ‘Nice work,’ muttered Estevez.
    ‘Well, our customers don’t complain,’ said the pathologist.
    As always on these occasions, Estevez grumbled all the way to