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tattoo.’
    ‘But you must talk about something while you work.’
    ‘When I work I don’t drink or talk.’
    He burst out again with his spluttering cough, which he seemed to switch on and off without warning. All at once his face became as solemn as if he were at a funeral.
    ‘Is this a loved one you’re trying to find?’
    ‘Let’s just say I’m beginning to warm to him.’
    ‘Oh! I can’t say my heart’s in it any more. It’s a tough job. I scarcely make enough to get by, and I have to charge so much it scares off the few clients I might have.’
    ‘Talking wears out the tongue. I’ll pay you something to compensate.’
    Carvalho took a thousand-peseta note out of his wallet. The tattooist held his hand out as far as his belly allowed, and waited for the note to fall into it.
    ‘He was a tall, blond kid. He seemed like a foreigner, but he wasn’t. He had some sort of accent, but it didn’t sound like he was from Andalusia or Murcia. I’ve heard similar accents in people from Ciudad Real. Or he could have been from the south of La Mancha. Or from Extremadura. It was very odd.’
    ‘Did he live in Barcelona?’
    ‘No, he was just passing through. He told me he had worked in Holland. At the Philips factory in The Hague. That’s all I know.’
    ‘How long ago was this?’
    ‘About a year and a half.’
    ‘Do you remember anything else about his face or body? Anything that struck you at the time?’
    ‘Nothing, I swear. And the information I’ve given you is more out of friendship for Don Evaristo than for the thousand pesetas. Friendship is a good thing. Why are you looking for that kid?’
    ‘A premonition. I think he might be a friend.’

 
    C arvalho sat on the terrace outside the Versalles. Bromuro was on the prowl for customers. He came to a halt in front of Pepe’s muddy shoes and was told he could clean them. The waiter served Carvalho a gin and tonic and a plate of stuffed olives. Bromuro waited until he had gone, then said in a low voice:
    ‘I don’t have anything precise on that dead guy. But there’s a helluva storm going on. The police raided everywhere yesterday and arrested lots of people. Whores and their pimps. Hundreds of them.’
    ‘Maybe it’s just a clean-up operation.’
    ‘I’ve heard they’re after anyone who has anything to do with the drugs trade. Lots of French pimps have moved in recently, and they’re well organised. They bring their own girls, drugs, the lot.’
    ‘What have the raids got to do with what I was asking you about?’
    ‘There could be something.’
    ‘Tell me.’
    ‘I don’t know anything for definite. But I’ve heard that the drowned man could have some connection with all this.’
    ‘Does anyone know who he was?’
    ‘If I were you, I’d ask the girls. One or other of them must have gone to bed with him, and a tattoo like that isn’t easy to forget.’
    ‘How many girls do you reckon there are in Barcelona? Five thousand? Twenty thousand? A hundred thousand?’
    ‘Charo could help you.’
    Carvalho stuck another five-hundred-peseta note in Bromuro’s waistcoat pocket.
    ‘So how come they haven’t picked you up yet?’
    ‘And why not you? Or do you have special privileges?’
    Carvalho replied with a smiling ‘possibly’, and stood up to go. He walked quickly to Charo’s place. The caretaker was not there, so he had to run the risk of finding out for himself whether Charo was free or busy with a client. Although he had a key, he preferred to ring the bell. He thought he saw someone peering through the spyhole, and the door opened only a few inches. He heard Charo’s voice:
    ‘Come in.’
    Carvalho walked down the corridor to the living room, with Charo following behind.
    ‘I’ve got visitors, so take it easy.’
    Carvalho could already see the visitors. Two women were moving around in the kitchen, preparing lunch or perhaps breakfast. Charo put her finger to her lips for him to be quiet, and pushed him towards the