just make me a list of the guests and tell me where everybody works and if youâve got some way of contacting them. All those you remember. And were other important people there apart from the deputy minister?
âSure, the minister was there, but he left early, at around eleven, because he had an engagement elsewhere.â
âAnd did he talk to Rafael?â
âThey said hello to each other but that was all. To each other, I mean.â
âUh-huh. And did he talk to anyone by himself?â
She thought for a moment. Almost closed her eyes and he looked away. He preferred playing with the ash on his cigarette and finally crushed the butt-end. He was at a loss what to do with the ashtray and was afraid to revisit the story of the Sargadelos vase. But he couldnât avoid Tamaraâs smell: she smelled clean and tanned, of lavender and wet earth and above all of woman.
âI think he spoke to Maciques, his office manager. They spend their lives talking of work; and at parties I have to put up with Maciquesâs wife; if only you could see her, sheâs taller than a flagpole . . . Well, you should hear her. The other day she discovered cotton is better than polyester, and now she says she just loves silk . . .â
âI can imagine what sheâs like. And who else did he talk to?â
âWell, Rafael was out on the balcony a good while, and when he came back in Dapena was just arriving, a Spaniard whoâs always doing business in Cuba.â
âHold on,â he asked and looked for his notepad. âA Spaniard?â
âWell, a Galician actually. His full name is José Manuel Dapena. Some of the business he does involves Rafaelâs enterprise but particularly the Foreign Trade department.â
âAnd you say they talked?â
âWell, I saw them both come in from the balcony. I donât know if there was anybody else.â
âTamara,â he said and started playing with the catch on his pen, creating a monotonous tick-tack, âwhat are these parties like?â
âWhat parties?â She seemed surprised and at a loss.
âWhat are these parties like that you go to with ministers, deputy ministers and foreign businessmen?â
âI donât know what you mean, Mario; like any other party. People talk, dance, drink. Iâm not sure what youâre after. Keep your pen still please,â she begged, and he knew she was upset.
âAnd donât people get drunk, swear and piss off the balconies?â
âIâm in no mood to play games, Mario, please.â And she pressed her eyelids, although she didnât look tired. When she took her fingers away, her eyes shone even more brightly.
âIâm sorry,â he replied and returned his pen to his shirt pocket. âTell me about Rafael.â
She sighed and shook her head at something only she was aware of and glanced towards the picture window that looked over the interior garden. How theatrical, he thought, and following her gaze he could just discern the artificial, slightly darkened colour of the ferns proliferating beyond the Calobar glass.
âYou know, Iâd have preferred another policeman. I find it hard going with you.â
âSo do I with you and Rafael. Whatâs more, if your husband hadnât gone missing, Iâd be at home reading and free until Monday. Now I just want him to turn up quickly. And youâve just got to help me, right?â
She made as if to get up, but then sank back into the sofa. Her mouth was now a pencil line, the mouth of someone in disagreement, only softening when she looked at Sergeant Manuel Palacios.
âWhat can I tell you about Rafael? You know him too . . . He lives for his work. He didnât get where he is by only doing what he liked, and the best thing about him is that he enjoys working like a dog. I think heâs a good leader, I really do, and everyone says he is. Heâs
in great
Shauna Rice-Schober[thriller]