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up two or three other possibilities.
    â€œNow be careful how you prime it,” Rangel warned when he saw him bite the end of the cigar. “That decides everything: if you don’t prime it properly, you will certainly ruin the cigar . . . Tell me, how do you prefer to do it? With scissors or the guillotine?”
    â€œI don’t know, I always use my teeth, you know.”
    â€œFine, but wet it first so you don’t break the outer layer. Look, like this,” and he continued his lesson, moistening the cigar and twisting it between his lips, finally tweaking it like a nipple, with the delicacy of an experienced lover. “You see?”
    Ana Luisa brought in a sweet infusion of unknown provenance, and after drinking it, the two men lit their havanas, the blue clouds from which perfumed the atmosphere in the library. Only then did the Count decide to speak up: “How you feeling, Boss?”
    â€œCan’t you see? Fucked, and on boiled water, as if I had diarrhoea. But don’t worry . . . I won’t die from what happened. These are the risks that go with the job.”
    â€œWhat damned risks? It’s a load of crap,” blurted the Count, almost choking on the smoke from his cigar. “You’re the best head of criminal investigation the country has . . .”
    â€œYou think so, Mario? And how do you explain the
fact that several of my detectives were criminals and used their positions to further their own ends?”
    â€œThere was no reason why you should have known . . .”
    â€œYes, I ought, Mario, that much is obvious . . . But I never thought so many could do so much. And don’t start telling me about human nature or skeletons in the . . . The fact is I burned my fingers on their behalf and look,” he held out his arms, “I got singed.”
    â€œAnd why did you trust someone like me?” the Count queried, hoping to hear Major Rangel bestow rare praise.
    â€œBecause I must be mad,” replied the Boss, smiling once more: he now shifted only his upper lip from the edge of the cigar. “Hey, Mario, in all these years you never once damned well told me why you joined the police. Will you tell me now?”
    The Count nodded, relieved to find the Rangel he’d always known and not the defeated, crestfallen man he had imagined. He still seemed young for his age, in that tight pullover emphasising the pectorals of a practised swimmer and squash player. Not even rejection or fear of those who were once his friends and colleagues seemed overly to affect the true grit of a man born to be a policeman.
    â€œNot right now. But I can tell you now it is down to you whether I remain a policeman or not.”
    â€œWhat are you on about, Mario Conde?”
    â€œIt’s quite simple: when I heard they were kicking you out, I handed in my resignation, and now they’ll accept it if I solve just one more case. And it’s a really tasty case. But I’ll only take it on if you tell me to . . .”
    The Boss stood up and walked over to the shutters. He looked out at the quiet street, shimmering under the midday sun, and looked at the garden, in need of
some attention, and drew gently on his Cohiba Lancero.
    â€œMario, do me a favour,” his voice started off quite amiably but suddenly switched tone with that facility the Count had always envied, “stop talking nonsense and tell me what this tasty case is all about. Remember I was also a policeman until only three days ago. Why is it so tasty? Come on. I’m all ears.”
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    A single, well-aimed brutal blow had been enough to put an end to the life of Miguel Forcade Mier: like a ball angrily repelled by a powerful hitter, his brain burst inside his skull, putting an end to the ideas, memories and emotions of the man who in a moment made the transition from life to death. But then the second part of that savage sacrifice was performed: his penis and testicles were excised