‘Look, why don’t we go back to the apartment?’ I suggest, quickening my pace to catch her. ‘Let’s just go back and talk.’

‘No. It’s OK.’ She sneezes. ‘I want to see the exhibition. I want to see Vermeer. We won’t get another chance.’ Recovering some of her earlier composure, she adds, ‘It’s best if we go in separately. If anybody sees us inside we can tell them we meet in the queue.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Why not?’

‘Not about that. About us. Are you sure you don’t want to go home? Are you sure you don’t want to go for a coffee or something?’

‘I am certain.’

So we have to wait in line for fifteen excruciating minutes. Sofía stands several places in front of me and only rarely catches my eye. At one point she is chatted up by an Italian man carrying a brown leather handbag. Inside, she goes to the bathroom and rents a headset at the information desk, almost certainly as a conscious means of avoiding me during the exhibition. The paintings are extraordinary, but the temporary rooms are crowded and smaller than is usual in the Prado and I feel claustrophobic.

Afterwards, outside in the main hall on the first floor, Sofía turns to me. ‘This exhibition is all about living with moderation.’

An Englishman in a pin-striped suit passes us, calling out, ‘Lead on, Macduff.’

‘That’s what your guide said?’

‘No. It’s what I feel.’ A brief pause. ‘I think Julian would like it.’

It isn’t clear if this is a joke at her husband’s expense or a veiled threat. I merely nod and say, ‘So you found it interesting?’

‘Of course. And you?’

‘Very much. Twenty-five paintings about moral instruction and suppressed sexual desire. What more could a man want on a Saturday afternoon?’

And this, at last, brings a little grin to Sofía’s face and her mood begins to lighten. As if our earlier argument had never taken place, she proceeds to talk at length about the exhibition, about her job, about plans she has for buying a clothes shop in Barrio Salamanca and striking out on her own. We walk back through Chueca side streets in the general direction of my apartment, arriving home just as the mass peace march against the war is beginning on the other side of the city. Sofía wanted to take part, but I changed her mind with an expensive bottle of cava and a brief speech about the pointlessness of political rallies.

‘If you think Bush and Blair and Aznar give a monkey fuck what the public thinks about Iraq, you’ve got another think coming.’

After that, she became a little drunk and we finally went to bed. Perhaps I should have told her that I love her, but her eyes would not have believed me. Best to wait on that; best not to complicate things.

21. Ricken Redux

‘Fuck me this flat stinks of perfume. You been dressing up as a woman again, Alec?’

Saul comes back from Cádiz at ten wearing a three-week beard and a brand-new pair of Campers. From his bag he pulls out a half-finished carton of cigarettes and hands me a bottle of whisky.

‘Sorry it took so long to get back. Tube was packed at Atocha. Peace march. A present,’ he says. ‘You drink this stuff?’

‘All the time,’ I tell him. ‘How was your trip?’

‘Good. Really good. You look knackered, mate.’

‘I haven’t been sleeping much.’

‘No?’

‘No.’

‘Still fucking the boss’s wife?’

I look up at the ceiling. ‘Ha ha. No. There’s this baby upstairs. Wakes me at five every morning.’

‘Doing what?’

‘I don’t know. Building a dam. Tearing down support walls. I think he wears clogs.’ Saul takes a piece of chewing gum out of his mouth and throws it in the bin. ‘There’s something different about you.’

Yeah? Maybe it’s the beard. Makes me look like the Unabomber.’

‘No. You look happier, more relaxed.’

‘Well, that’s good to know. I did a lot of thinking down there.’

We carry his bags back into the spare room and keep on talking. He has decided to fly back to London tomorrow morning and to ask Heloise for a divorce. I don’t feel it’s my place to say that he has made the right decision, but it’s good to be free of lies for once, just chatting with my mate about things that are important to him. It’s also significant that he is leaving Madrid so soon. If there were any connection with Julian or Arenaza, he would surely be sticking around. Nevertheless I check out the Julian coincidence, just to be sure.

‘So you know who was down in Cádiz while you were there?’

Saul is in the spare bathroom washing his hands. I can watch his face in the mirror as he says, ‘Who?’

‘My boss, Julian. The guy you met at the bar. The one with the wife.’

‘Really?’ He turns round. The tops of his cheeks have flushed slightly red.

‘You didn’t see him?’

‘No.’

‘Well, maybe you’d left before he got there.’

‘Or maybe in a town the size of Coventry, Alec, we didn’t bump into each other.’

‘Good point.’

I go into the kitchen, find a cigarette and pour both of us a glass of Rueda. When I come back to the room Saul has unzipped his laptop computer and powered it up on the bed.

‘Want to see some photos?’

There are dozens of pictures from his trip downloaded onto the hard drive: shots of the Mezquita, of the bullring in Ronda, the beach at Cádiz. One has Saul eating boquerones in a crowded restaurant sitting next to a pretty girl.

‘Who’s she?’

‘Just some bird. Yank. A lot of them down there. She was going out with the guy who took the picture.’

I’d like to have five minutes, alone with Saul’s PC, just to check his emails, browser history and cookies for any sign of a connection to Julian. Just to put my mind at rest.

‘And what about your friend, the one with the flat?’

‘Who, Andy? Refuses to have his photo taken. Says it steals his soul.’

This sounds unconvincing and I get my chance half an hour later. Saul goes for a shower before dinner and while he’s locked in the bathroom I scroll through his Outlook Express package looking for anything that seems out of place. I have the door of the room wide open and there is a lot of traffic passing by outside, but it should still be possible to hear the lock snap on the bathroom door if he comes out prematurely. I recognize some of the names in the ‘Sent’ folder as friends of Saul’s from London, but check several others in case Julian is using an email account of which I am not aware. There is a brief exchange with Andy about handing over keys in Cádiz, but otherwise the messages are a mixture of business and pleasure: enquiries about Saul’s availability for work; round-robin jokes; the latest updates on Chelsea players.

Internet Explorer is also simple to access. His history of websites is a straightforward mix of soft porn and Google, information about travelling in Andalucía and advice to prospective divorcees. Nothing for me to worry about. I go into the C: Drive Windows directory and look at deleted temporary files, but it’s all legitimate. With characteristic concern for his fellow man, Saul has accessed a medical website about cancer in an effort to understand more about Hesther’s condition. There are also numerous charities that he has visited in order to donate money on-line, and a portal for games where he has played a lot of chess. The cookies seem innocent, too, simply hundreds of links to sites already listed in the browser. Leaving the computer as I found it, I head back towards the kitchen and knock on the bathroom door.

‘You all right in there?’

It opens ajar. Saul’s face is smothered in shaving foam and the mirror is completely fogged up with steam. He’s going to be at least another five minutes.

‘I’m losing the beard,’ he says, coughing. ‘What’s for dinner?’

‘Wine.’

Using the extra time I find Saul’s mobile, take it out of his jacket pocket and check the address book, the list of numbers called and received, writing down any with a Spanish prefix. None, from memory, match numbers associated with Julian or Arenaza, but I may be able to find a link once Saul has gone back to London. Then I send Sofía a brief message and make spaghetti in the kitchen. Saul emerges ten minutes later wearing a pair of jeans and a white T-shirt bearing the slogan ‘Passive Aggression Rules (as long as that’s OK with you)’. His newly shaved cheeks are pink and smooth.