'Do you know where Sra Vega is?' he asked.

'She should be in there. That's where she was last night when I called her to tell her that her son would stay the night with my boys,' said Consuelo. 'Why were you knocking on the window?'

'No sense in smashing the door down if he's just drunk and fallen asleep on the floor.'

'Drunk?'

There's a bottle on the floor next to his body.'

'I've known him for years and I've never seen him incapable… never.'

'Maybe he's different when he's on his own.'

'So what have you done about it?' said Consuelo, the testy Madrilena trying to keep her shrillness down in front of the more relaxed style of the local policeman.

'An ambulance was dispatched as soon as you made your call and now the Inspector Jefe del Grupo de Homicidios has been notified.'

'One moment he's drunk and the next he's been murdered.'

'There's a body lying on the floor,' said the patrolman, annoyed with her now. 'He's not moving and he's not responding to noise. I have -'

'Don't you think you should try and get in there and see if he's still alive? He's not moving or responding but he might still be breathing.'

Indecision flitted across the patrolman's face. He was saved by the arrival of the ambulance. Between them the paramedics and the patrolman found that the house was completely sealed back and front. More cars arrived outside the front of the house.

Inspector Jefe Javier Falcón had finished his breakfast and was sitting in his study in the centre of his enormous, inherited eighteenth-century house in Seville's old city. He was finishing his coffee and looking at the manual to a digital camera he'd bought a week ago. The glass door of the study opened on to the patio. The thick walls and traditional design of the house meant that air conditioning was rarely needed. Water trickled in the marble fountain without distracting him.