'Is there something wrong with Lucia or Rafael? I saw the ambulance. Can I do anything?'

All eyes were on Madeleine Krugman, and not just because she spoke Spanish with an American accent. She was tall and slender with a full bust, an unstarved bottom and the innate ability to give dull men extravagant imaginations. Only Falcón and Calderón had sufficient testosterone control to be able to look her in the eye, and that required concentration. Consuelo's nostrils flared with irritation.

'We need to get into this house very urgently, Sra Krugman,' said Calderón. 'Do you have a set of keys?'

'I don't, but… what's the matter with Rafael and Lucia?'

'Rafael's lying on the kitchen floor not moving,' said Consuelo. 'We don't know about Lucia.'

Madeleine Krugman's short intake of breath revealed a straight line of white teeth broken only by two sharp incisors. For a fraction of a second the invisible plates in the lithosphere of her face seemed to spasm.

'I have the telephone number of his lawyer. He gave it to me in case there was a problem with the house while they were on holiday,' she said. 'I'll have to go back home…'

She backed away and then turned to the gate. All eyes fastened on to her rump, which shivered slightly under the white linen of her flared trousers. A thin red belt like a line of blood encircled her waist. She disappeared behind the wall. Male noises, which had been suspended under the bell jar of her glamour, resumed.

'She's very beautiful, isn't she?' said Consuelo Jiménez, annoyed at her own need to draw attention back to herself.

'Yes,' said Falcón, 'and quite different to the beauty we're accustomed to around here. White. Translucent.'

'Yes,' said Consuelo, 'she's very white.'

'Do we know where the gardener is?' he asked.

'He's disappeared.'

'What do we know about him?'

'His name is Sergei,' she said. 'He's Russian or Ukrainian. We share him. The Vegas, the Krugmans, Pablo Ortega and me.'