Free At Close Quarters by Eugenio Fuentes Page A

No,’ he said, serious again. ‘I’d better get away from all this fun. I’m beginning to miss Breda, the Casino Bar, my routines, even the landscape … And I’ve been living off you for a few weeks now.’
    ‘Nonsense,’ protested Cupido. ‘On the contrary, I’d still owe you money if you were not so pig-headed and refused payment for the help you give me when I need it. At least wait a couple of days before making a decision. Any time now the daughter of the man who died from a gunshot will be here,’ he said, pointing to the paper. ‘A family member, as you said. Don’t tell me you’re not curious.’
    ‘All right, all right,’ he accepted. ‘It’s impossible not to bewhenever someone comes round to ask you to help them put together again what someone else has shattered. But I don’t know if curiosity is as powerful as that …’
    ‘If I take this job here, in a city where I barely know anyone, I’ll definitely need your assistance.’
    Although he was able to handle the investigation on his own and bring it to a successful conclusion – as he’d done many other times – he wanted Alkalino to feel needed.
    The entry phone rang at that moment, as if bearing news. Cupido walked over to the door and stopped for a few seconds in front of the small screen to look at the woman waiting at the door.
    ‘She’s pretty,’ whispered Alkalino, who’d followed him.
    The detective buzzed her in without a word. A minute later the lift stopped on his floor, and the woman came out trailing a delicate lilac perfume. They shook hands and introduced themselves.
    She’s left-handed, thought Cupido as he watched her sit in the armchair he’d offered her. Although she was wearing dark clothes, a soft clarity emanated from her – a sort of troubled serenity.
    Alkalino had disappeared before she came in, and was hiding in his room so as not to meddle in the interview, but he’d left the door ajar. Better that way. The woman could just talk directly to Cupido, wouldn’t have to worry about someone else listening to her words. The conversation was bound to include confidential information about the victim, and a third party, watching, listening and saying nothing, would only inspire nervousness.
    ‘I don’t entirely understand what you expect from me,’ said Cupido. ‘With a death like this, a judge always commissions an inquiry. And since your father was a high-ranking officer, I don’t think the police will be inclined to shelve the case before it’s solved. Your father was, in a way, one of them.’
    ‘The judge has ruled, perhaps too soon, that it was suicide. But my father didn’t kill himself. I know the circumstances would appear to indicate he did. The note he left seems to prove it. But I know it’s not true, it cannot be true.’
    ‘From what I’ve read, the post-mortem doesn’t rule it out either.’
    ‘I know, I’ve got the report. But then I don’t think anyone’s interested in proving the contrary.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    Marina took a deep breath. Her face registered an expression of tiredness and defeat.
    ‘Do you know the San Marcial base, here in the city?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘My father had just written a report, commissioned by the Ministry of Defence, suggesting it should be closed. On the morning of the day he died he presented his results to his colleagues. As you can imagine, some of them will be affected if the base disappears. I mean, he made himself enemies.’
    ‘Who?’
    ‘That morning he mentioned two names: Bramante and Ucha,’ she said, and then continued explaining. ‘But the last thing the army wants is for public opinion or the press to suspect that one of its own men killed him out of revenge or because of internal conflicts. To them … murder,’ the word sounded strange in her mouth, as if she’d just discovered it and was uttering it for the first time, ‘is worse than suicide. It would damage an institution whose public image is always fragile. They’d