You Will Never Find Me by Robert Wilson Page A

the torso, which he’d kept complete, hadn’t wanted her innards all over the floor.
    He weighted each bag, tied it, washed it down and then stacked them by the front door.
    Outside the flat was a rubbish chute down to the huge metal bins in the garage. He took the bag of his own clothes, which he’d kept separate by the door, and threw it down to make sure there were no blockages. He heard it careen down the metal tube and land in the bin below. He propped open the chute lid and went down to the garage, got in the bin and looked up. Clear. He parked his car close to the bin, went back up. He threw down the four bags of body parts one after the other. Heard them all land safely below. The one with the torso was too tight a fit and he took that down the stairs over his shoulder. He opened the car boot, dropped in the bag and then climbed into the metal bin and lobbed the others into the boot.
    Picking up and dropping off drugs had given El Osito an experience-developed talent for complicated driving procedures. He had his mobile out on the seat and satnav up on the dashboard. The car itself was nothing flashy, a Seat Cordoba from 2005 with a dent in the rear passenger door and a bit of a scrape on the driver’s side.
    Madrid’s M40 orbital runs along the edge of Carabanchel and very early on a Monday morning is not a busy time. He was heading for the Manzanares river, which he thought the best place to dump the bags. Not all in one place, but in five different spots. The first crossing point over the river was not ideal as it was a complicated junction with too much traffic. He came off the M40 and joined the M45 going back towards the west. He slowed as he came to the next crossing, on the outskirts of a small village called Villaverde. No traffic. He pulled in, went to the boot and dumped the first bag over the side into the water, got back in, pulled away. Fifteen seconds.
    Heading south now to the next orbital through endless industrial zones, he joined the M50. The next bag went over the side at a place called Perales del Rio. He continued east and hit the Valencia road, and just outside another industrial zone he crossed the river again. Another bag. Just two to go. He had the air con on despite the cold outside, the adrenaline making him sweat. He came off the motorway, headed south on small roads, and just outside Vallequillas Norte the road crossed the river again. He kept going south to another bridge just outside Titulcia and made the final drop. It was black out there. No light. The stars were sharp. By 6 A.M. his work was done and he was heading back to Madrid. He had his buds in, listening to music on his smartphone—Shakira: ‘La Tortura’.
    Â 
    Boxer was lying on his back watching Isabel sleeping after making love. He’d never felt like this before. There’d always been at least a scintilla of regret as if he’d somehow misled the woman he’d been with. But Isabel had wiped out all doubt. Even the black hole left by Amy’s rejection seemed to have diminished to a healed point. In this state of post-coital certainty he was excited by the possibility that Isabel’s love might make him feel whole again. And just as he thought that, the darkness crept back in: the fear of what he would lose if she knew him for what he really was.

5

6:30 A.M., M ONDAY 19 TH M ARCH 2012
Netherhall Gardens, Hampstead, London
    T en-year-old Sasha Bobkov woke up early on Monday morning to know instantly that he was happy. He’d got through another weekend with his mother and now freedom. The prospect of some footy with his new friend. School. Mr. Spencer, his new teacher, the gigantic rower who was so cool. Life was good.
    He got up, made his bed, went to the bathroom with its gold taps, which had started looking brassy, took a shower and got dressed, putting on the new trainers which his dad had bought for him last month: Nike JR Mercurial Victory 111 Turf boys’