sitting opposite us.
The key was hidden inside the lining of an old jacket of Diego’s that I had never been able to throw away.
Inside there was a notebook.
Dozens of handwritten pages.
I immediately recognized his handwriting.
Dates.
Invoices.
Batch numbers.
Photographs.
Names.
Signatures.
And 17 reports related to defective materials used
in several works.
One of them had an authorization.
Arturo Beltrán.
I stared at that signature.
It was the same batch he had talked about in the cellar.
Diego had discovered that a company linked to
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