They started by watching the video of the mourners at the funeral. Sra Jiménez named them all and gave their relationship to her husband. There was no one unusual in the crowd. They reconstructed Raúl Jiménez’s last twenty-four hours and then his last week. The meetings, the lunches, the parties, the discussions with builders, a landscape gardener, an air-conditioning engineer. She supplied a list of companies whom they’d dealt with over the last six years — those who’d pitched for business, those who’d failed, those who’d been dropped. It was difficult to believe, after what Ramón Salgado had said, that Raúl Jiménez’s only possible enemies were butchers, fishmongers and florists who’d lost business supplying his restaurants. Consuelo Jiménez’s glances at her expensive watch grew more frequent and Falcón moved in with the important question.
‘We’ve covered everything except the Expo ‘92 Building Committee,’ he said. ‘Can I see the files on that?’
‘What files?’ she said.
‘Your husband’s records.’
‘Not here,’ she said, calling in the secretary, ‘and not in the apartment.’
The secretary was asked the same question and gave à well-rehearsed answer, looking at her audience as if she was going to get a pay rise. Sra Jiménez started to rush him, invoked her children. Falcón sat in his chair as she gathered her things and stood by the door, drumming her handbag with her fingernails.
‘This has been very useful,’ he said, and meant it, because her calculated visit to him last night and her selective co-operation this morning had shown him the first possibility that her determination had developed, via ambition, into ruthlessness.
He went home for lunch. Encarnación had left him a large pot of fabada Asturiana. Beans, chorizo, morcilla. He wasn’t hungry but he hoped that the heavy dish and the two glasses of wine would put him to sleep. He lay down with his mind full of doubt that he was running his investigation properly. His stomach made old plumbing noises. His legs twitched. More agitated stasis. He begged for sleep but it didn’t come. He called Ramón Salgado and, when he got through, remembered that he’d gone to San Sebastián to bring his sister down to Madrid.
His hands were moist on the steering wheel as he drove to the office, his guts roiled with the fat from the fabada, his tongue was gloved in suede. His mind would not settle on one thought and take it through to its conclusion. Desperation, like rancid fat, slipped into the stew and turned the whole mix. He pulled over on República de Argentina and called his doctor, who couldn’t see him until morning. He had a whole night to get through and was appalled by the notion and yet he saw how ridiculous it was, too. He remembered how he’d been five days ago, how wonderful it had been to be stable. Tears pricked his eyeballs. He pressed his forehead to the steering wheel. What was going on?
He got out of the car, wiped his eyes and shook himself. He went into the nearest bar and ordered something he never drank — brandy. That’s what they always had in the movies. The great nerve settler. The barman sent names past his head — Soberano, Fundador. He asked for anything and a café solo to disguise his breath.
The brandy tore his lungs apart and he had to catch his breath. He fingered the coffee cup and was spooked by the thought that the hand resting on the stainless steel bar was not his own. He shook it, flexed it, touched his face. The barman checked him as he wiped a row of glasses.
‘Another?’ he asked.
Falcón nodded, unable to believe what he was doing. The amber liquid trickled into the glass. He longed for the barman’s steadiness, just to be able to hold a bottle over a glass rim without it spinning out of control. He shot the second brandy, scalded his mouth on the coffee, slapped a note on the bar and left.
In the car park of the Jefatura he calmed himself down, slowed his thoughts by vicing his head in his hands. The light in his office was on. Ramírez had his back to the window and was reading a file and commenting to somebody sitting by the desk.
People frowned at him as he went up the stairs. He veered into the toilet and checked himself in the mirror. His hair was up like a rough sea, his face flushed and his eyes pink. His shirt collar was outside the lapel of his jacket and his tie loose from his neck. The shell was cracking up. He patted his face with cold water, had a sudden urge from his guts and locked himself in a stall. Food poisoning. Maybe this was all food poisoning, he thought desperately. Encarnación’s fabada gone off.
The main door to the toilets opened. He heard Ramírez.
‘… for all I know, he’s fucking her as well.’
‘The Inspector Jefe?’ said Pérez, incredulous.
‘He’s probably desperate after his divorce.’
Then silence as they realized one of the stalls was occupied.
They left. Falcón washed his hands, reasserted the authority in his dress, combed his hair.
The two men were in his office. On the desk was the report from the Policía Científica.
‘Anything in this?’ he asked.
‘Nothing to help us,’ said Ramírez.
‘What did Joaquín López have to say?’
‘He was very interesting, especially about the wife,’ said Ramírez, unable to disguise his antipathy for Sra Jiménez. ‘It seems that Sr López was much further on in his negotiations than I thought. All the discussions had taken place and the money was agreed. The lawyers were already drawing up the contract.’
‘And then he met Consuelo Jiménez … ‘ said Falcón.
‘Exactly … he met the wife,’ said Ramírez. ‘And she didn’t know about the deal.’
‘I should think Raúl Jiménez thought it was his business to sell,’ said Falcón.
‘He did. And it was. But both he and Joaquín López had underestimated her influence. They had a lunch so that they could meet. Sr López was impressed by the way the restaurants were run. The décor, all the stuff that the wife does.’
‘I hope he didn’t offer her a job.’
‘He was thinking about it. The point of the lunch was to see if she liked the idea of continuing to run the restaurants or if suddenly not being the wife of the owner was going to make a difference.’
‘And the lunch was a disaster?’
‘She completely froze him out. Joaquín López said that everything had happened before the lunch. The whole thing had been decided. Raúl Jiménez was like a whipped dog next to the wife. Sr López didn’t even have to make the call afterwards — he knew the deal was off.’
‘And what’s your reading of this development?’ asked Falcón.
‘I think she had him done,’ said Ramírez. ‘You might think this is an elaborate way of going about it, but that’s just the point. The wife has made a success out of paying attention to the details. She thinks things through from beginning to end. Nothing is left to chance, whether it’s making sure the kitchens are getting the right produce or planning her husband’s murder.’
‘You know what?’ said Falcón. ‘I agree. I think she’s capable.’
Ramírez’s chest expanded. He went to the window and looked out over the car park as if it had become his kingdom.
‘But there might be another dimension,’ added Falcón. ‘On the surface, she and I had a good, co-operative meeting this afternoon, except she told me very little. And when I asked for her husband’s records from his time on the Building Committee for Expo ‘92 she denied there were any such files and got the secretary to do the same.’
‘That’s crazy,’ said Pérez. ‘There has to be something.’
‘Another thing: Raúl Jiménez is a very successful businessman. He comes from Andalucian peasant stock and by his son’s account he was a ruthless operator. So ruthless that thirty-six years ago his youngest son was kidnapped as an act of revenge. He barely co-operated with the police. He moved his family out of the town. And then he systematically stamped out any memory of his child. He did this because he was faced with the choice of losing everything or losing everything except his wealth and status.’
‘I’m
not sure of your point, Inspector Jefe,’ said Ramírez.
‘What stopped Raúl Jiménez selling those restaurants?’ asked Falcón.
‘The wife.’
‘She didn’t murder him, did she?’ said Falcón. ‘But given Raúl Jiménez’s reputation you’d have thought she’d have to.’
‘She threatened to expose him,’ said Pérez.
‘Over a kidnapped child thirty-six years ago?’ said Ramírez. ‘Joder.’
‘She didn’t know that then. I only told her that after I’d spoken to José Manuel Jiménez.’
‘So what did she have on him?’
‘Something to do with Expo ‘92,’ said Falcón. ‘I think she must have found his papers and uncovered a level of corruption unsurpassed in Spanish commercial history.’
‘But why hide them now?’
‘Because she’s got what she wants. The restaurants,’ said Falcón. ‘All her husband’s papers can do now is jeopardize her position. If he was found to be corrupt it could have an effect on the business. She could lose the lot.’
‘Then his death was very convenient,’ said Ramírez.
‘Wouldn’t it have been more logical for Sr Jiménez to murder his wife?’ said Pérez. ‘Then he could have sold his restaurants and avoided any scandal.’
‘Murder takes place when logic breaks down,’ said Ramírez, looking at Pérez as if he was a traitor to the cause.
‘Let’s run a background check on Consuelo Jiménez … official and unofficial,’ said Falcón. ‘She talked about an art gallery she worked for in Madrid and an affair with the son of a duke which ended in an abortion back in 1984.’
‘She’s clean, according to the police computer,’ said Ramírez. ‘I have some contacts in Madrid who are checking her name out in a different way to see if there’s any connection with drugs or vice.’
‘What about the Building Committee?’ said Falcón, and Pérez humped a box up on to his desk. He started lifting out sheaves of paper.
‘These are the names and addresses of all companies involved in any building project of any size leading up to the opening of Expo ‘92. This is a list of all companies involved in building projects outside the Expo site which were either wholly or partially funded by the state. Most of this is residential development in places like Santiponce and Camas. This is a list of all the companies who were responsible for projects within the pavilions: designers, lighting and sound people, air conditioning, flooring contractors …’
‘What are you telling me. Sub Inspector?’ asked Falcón.
‘This little book is a directory of all the people who were involved in working for or supplying the pavilions, restaurants, bars, shops …’
Ramírez loomed into frame, gripping the edge of his desk.
‘Look, Inspector Jefe, we know what went on. Everybody got fat from this. But it was ten years ago and we know how the layers of confusion pile up after a matter of days, hours even. And what are we looking for? The guy who didn’t make a fortune? Where’s he going to be? The guy who was ripped off? Where do we look for him? Is he even going to be in these lists of companies and people? And if he is, where do we start? Glass suppliers? Marble quarries? Tile factories? It would be a huge task for a specially designed anti-corruption squad, let alone the six of us in the Grupo de Homicidios. There has to be a hot lead to get us into doing this level of work.’
Falcón clicked his knuckles one by one. It was a good speech, but it didn’t sound like Ramírez. It was succinct for a start and Ramírez didn’t have that kind of objective brain. He was a subjective, reactive type. Pulling Consuelo Jiménez in and sweating her was more his approach.
‘So both of you think that we should develop this investigation by building a case against Consuelo Jiménez?’
Ramírez nodded. Pérez shrugged.
‘She’s tough,’ said Falcón, ‘and I don’t think we’ve got enough on her to make her feel even slightly uncomfortable. We’re going to have to dig.’
‘What about surveillance?’ asked Ramírez.
‘I can’t justify that sort of expense yet,’ said Falcón. ‘I’d need more on her. The lover motive is dead and the Joaquín López motive still isn’t strong enough, although it’s worth running it past Juez Calderón.’
‘Sr López has offered his help in any way.’
‘I’m sure he has.’
‘What if they find something in Madrid … will you put her under surveillance then?’
‘If she’s been implicated in murder before, then yes. If it’s shoplifting, no.’
‘To really nail her we have to show a connection between her and the cameraman in the graveyard,’ said Pérez, which didn’t advance the conversation.
‘What was he doing there? Ask yourself that first,’ said Falcón. ‘His job was done. If he’s operating under instructions, why film the funeral?’
‘Maybe he’s been making a little blackmail movie,’ said Pérez.
‘That is stretching credibility, Sub Inspector.’
‘Is the disappearance of Eloisa Gómez stretching credibility, too?’ asked Ramírez. ‘The wife saw her on that video we were watching after they’d taken the body away.’
‘I think that’s something between the killer and Eloisa …’
‘The wife might not have liked the idea of an accomplice out there,’ said Pérez.
‘Think about why he’s playing these games with Eloisa Gómez’s mobile phone,’ said Falcón. ‘Why say that line about having a story to tell?’
‘What line was that?’ asked Ramírez.
‘I told you.’
‘You told us about “Are we close?” and “Closer than you think”, said Ramírez, ‘but “a story to tell” — no, you didn’t mention that.’
Falcón was amazed and embarrassed. It worried him that his memory was so shot through with holes. The brandy. He told them what had happened out on the bridge.
‘It’s a distraction,’ said Ramírez.
‘Insane,’ said Pérez.
‘It’s obscure on its own, but taken in conjunction with the man appearing at the funeral with his camera it could mean that he’s going to act again,’ said Falcón. ‘We have to keep an open mind. We can’t close down any possibilities to concentrate solely on Consuelo Jiménez.’
Ramírez started some agitated pacing around the room. Falcón dismissed the two men but called Pérez back.
‘I want you to do a couple of things with these lists,’ said Falcón. ‘Take the first two you gave me and find out which of those companies still exist. Then find all the names of the directors, executive and non-executive, in all these companies between 1990 and 1992. That’s all, then we drop it.’
16
Monday, 16th April 2001, Jefatura, Calle Blas Infante, Seville
Falcón couldn’t stand to be alone, which for a private man was a bizarre revelation. As soon as Pérez left the office he became anxious, frightened that something would happen in his head. He couldn’t rely on himself. He felt like an old person who’d noticed the first signs of dementia — moments of confusion, memory lapses, the inability to recognize simple things — and sensed the imminent free fall to total dislocation from life. Other people gave him context, reminded him of his old confidence. He couldn’t concentrate on the report from the Policía Científica. Panic rose in his chest and he had to walk it back down.
He became so desperate at the thought of his loneliness after work, the survival of a whole night before his doctor’s appointment, that he called the British Institute and reintroduced himself into the conversational English classes he had enrolled in the year before and failed to attend. This was how he found himself sitting in the middle of a class in a state of appalled fascination as the Scottish teacher told the students about some recent laser treatment on her eyes. Lasers in the eye? He couldn’t even think about it.
After class he went out for a drink and tapas with some of the other students. He found strangers comforting. They didn’t know him. Th
ey couldn’t judge his own strangeness. He would have to avoid his sister, her friends. This was his new life and that was how he thought of it already after only a few days.
He got home at 1 a.m., exhausted. It was a tiredness he’d never encountered before. A deep structural fatigue, like an ancient bridge that had shouldered epochs of traffic and strained against relentless tons of water. His legs quivered, his joints creaked and yet inside his head, whoever it was inside his head, was as alert as a night animal. He hauled himself up to the bedroom like a butcher’s boy with a carcass on his back.
The sheets were as cool as lotion as he crawled naked into bed for the first time since he was a boy. His eyelids rolled shut, heavy as boulders.
And still sleep did not come.
Ghastly images surfaced. Horror faces that were inconceivable except, there they were, in his mind. Every time his brain keeled over into the dark, they came and jolted him back. He writhed in the sheets, turned the light on, jammed his fists into his eyes. He wouldn’t have minded tearing them out if he could have guaranteed to blind the mind’s eye, too. The mind’s eye. He hated that expression. His father had hated it. That’s why he hated it. Pretentious and inaccurate. Tears came. Madre mía, what is this? Huge racking sobs lifted his shoulders off the bed.
He threw off the covers, staggered out of the room blinded by tears. He tried to pull himself together in the gallery, march it off. He held on to the balustrade and looked into the patio, saw the black pupil in the centre of the fountain staring up and thought he’d just hop over the ledge, dive on to the marble flagstones below, dash his brains out in a last cacophonous roar and then silence. Peace at last.
The idea was too compelling. He pushed himself away from it, stumbled down the stairs and into the study. He opened the drinks cabinet, which was full of whisky, his father’s preferred drink. He pulled the cork out of the first bottle that came to hand and drank heavily from the neck. It smelt and tasted like wet charcoal but had the burn of a glowing ember.
The Blind Man of Seville Page 20