'What's happened to you?' she asked.
'I've hardened inside, Isabel. The blood now rifles down my cold, steel veins,' said Falcón. 'Did you ever hear about the Sebastián Ortega case?'
'He's Pablo Ortega's son, isn't he? The one who kidnapped the boy?'
'That's right,' said Falcón. 'How would you like to handle his appeal?'
'Any strong new evidence?'
'Yes,' said Falcón, 'but I should warn you that it might not make Esteban Calderón look very good.'
'It's about time he learnt a bit of humility,' she said. 'I'll take a look.'
Falcón hung up and sank back into the silence.
'You're confident,' said Ramírez, from the outer office.
'We are men of value, José Luis.'
The phone went in the outer office this time. Ramírez snatched it to his ear. Silence.
'Thank you,' said Ramírez.
He hung up. Falcón waited.
'José Luis?' he said.
There was no sound. He went to the door.
Ramírez looked up, his face was wet with tears, his mouth drawn back, tight across his teeth as he fought the emotion. He waved his hand at Falcón, he couldn't speak.
'His daughter,' said Ferrera.
The Sevillano nodded, thumbed the huge tears out of his eyes.
'She's all right,' he said, under his breath. 'They've done every test in the book and they can't find anything wrong with her. They think it's some kind of virus.'
He slumped in his chair, still squeezing fat tears out of his eyes.
'You know what?' said Falcón. 'I think it's time to go and have a beer.'
The three of them drove down to the bar La Jota and stood in the cavernous cool and drank beers and ate strips of salt cod. Other police officers came along and tried to strike up conversation but didn't get very far. They were too tense. The time clipped round to 8.30 p.m. and Falcón's mobile started vibrating against his thigh. He put it to his ear.
'You're all clear to arrest Ignacio Ortega on those charges,' said Elvira. 'Juan Romero has been appointed the Juez de Instruction. Good luck.'
They went back to the Jefatura because Falcón wanted to make the arrest in a patrol car with flashing lights, to let Ortega's neighbourhood know. Ferrera drove and they parked outside a large house in El Porvenir which, as Sebastián had described, had gate posts topped with concrete lions.
Ferrera stayed in the car. Ramírez rang the bell, which had the same electronic cathedral chime as Vega's. Ortega came to the door. They showed him their police IDs. He looked over their shoulders at the parked patrol car, lights flashing.
'We'd like to come in for a moment,' said Ramírez. 'Unless you'd rather do this in the street?'
They stepped into the house, which did not have the usual headache chill of fierce air conditioning but was completely comfortable.
'This air conditioning…' started Ramírez.
'This isn't air conditioning, Inspector,' said Ortega. 'You are now in a state-of-the-art climate-control system.'
'Then it should be raining in your study, Sr Ortega.'
'Can I offer you a drink, Inspector?' asked Ortega, mystified.
'I don't think so,' said Ramírez, 'we won't be staying long.'
'You, Inspector Jefe? A single malt? I even have Laphroaig.'
Falcón blinked at that. It was a whisky that Francisco Falcón had favoured. There was still a lot of it in his house, undrunk. His own tastes were not so eclectic. He shook his head.
'Do you mind if I drink alone?' asked Ortega.
'It's your house,' said Ramírez. 'You don't have to be polite for our sakes.'
Ortega poured himself a cheap whisky over ice. He raised his glass to the policemen. It was good to see him nervous. He picked up a fat remote with which he controlled his climate and started to explain the intricacies of the system to Ramírez, who butted in.
'We're bad losers, Sr Ortega,' he said.
'I'm sorry?' said Ortega.
'We're very bad losers,' said Ramírez. 'We don't like it when we see all our good work go to waste.'
'I can understand that,' said Ortega, covering his nervousness at Ramírez's looming, aggressive presence.
'What do you understand, Sr Ortega?' asked Falcón.
'Your work must be very frustrating at times.'
'Why would you think that?' asked Falcón.
Now that he'd caught their tone and found it unpleasant, Ortega turned ugly himself. He looked at them as if they were pathetic specimens of humanity – people to be pitied.
'The justice system is not in my hands,' he said. 'It's not up to me to decide which cases go to court and which don't.'
Ramírez snatched the remote from Ortega's hands, looked at the myriad buttons and tossed it on to the sofa.
'What about those two kids that we found buried up at the finca near Almonaster la Real?' said Ramírez. 'What about them?'
Falcón was appalled to see a little smile creep into Ortega's face. Now he knew what this was about. Now he knew that he was safe. Now he was going to enjoy himself.
'What about them?' asked Ortega mildly.
'How did they die, Sr Ortega?' said Ramírez. 'We know we can't touch you for any of that stuff, but, as I said, we're bad losers and we'd like you to tell us that one thing.'
'I don't know what you're talking about, Inspector.'
'We can guess what happened,' said Falcón. 'But we'd like to have it confirmed how and when they died and who buried them.'
'There are no traps,' said Ramírez, holding his hands open. 'You're well clear of any traps, aren't you, Sr Ortega?'
'I'd like you to leave now, thank you very much,' he said, and turned his back on them.
'We're going just as soon as you've told us what we want to hear.'
'You've got absolutely no right to barge your way -'
'You invited us in, Sr Ortega,' said Falcón.
'Go and complain to your friends in high places when we've gone,' said Ramírez. 'You could probably have us demoted, suspended without pay, thrown off the force… with all the contacts you've got.'
'Leave,' said Ortega, turning on them, snarling.
'Tell us how and when they died,' said Falcón.
'We're not going until you do,' said Ramírez, cheerfully.
'They committed suicide,' said Ortega.
'How?'
'The boy strangled the girl and then slashed his wrists with a piece of broken glass.'
'When?'
'Eight months ago.'
'Which was about the time that Inspector Jefe Montes started to drink even more than he was already,' said Ramírez.
'Who buried them?'
'Somebody was sent over to do that.'
'I imagine they're good at digging holes,' said Ramírez, 'Russian peasants. When was the last time you dug a hole?'
Ramírez had gone up close to Ortega now. He grabbed his hand. It was soft. He looked into his face.
'I thought not. No conscience at all… but maybe that will change in time,' he said.
'I told you what you wanted to know,' said Ortega. 'Now it's time for you to leave.'
'We're going now,' said Falcón.
Ramírez took a pair of handcuffs out of his pocket. He cuffed the wrist of the hand he was still holding. Falcón removed the whisky glass from the other. Ramírez joined them behind Ortega's back and clapped him on the shoulders.
'You're both finished,' said Ortega. 'You know that.'
'We're placing you under arrest,' said Falcón, 'for the repeated sexual abuse of your son, Salvador Ortega, and your nephew, Sebastián Ortega -'
Ortega's smiling face stopped Falcón mid sentence.
'You seriously think a heroin addict and someone who's been convicted of kidnapping and abusing a young boy have any chance of putting me away?' said Ortega.
'Things have changed,' said Falcón, as Ramírez put a huge hand on top of Ortega's head. 'The reason we wanted the boy and girl up at the finc
a to be prominent in your mind was so that you'd know that you've just been touched by vanished hands.'
CODA
Falcón sat outside La Bodega de la Albariza on Calle Bétis with a beer and a tapa of fried fresh anchovies. It was cooler today. There were a lot of people down by the river. He'd given up on his usual spot in the centre of the Puente de Isabel II. It reminded him too much of bad times and intrusive photographers. The river was no longer some Stygian limbo of hand- wringing strangers but, as it always had been, the life force of the city. Now he sat with people at tables eating and drinking, watching couples of all ages kissing as they strolled in the sunshine, at joggers and cyclists as they pushed themselves along the tow path on the opposite bank. The waiter stopped by and asked him if he wanted anything else. He ordered another beer and a plate of chipirones, baby squid.
There were two things from that last torrid week in July that just wouldn't leave him alone. The first was Rafael Vega and his son Mario and his answer to Calderón's question – what couldn't you bear your son knowing about you? He remembered the pity he'd felt for Mario as he was swept away Into his new family and he wanted the boy to know, not now but eventually, just one thing about his monstrous father. He wanted him to know that Rafael Vega had been returned to humanity by love and loss. He'd faced his conscience and been tormented by it. He'd died wanting some good to come out of his appalling life. How would Mario ever know that?
The second thing that he could not shake off and didn't want to was what had happened between him and Consuelo. She'd left him and gone away to the coast to be with her children. He'd tried to find out where she was from the restaurant managers, but they were under strict instructions to inform nobody. Her mobile was never switched on. He heard nothing back from the messages he left on her answering machine. He dreamed about her, saw her in the street and ran across squares to grab the arms of shocked strangers. He lived with her in his head, longed for the smell of her, the touch of her cheek on his, the sight of his empty chair opposite hers in a restaurant.
The waiter brought the chipirones and the beer. He squeezed the lemon over the squid and reached for his beading glass. The coldness of the beer brought tears to his eyes. He nodded to a girl who asked if she could take one of his chairs. He sat back and let the high palms of the Seville skyline blur in his vision. Tomorrow was the first day of September. He was going to Morocco in a few days' time. Marrakesh. He was happy. His mobile vibrated on his thigh. He nearly couldn't be bothered to answer it in the languor of the afternoon.
Robert Wilson
***
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The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands Page 40