The Silent and the Damned. Robert Thomas Wilson

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СКАЧАТЬ yes,’ he said. ‘I can see that. The sense of deracination is palpable.’

      Falcón sighed. Art conversations. He knocked on the door. Maddy tore it open with a sardonic smile on her face. Calderón’s eyes behind her right shoulder were staring, wild with dilated pupils. It put Falcón on the back foot for a moment.

      ‘Inspector Jefe,’ she said. ‘Juez Calderón and I were having such an interesting conversation, weren’t we?’

      Falcón apologized for interrupting but the judge was needed to sign off the second body. Calderón pulled himself together piece by piece, as if he was picking up his clothes in a strange woman’s bedroom.

      ‘Your mobile was switched off,’ said Falcón.

      Maddy raised an eyebrow. Calderón looked around the room to make sure he was leaving nothing incriminating. He gave an uncomfortably protracted goodbye speech whilst holding on to Sra Krugman’s hand, which he kissed at the end. He shambled down the stairs like a schoolboy with a decent report in his satchel and stopped halfway.

      ‘You’re not coming, Inspector Jefe?’

      ‘I’ve a question for Sra Krugman.’

      Calderón made it clear he would wait.

      ‘You must go off and do your work, Juez,’ said Maddy, giving him a dismissive little wave.

      A herd of emotions ravaged Calderón’s face. Hope, delight, disappointment, longing, jealousy, anger and resignation. They left him trampled. He stumbled down the remaining stairs unable to coordinate his feet.

      ‘Your question, Inspector Jefe?’ she said, her look as level as the sea’s horizon.

      He asked to see the shots of Sr Vega in his garden again. She went into the darkroom and laid the prints out on the table. Falcón pointed to the top corner of the shots.

      ‘Smoke,’ he said.

      ‘He was burning stuff,’ she said. ‘He quite often burnt papers down there.’

      ‘How often?’

      ‘Since the beginning of the year…quite a lot.’

      ‘And all your shots are…’

      ‘From this year,’ she said. ‘Although he didn’t become a regular down at the river until March.’

      ‘You knew he was disturbed by something,’ said Falcón, annoyed by her now.

      ‘I told you, it’s not my business,’ she said. ‘And you seem to be confused yourself as to whether it’s suicide or murder.’

      He turned without a word and headed for the door.

      ‘He’s a very sensitive and intelligent man, the Juez,’ she said.

      ‘He’s a good man,’ said Falcón. ‘And he’s a happy man, too.’

      ‘They’re a rarity once they get over thirty,’ said Maddy.

      ‘Why do you say that?’

      ‘I see more men down at the river than I do women.’

      ‘Women have a talent for remaining connected to the world,’ said Falcón. ‘They find it easier to talk.’

      ‘There’s no secret to it,’ said Maddy. ‘We just get on with it. Men, like Marty for instance, get sidelined by trying to answer unanswerable questions. They allow things to complicate in their minds.’

      Falcón nodded and set off down the stairs. She stood at the top, folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall.

      ‘So, why is the Juez so happy?’

      ‘He’s getting married later this year,’ said Falcón, without turning.

      ‘Do you know her?’ she asked. ‘Is she nice?’

      ‘Yes,’ said Falcón, and he turned to the door.

      ‘Lighten up’ she said in English. ‘Hasta luego, Inspector Jefe.’

       6

       Wednesday, 24th July 2002

      Falcón understood those words perfectly and he strode back to the Vegas’ house in a fury that was only broken by the sight of the maid walking off towards Avenida de Kansas City. He caught up with her and asked her whether she’d bought any drain cleaner recently. She hadn’t, ever. He asked her when was the last time she’d cleaned the kitchen floor. Sra Vega, who was obsessed with the idea that Mario would catch germs from a dirty floor, had insisted that it was done three times a day. Mario had already gone across to Consuelo Jiménez’s house before she cleaned the floor for the last time yesterday evening.

      The ambulance containing the two bodies pulled away as he arrived back at the Vegas’ house. The front door was open. Calderón was smoking in the hallway. Felipe and Jorge nodded to him as they left with their forensic kits and evidence bags. Falcón closed the door behind them against the heat.

      ‘What did you ask her?’ said Calderón, pushing himself away from the wall.

      ‘I saw from the barbecue that Vega had been burning papers. I wanted to see if he was burning anything in the shots she had taken of him,’ said Falcón. ‘He was.’

      ‘Is that all?’ said Calderón, both accusing and mocking.

      Falcón’s anger came back to him.

      ‘Did you get anywhere with her, Esteban?’

      ‘What do you mean?’

      ‘You were over there for half an hour with your mobile switched off. I assumed you were talking about something with an important bearing on the investigation.’

      Calderón dragged hard on his cigarette, drew in the smoke with a rush of air.

      ‘Did she say what we talked about?’

      ‘I heard you talking about her photographs as I came up the stairs,’ said Falcón.

      ‘They’re very good,’ said Calderón, nodding gravely. ‘She’s a very talented woman.’

      ‘You’re the one who called her a “paparazzo of the emotions”.’

      ‘That was before she talked to me about her work,’ he said, flicking his cigarette fingers at Falcón. ‘It’s the thinking behind the photographs that makes them what they are.’

      ‘So they’re not Hola! with feelings?’ said Falcón.

      ‘Very good, Javier. ‘I’ll remember that one,’ said Calderón. ‘Anything else?’

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