The Silent and the Damned. Robert Thomas Wilson

time they thought Mario was old enough so they’d rented a house in La Jolla near San Diego and they were going to take him to Sea World and Disneyland.’

      ‘Florida would have been closer.’

      ‘Too humid for Lucía,’ she said, lighting another cigarette and shaking her head, staring at the ceiling. ‘We’ve got no idea what goes on in people’s heads.’

      ‘His lawyer didn’t mention any of this.’

      ‘He might not have known about it. Rafael was the type who kept his life compartmentalized. He didn’t like overlaps, one thing bleeding into another. Everything had to be separate and in its place. I got all the holiday stuff from Lucía.’

      ‘So he was a control freak?’

      ‘Like a lot of successful businessmen.’

      ‘You met him through Raúl?’

      ‘He was very supportive after Raúl was murdered.’

      ‘He let Mario sleep over?’

      ‘He liked my boys, too.’

      ‘Was it a regular thing, Mario sleeping over?’

      ‘At least once a week. Normally on a weekday night or over the weekend in the summer when I have more time,’ she said. ‘The only thing he wouldn’t allow was for Mario to go in the pool.’

      ‘Surprising that Sr Vega didn’t have a pool.’

      ‘There was one there but he filled it in and turfed it over. He didn’t like them.’

      ‘Did anybody else know about the arrangement with Mario?’

      ‘They might have if they were nosey enough,’ she said. ‘Don’t you find all this incredibly tedious, Javier?’

      ‘In my experience it’s through the minutiae of everyday life that you find out about how people really live. The small details lead to bigger things,’ he said. ‘Some years ago I was beginning to find it dull, but now, strangely, I find it quite riveting.’

      ‘Since you restarted your own life?’

      ‘Sorry?’

      ‘I didn’t mean to be so intrusive.’

      ‘I’d nearly forgotten…but that’s your style, isn’t it, Doña Consuelo?’

      ‘You can dispense with the Doña, Javier,’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry. It was a thought that should have remained a thought.’

      ‘I come across a lot of people who think things about me,’ he said. ‘Because of my story I’ve become public property. The only reason I don’t get accosted more is that people have too many questions. They don’t know where to start.’

      ‘All I meant was that, from my own experience, when the foundations of your life collapse it’s the everyday things that begin to matter. They hold things together,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a lot of rebuilding to do myself since we last met.’

      ‘New life, new home…new lover?’ he asked.

      ‘I deserved that,’ she said.

      ‘It’s just my job.’

      ‘But was that a personal inquiry or solely for the purposes of your investigation?’

      ‘Let’s say both,’ said Falcón.

      ‘I have no lover and…if this is where you’re leading to, Rafael was not interested in me.’

      He played that back in his mind and found no nuances.

      ‘Let’s get back to the minutiae,’ he said. ‘When did you last speak to the Vegas?’

      ‘I spoke to Lucía at about eleven p.m. to tell her that Mario had fallen asleep and I’d put him to bed. There was some mothers’ talk and that was it.’

      ‘Was it any longer than usual?’

      Consuelo blinked as her eyes filled. Her mouth crumpled around the cigarette. She spat the smoke out, swallowed hard.

      ‘It was the same as always,’ she said.

      ‘She didn’t ask to speak to the boy or…’

      Consuelo leaned forward, dug her elbows into her thighs and wept. Falcón got to his feet, went to her and gave her a handkerchief. He patted her between the shoulder blades.

      ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The minutiae lead to bigger things.’

      He took the cigarette from her hand and crushed it out in the ashtray. Consuelo recovered. Falcón returned to his chair.

      ‘Since Raúl’s death I get very emotional about children. All children.’

      ‘It must have been hard for your boys.’

      ‘It was, but they showed remarkable resilience. I think I felt more for their loss than they did. It’s surprising the route that grief takes,’ she said. ‘But now I find myself constantly pledging money to kids who’ve been orphaned by AIDS in Africa, to children who’ve been exploited in India and the Far East, to street children in Mexico City and São Paulo, the rehabilitation of boy soldiers…It just pours out of me and I have no idea why this should suddenly have happened.’

      ‘Didn’t Raúl leave some money to Los Niños de la Calle, the street children charity?’

      ‘I think it was something deeper than that.’

      ‘Guilt money for…Arturo? That son of his who was kidnapped and never seen…’

      ‘Don’t start me off again,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop thinking about that.’

      ‘OK. Something else,’ he said. ‘Lucía has a sister in Madrid, doesn’t she? She should be able to look after Mario.’

      ‘Yes, she’s got two children, one who’s Mario’s age. I’ll miss him,’ she said. ‘Losing your father is bad enough, but to lose a mother as well is a catastrophe, especially at that age.’

      ‘You adapt,’ said Falcón, feeling the stab of his own experience. ‘The survival instinct hasn’t been undermined. You accept love from wherever it comes.’

      They stared at each other, minds orbiting around the concept of the parental void, until Consuelo went to the bathroom. As the taps ran Falcón slumped back in his chair, already exhausted. He had to find the stamina for this work again or perhaps try to find new ways of keeping the worlds he pried into at a distance.

      ‘So what do you think happened in that house last night?’ said Consuelo, face repaired.

      ‘It looks as if Sr Vega smothered his wife and then killed himself by drinking a bottle of drain cleaner,’ said Falcón. ‘Official cause of death will be established later. If the scenario is as it appears we’ll expect to find pillow material under Sr Vega’s fingernails…that sort of thing, which will give us –’

      ‘And if you don’t?’

      ‘Then we’ll have to look deeper,’ said Falcón. ‘We’re already…puzzled.’

      ‘By the new car and the fact he was going on holiday?’

      ‘Suicides rarely advertise what they’re about to do. They carry on as normal. Think how many times you’ve heard the relatives of victims say, “But he seemed so calm and normal,”’ said Falcón. ‘It’s because they’ve made up their minds and it’s given them some peace at last. No, we’re puzzled by the scenario and by the strange note.’

      ‘He wrote a suicide note?’

      ‘Not exactly. In his fist he had a piece of paper on which was written in English “…the thin air you breathe from 9/11 until the end…”’ said Falcón. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

      ‘Well,