The Silent and the Damned. Robert Thomas Wilson

had transfixed me as a boy…which was all those black-and-white noir movies of the forties and fifties. They were the reason I became a detective.’

      ‘You’d be disappointed,’ said Marty. ‘Those streets, that life, those values…we’ve moved on from them.’

      ‘You’ve made a big mistake here, Inspector Jefe,’ said Maddy. ‘America is Marty’s favourite topic. We get out of there and suddenly that’s all he wants to talk about. He wakes me up at night because he has to tell me his latest theory. What was it last night, honey?’

      ‘Fear,’ said Marty, his dark peepers flashing from deep in his head like tropical birds escaping into the jungle.

      ‘America is a society based on fear,’ said Maddy flatly. ‘That’s the latest. It’s sad that he thinks he’s the first one to think them.’

      ‘Well, now, I suppose, in the post September 11th world…’

      ‘Not just now,’ said Marty. ‘It’s always been fear.’

      ‘Forget the pioneering spirit,’ said Maddy, hurling her hand over her shoulder.

      ‘There have always been pioneers,’ said Marty. ‘The strong and fearless men…’

      ‘This is very interesting,’ said Falcón, seeing his mistake now. ‘And it would be fascinating were it not for the fact that I have a double death to investigate.’

      ‘You see, he’s not that interested in your motives,’ said Maddy, and Marty flicked a dismissive finger at her. ‘And by the way, Inspector Jefe, he still thinks it’s the greatest nation on earth, despite…’

      ‘When did you last speak to the Vegas?’ asked Falcón.

      ‘I spoke to him yesterday evening about seven o’clock in the office,’ said Marty. ‘It was a technical conversation, nothing personal. He was businesslike, professional…the usual.’

      ‘Were you aware of any financial difficulties that might have put pressure on Sr Vega?’

      ‘He was always under pressure. It’s the nature of construction. There’s a lot to think about: the building, the machinery, materials and labour, budgets and money…’

      ‘And you?’ Falcón said, turning to Maddy.

      ‘Me?’ she replied, coming out of some deep, distracting thought.

      ‘The last time you spoke to Sr Vega?’

      ‘I don’t…I can’t think,’ she said. ‘When would that have been, honey?’

      ‘Dinner last week,’ he said.

      ‘How were the Vegas then?’

      ‘Rafael came on his own,’ said Marty.

      ‘As usual,’ said Maddy. ‘Lucía always cancelled at the last minute. The kid or something. She didn’t like these dinners of ours. She was a traditionalist. You only go to dinner at someone else’s house if they’re family. She found it awkward. She had no conversation, except about Mario and I’ve never had children, so…’

      ‘She was neurotic,’ said Marty.

      ‘How did Sr Vega and his wife get along?’

      ‘He was very loyal to her,’ said Maddy.

      ‘Does that mean love no longer came into it?’

      ‘Love?’ she said.

      Marty stared at her, nodding, his nose sawing through the chill air, as if willing her to conclude what she’d embarked on.

      ‘Don’t you think loyalty is a part of love, Inspector Jefe?’

      ‘I do,’ said Falcón. ‘But you seem to have separated loyalty from the whole, as if that was all that remained.’

      ‘Don’t you think that’s the nature of a marriage…or of love, Inspector Jefe?’ she said, ‘That time degrades it, wears away at passion and ardour, the thrill of sex…’

      ‘For Christ’s sake,’ said Marty in English.

      ‘…the intensity of interest you have in what the other says or thinks, the wild hilarity of the smallest jokes, the deep, unquestioning admiration of physical beauty, intelligence, moral certitude…’

      ‘Yes,’ said Falcón, his insides starting to bind up, as they did sometimes in therapy sessions with his psychologist, Alicia Aguado. ‘That’s true…’

      He sat back, let his intestines have some room, wrote some gibberish down in his notebook, wanted to get out of there.

      ‘So, are you saying, Sra Krugman, that the Vegas’ marriage, in your opinion, was strong…?’

      ‘I only observed that he was loyal to her. She was an unwell and, at times, an unhappy woman, but she was the mother of his child and that had considerable weight with him.’

      The ground seemed to firm up under Falcón’s chair as the business at hand reasserted itself.

      ‘Sr Vega liked to control things,’ said Falcón.

      ‘He had firm ideas about how things should be done and he had a very disciplined mind,’ said Marty. ‘I never saw further into his corporation than was necessary for me to do my work. He didn’t attempt to involve me in anything outside my own project. He would even ask me to leave his office if he was going to talk about other jobs on the phone. He was very concerned about hierarchy, the way things were reported to him, who did what and the chain of command. I don’t have any direct experience of this, but his style seemed military to me, which is no bad thing on a construction site. People can get killed very easily.’

      ‘In life, too,’ said Maddy.

      ‘What?’ said Marty.

      ‘He liked to control things in life, too. The gardener, his family, his meat,’ she said, chopping her hand down on to her knee.

      ‘It’s odd then that he’d come over here for dinner,’ said Falcón. ‘If he was going to put himself in the hands of others, I’d have thought he’d prefer a restaurant.’

      ‘He understood it as an American thing,’ said Marty.

      ‘He liked it,’ said Maddy, shrugging her shoulders so that her loose breasts shifted under the silk. Her legs slipped to one side and she rubbed them together, as if taming an itch.

      I bet he did, thought Falcón.

      ‘A controlling man might kill himself if his carefully constructed world was about to fall apart due to financial ruin or a shaming scandal. It could also collapse because of an emotional involvement that went wrong. News of the first two scenarios, if they existed, will break soon enough. Do you know anything about the third possibility?’

      ‘Do you think he was the type to have affairs?’ Marty asked his wife.

      ‘Affairs?’ said Maddy, almost to herself.

      ‘He would have left a note,’ said Marty. ‘Did he?’

      ‘Not a conventional one,’ said Falcón, and gave them the text.

      ‘That seems almost a little too poetic for someone like Rafael,’ said Maddy.

      ‘What about the 9/11 reference?’ said Falcón. ‘You must have talked about that with him.’

      Maddy rolled her eyes.

      ‘Sure,’ said Marty. ‘We talked about it endlessly, but as an item of current affairs. I really don’t understand its significance in this context.’

      ‘Why kill your wife?’ asked Maddy, which relieved Falcón, who didn’t want Marty’s theories on 9/11 at this stage of his inquiry. ‘I mean, if you’re suffering like that, kill yourself by all means, but don’t leave your kid with no parents.’