The Silent and the Damned. Robert Thomas Wilson

to talk about politics, that was a different matter. We talked about America after September 11th, for instance. That was interesting because he was always very right wing. I mean, he thought José María Aznar a little too communist for his liking. But then the World Trade Centre came down and he maintained that the Americans had that coming to them.’

      ‘He didn’t like Americans?’ asked Falcón.

      ‘No, no, no, que no. He liked Americans. He was very friendly with that couple from next door. Marty is working for him and I’m sure Rafael was interested in fucking his wife.’

      ‘Really?’

      ‘No, I was just being mischievous, or perhaps giving you a more general truth. We’d all like to fuck Maddy Krugman. Have you seen her?’

      Falcón nodded.

      ‘What do you think?’

      ‘Why did he think the Americans had it coming to them?’

      ‘He said they were always messing about in other people’s politics and when you do that things blow up in your face.’

      ‘Nothing specific then, just bar talk?’

      ‘But quite surprising, given that he liked Americans and he was going there on holiday this summer,’ said Ortega, kissing the end of his cigar. ‘Another thing he said about Americans was that they’re your friends while you’re useful to them, and as soon as you stop making money for them or giving them help, they drop you like a stone. Their loyalty is measured, it has no faith in it. I think those were his words.’

      ‘What did you make of that?’

      ‘Judging by his vehemence it seemed to come from direct experience, probably in business, but I never found out what that was.’

      ‘How often have you seen him this year?’

      ‘Two or three times, mostly to do with the cesspit.’

      ‘Did you notice any difference in him since last year?’

      Silence, while Ortega smoked with narrowing eyes.

      ‘Has he killed himself?’

      ‘That’s what we’re trying to determine,’ said Falcón. ‘So far we have discovered that there was a change in him at the end of last year. He became more preoccupied. He was burning papers at the bottom of his garden.’

      ‘I didn’t notice anything, but then our relationship was not intimate. The only thing I remember was in the Corte Inglés in Nervión one day. I came across him picking over leather wallets or something. As I approached to say hello he looked up at me and I could see he was completely spooked, as if I was the ghost of a long-lost relative. I veered away and we didn’t speak. That was probably the last time I saw him. A week ago.’

      ‘Have you noticed any regular visitors to the house or any unusual ones?’ said Falcón. ‘Any night-time visitors?’

      ‘Look, I know I’m here all the time, especially these days with the work not coming my way, but I don’t spend my days looking over the fence or squinting between the blinds.’

      ‘What do you do with your time?’

      ‘Yes, well, I spend an uncomfortable amount of it inside my own head. More than I should or want to.’

      ‘What did you do last night?’

      ‘I got drunk on my own. A bad habit, I know. I fell asleep right here and woke up freezing cold from the air conditioning at five in the morning.’

      ‘When I asked you about visitors to the Vegas, I didn’t mean anything…’

      ‘Look, the only regulars I saw were Lucía’s parents and the tough bitch from across the road who used to take care of the kid occasionally.’

      ‘The tough bitch?’

      ‘Consuelo Jiménez. You don’t want to cross her, Javier. She’s the kind that only smiles when she’s got a man’s balls in a vice.’

      ‘You’ve had some disagreements?’

      ‘No, no, I just recognize the type.’

      ‘What type is that?’ asked Falcón, unable to resist the question.

      ‘The type that doesn’t like men but is unfortunately not a lesbian and finds they have to go to men for their demeaning sexual needs. This leaves them in a permanent state of resentment and anger.’

      Falcón chewed the end of his pen to stop himself smiling. It sounded as if the great Pablo Ortega had offered his outstanding services and been rebuffed.

      ‘She likes children, that one,’ said Ortega. ‘She likes little boys running around her legs. The more the better. But as soon as they grow hair…’

      Ortega grabbed a great tuft of his white chest hair and flicked his head up in disdain. It was a perfect cameo, in which male foolishness and female pride met in the same body. Falcón laughed. Ortega basked in the acclaim from his audience of one.

      ‘You know,’ he said, topping up his glass with Cruzcampo, offering it to Falcón who refused, ‘the best way to meet women?’

      Falcón shook his head.

      ‘Dogs.’

      ‘You have dogs?’

      ‘I have two pugs. A big, burly male called Pavarotti and a smaller, darker-faced female called Callas.’

      ‘Do they sing?’

      ‘No, they crap all over the garden.’

      ‘Where do you keep them?’

      ‘Not in here with my collection all over the floor. They’ll cock their leg over a masterpiece and I’ll do something unforgivable.’

      ‘Your collection?’

      ‘You don’t think I live in this sort of mess all the time? I had to move my collection in here when the cesspit cracked,’ said Ortega. ‘Anyway, let me finish with the dogs. Pugs are the perfect way to start talking to a lone woman. They’re small, unthreatening, a little ugly and amusing. Perfect. They always work with women and children. The children can’t resist them.’

      ‘Is that how you met Consuelo Jiménez?’

      ‘And Lucía Vega,’ he said, winking.

      ‘Perhaps you don’t realize this…I should have made it clear…Sra Vega has been murdered.’

      ‘Murdered?’ he said, getting to his feet, beer spilling into his lap.

      ‘She was suffocated with her pillow…’

      ‘You mean he killed her and then himself? What about the boy?’

      ‘He was at Sra Jiménez’s house at the time.’

      ‘My God…this is a tragedy,’ he said, going to the window, thumping it with his fist and looking out into the garden for some reassurance.

      ‘What you were saying about Sra Vega…You didn’t have an affair with her, did you?’

      ‘An affair?’ he said, terrible things now occurring to him. ‘No, no, no que no. I just met her on that little bit of park, walking the dogs. She’s not really my type. She was rather fascinated by my celebrity, that was all.’

      ‘What did you talk about?’

      ‘I don’t remember. I think she’d seen me in a play or…What did we talk about?’

      ‘When did this happen?’

      ‘March some time.’

      ‘You winked when you mentioned her name.’

      ‘That was just some ridiculous braggadocio on my part.’

      Falcón’s pen