The Silent and the Damned. Robert Thomas Wilson

knew Raúl Jiménez,’ said Falcón.

      ‘Well, I occasionally ate at his restaurants,’ said Ortega, relieved.

      ‘I remember you from one of his photographs he kept at home…celebrities and important people.’

      ‘I can’t think how that happened. Raúl Jiménez loathed the theatre…Unless, of course, that’s it, my brother, Ignacio, he knew Raúl. My brother’s company installs air-conditioning systems. Ignacio would ask me to receptions when he wanted to impress people. That must have been it.’

      ‘So you knew Consuelo Jiménez before you moved here?’

      ‘By sight,’ said Ortega.

      ‘Have you ever managed to interest Sra Krugman in your dogs?’

      ‘My God, Javier, you’re a different breed to the other policemen I’ve had to deal with.’

      ‘We’re just people.’

      ‘The ones I’ve spoken to are much more methodical,’ said Ortega. ‘That’s an observation, not a criticism.’

      ‘Murder is the greatest aberration of human nature, it brings out some ingenious subterfuges,’ said Falcón. ‘Methodical thinking does not survive well in that illusory world.’

      ‘Acting is the most ingenious subterfuge of all time,’ said Ortega. ‘Sometimes it’s so ingenious we end up not knowing who the fuck we are any more.’

      ‘You should meet some of the murderers I’ve put away,’ said Falcón. ‘Some of them have perfected the art of denial to the degree of absolute truth.’

      Ortega blinked at that – a horror he hadn’t considered before.

      ‘I have to go,’ said Falcón.

      ‘You asked me about Sra Krugman and the dogs,’ he said, a little desperately.

      ‘She doesn’t look like a dog person to me.’

      ‘You’re right…Now, if I’d had a leopard in a diamond collar…’

      They left via the sliding doors into the garden. Ortega walked Falcón round to the front gate. They stood in the quiet street away from the stink. A large black car rolled slowly past before picking up speed heading in the direction of Avenida de Kansas City. Ortega followed it with his eyes.

      ‘You know you were asking me about unusual visitors to the Vegas’ house?’ he said. ‘That car’s reminded me. That was a BMW 7 series and there was one of those parked outside their house on 6th January.’

      ‘La Noche de Reyes.’

      ‘Which is why I remember the date,’ said Ortega. ‘But I also remember it because of the nationality of the occupants. These guys were unusual. One was huge – fat, powerful, dark-haired and brutal looking. The other one was still heavy and muscular, but he looked a little more human than his friend and he was fair-haired. They spoke and I don’t know what was said, but because I’d been to St Petersburg last year I knew that they were Russians.’

      Consuelo Jiménez’s three children and Mario were playing in the pool in the late afternoon. The screaming, shouting and indefatigable mutual bombardment arrived heavily muffled through the double glazing. Only the occasional patter of water on the glass reminded them of the severity of the child artillery barrage. Javier nursed another beer. Consuelo was halfway down a glass of tinto de verano, a mix of red wine, ice and Casera. She smoked, clicking her thumbnail. Her foot, as always when distracted, was nodding.

      ‘I see you’ve let Mario join in,’ said Falcón.

      ‘I thought it best to let him lose himself in play for a bit,’ she said. ‘The swimming ban was Rafael’s obsession and there doesn’t seem much point…’

      ‘I can’t remember when I had that kind of energy,’ said Falcón.

      ‘There’s nothing more beautiful than a child, eyes stung with chlorine, lashes spiked, body trembling under towel with hunger and tiredness. It overwhelms me with happiness.’

      ‘You don’t mind me claiming my drink now?’ said Falcón. ‘When I come back with Mario’s aunt…I mean, I’ll have to take her back to her parents’ house, it wouldn’t be the same.’

      ‘As what?’

      ‘As seeing you like this.’

      ‘I have one major advantage over everyone else in this investigation of yours,’ said Consuelo. ‘I know how you work, Inspector Jefe.’

      ‘You did invite me for a drink.’

      ‘We’re all part of your world now,’ she said. ‘Helpless under your merciless observation. How did you get on with the others?’

      ‘I’ve just spent the last hour or so with Pablo Ortega.’

      ‘Performing, as ever,’ said Consuelo. ‘I could never marry an actor. I’m a monogamist and they can make a bed feel very crowded.’

      ‘I wouldn’t know.’

      ‘No actresses before you married that little truth-seeker…What was her name? Inés. Of course…’

      Consuelo stopped.

      ‘Sorry, I should have remembered about Juez Calderón.’

      ‘This is the first time I’ve worked with him since your husband’s murder,’ said Falcón. ‘He told me today that he and Inés were getting married.’

      ‘Doubly insensitive of me,’ said Consuelo. ‘But, my God, that’s going to be quite a truth-seeking union. A juez and a fiscal. Their first born is going to have to become a priest.’

      Falcón grunted out a laugh.

      ‘There’s nothing you can do about it, Javier,’ she said. ‘You might as well laugh.’

      ‘Lighten up,’ said Falcón. ‘That’s what Sra Krugman told me to do.’

      ‘She’s not exactly a comedy show herself.’

      ‘Has she shown you her photographs?’

      ‘So sad,’ said Consuelo, making the face of the unhappy clown. ‘I’ve had all that bullshit up to here.’

      ‘Juez Calderón was rather impressed by them,’ said Falcón.

      ‘By her ass, you mean.’

      ‘Yes, even all the many Pablo Ortegas stepped down off the pedestal of his ego to pant at her.’

      ‘I knew you had it in you,’ said Consuelo.

      ‘I’m angry with Maddy Krugman,’ he said. ‘And I don’t like her.’

      ‘When a man says that it normally means he fancies her.’

      ‘I’ll be joining a long queue.’

      ‘And Juez Calderón will be in front of you.’

      ‘You noticed.’

      A spectacular bomb by one of the children drenched the window. Consuelo went outside and told them to calm down. Falcón was aware of Mario looking at her as if she was a goddess. She came back in. By the time she’d closed the door the madness had restarted.

      ‘It’s a pity that they have to become us,’ she said, looking back to the pool.

      ‘You’re not so bad,’ said Falcón, the crass words out of his mouth so fast he stared bug-eyed at them, like a disgrace on the carpet. ‘I mean, when I said that…I meant you were…’

      ‘Relax, Javier,’ she said. ‘Drink some more beer.’

      Falcón gulped down the Cruzcampo, bit into a fat olive and put the stone in the tray.

      ‘Did Pablo