The Silent and the Damned. Robert Thomas Wilson

Calderón.

      ‘I can’t find any pity for people who destroy the innocence of children,’ said Consuelo, savagely. ‘They deserve everything they get.’

      Madeleine Krugman returned with the telephone number. She was now wearing sunglasses as if protecting herself from her own painful whiteness.

      ‘No name?’ said Falcón, punching the number into his mobile.

      ‘My husband says his name is Carlos Vázquez.’

      ‘And where’s your husband?’

      ‘At home.’

      ‘When did Sr Vega give you this number?’

      ‘Before he went to join Lucía and Mario on holiday last summer.’

      ‘Is Mario the child who slept at your house last night, Sra Jiménez?’

      ‘Yes.’

      ‘Do the Vegas have any family in the Seville area?’

      ‘Lucía’s parents.’

      Falcón broke away from the group and asked to speak to the lawyer.

      ‘I am Inspector Jefe Javier Falcón,’ he said. ‘Your client, Sr Rafael Vega, is lying on his kitchen floor incapacitated, possibly dead. We need to get into his house.’

      A long silence while Vázquez digested this devastating news.

      ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I advise you not to try to break in, Inspector Jefe, because it will certainly take you much longer.’

      Falcón looked up at the impregnable house. There were two security cameras on the corners. He found two more at the back of the building.

      ‘It seems the Vegas were very security conscious,’ he said, rejoining the group. ‘Cameras. Bulletproof windows. Solid front door.’

      ‘He’s a wealthy man,’ said Consuelo.

      ‘And Lucía is…well, neurotic to say the least,’ said Maddy Krugman.

      ‘Did you know Sr Vega before you moved here, Sra Jiménez?’ asked Falcón.

      ‘Of course. He told me that the house I eventually bought was going to come up for sale before it appeared on the market.’

      ‘Were you friends or business associates?’

      ‘Both.’

      ‘What’s his business?’

      ‘Construction,’ said Madeleine. ‘That’s why the house is built like a fort.’

      ‘He’s a client of mine at the restaurant in El Porvenir,’ said Consuelo. ‘But I also knew him through Raúl. They were in the same business, as you know. They joined forces once on some developments in Triana years ago.’

      ‘Did you know him just as a neighbour, Sra Krugman?’

      ‘My husband is an architect. He’s working on some projects for Sr Vega.’

      A large silver Mercedes pulled up outside the house. A short, stocky man in a white long-sleeve shirt, dark tie and grey trousers got out. He introduced himself as Carlos Vázquez and ran his fingers through his prematurely white hair. He handed the keys to Falcón, who opened the door with a single turn. It had not been double locked.

      The house seemed bleak and freezing after the heat of the street. Falcón asked Juez Calderón if he and the forensics could take a quick look before the Médico Forense started his work. He took Felipe and Jorge to the edge of the tiled floor of the kitchen. They looked, nodded to each other and backed away. Calderón had to prevent Carlos Vázquez from entering the kitchen and contaminating the crime scene. The lawyer didn’t look as if he was used to having a hand placed on his chest by anybody but his wife in bed. The Médico Forense, already gloved, was ushered in. While he checked for a pulse and took the temperature of the body Falcón went outside and asked Consuelo and Madeleine if they would be available for interviews later. He made a note that Consuelo was still taking care of Vega’s son, Mario.

      The Médico Forense murmured into his dictaphone as he checked the ears, nose, eyes and mouth of the victim. He took a pair of tweezers and turned over the plastic bottle which lay close to the body’s outstretched hand. It was a litre of drain cleaner.

      Falcón backed away down the corridor and checked the downstairs rooms. The dining room was ultra modern. The table was a thick single sheet of opaque green glass mounted on two stainless steel arches. It was fully laid for ten people. The chairs were white, the floor was white, the walls and light fixtures were also white. In the chill of the air conditioning the dining experience must have been like the inside of a fridge, without the clutter of butter trays and old food. It did not seem to Falcón that any entertaining had ever taken place in this room.

      The living room by comparison was like the inside of a confused person’s head. Every surface was covered in bric-a-brac – souvenirs from around the world. Falcón saw holidays in which Vega obsessively filmed with the latest technology while his wife devastated the tourist shops. On the mid section of the sofa was a cordless phone, a box of chocolates with half a tray uneaten and three remotes for satellite, DVD and video. On the floor was a pair of pink fluffy slippers. The lights were off, as was the television.

      Each of the stairs up to the bedrooms was made out of a slab of absolute black granite. He checked the glass-smooth surfaces as he moved slowly upwards. Nothing. The floor at the top of the stairs was made of black granite inlaid with diamonds of white marble. He was drawn to the door of the master bedroom. The double bed was occupied. A pillow lay over the face of the occupant whose arms lay outside the light duvet on the bed. There was a slim band of a wristwatch on an arm flung out as if reaching for help. A single visible foot had bright-red toenails. He went to the bedside and checked for a pulse while looking down on the two depressions in the pillow. Lucía Vega was dead, too.

      There were three other rooms upstairs, all with bathrooms. One was empty, another had a double bed and the last belonged to Mario. The ceiling of the boy’s room was painted with a night sky. An old, one-armed teddy bear lay face up on the bed.

      Falcón reported the second dead body to Juez Calderón. The Médico Forense was kneeling by Sr Vega’s side and working at prising his fingers apart.

      ‘There seems to be a note in Sr Vega’s right hand,’ said Calderón. ‘The body’s cooled down quickly in the air con and I want him to get it out without tearing it. Any first thoughts, Inspector Jefe?’

      ‘On the face of it, it looks like a suicide pact. He’s smothered his wife and then drunk some drain cleaner, although that’s a nasty, lingering way to kill yourself.’

      ‘Pact? What makes you think there was an agreement?’

      ‘I’m just saying that’s what it looks like,’ said Falcón. ‘The fact that the little boy was left out of it might indicate some collusion. A mother wouldn’t be able to bear the thought of the death of her own child.’

      ‘And a father could?’

      ‘It depends on the pressure. If there’s the possibility of financial or moral disgrace he might not want his male child to see that or live with the knowledge of it. He would see killing him as a favour. Men have killed their entire families because they think they have failed them and that it’s better nobody survives bearing their name and its shame.’

      ‘But you have your doubts?’ said Calderón.

      ‘Suicide, whether it’s a pact or not, is rarely a spontaneous thing and there are some spontaneous elements to this crime scene. First, the door was not securely locked. Consuelo Jiménez had called to say that Mario had fallen asleep so they were sure he wasn’t going to return, but they didn’t double lock the door.’

      ‘The door was shut, that was enough.’

      ‘If you’re about to do something unnatural you would put yourself behind locked