The Ignorance of Blood. Robert Thomas Wilson

      ‘We've gone through all the disks in the Russian's briefcase and we've singled out sixty-four individuals, fifty-five men and nine women. All of them have been caught on camera with their pants down, using drugs, receiving money and/or “presents”.’

      ‘And how are you getting on with identifying these people?’

      ‘Vicente Cortés from GRECO and Martín Díaz from CICO have managed to identify all of the mafia guys and all but three of the so-called “victims” in the footage.’

      ‘What are we talking about?’

      ‘The usual local council people: mayors, town planners, building inspectors, health and safety, utilities, some local businessmen and estate agents, Guardia Civil. Cortés and Díaz weren't surprised by any of it … not even the child sex footage or the women with big black guys.’

      ‘You look around at all these people you're supposed to be protecting,’ said Falcón, eyes drifting to the window, ‘and you find they're in it up to their necks.’

      ‘I've isolated a still from one bit of footage that I want you to look at. You'll have to come next door to see it because Inspector Ramírez is making sure everything is confined to one computer. We don't even want the stills on a LAN in case they find their way out to our “friends” in the press.’

      Falcón followed her out. Ferrera's fingers rapped the keys as she sat at the desk. An image came up on the screen of two people: a man kneeling behind a woman whose bottom was raised, face and shoulders on the bed. The girl was looking directly into the camera. Ferrera tapped the screen.

      ‘I'm absolutely certain,’ she said, ‘that this woman is Marisa Moreno's sister. I even went back to the police station and found the picture which had been supplied by Marisa to her “missing” file. She's only seventeen in the old shot but… what do you think?’

      Ferrera's photo was of a girl with her hair unplaited, Afro style. The eyes were innocent and wide, her mouth closed tight with bee-stung lips. The woman on the screen was in her mid-twenties, which would have been Margarita Moreno's age now. Her hair was plaited, which wasn't the only difference. The eyes weren't innocent any more but glazed, unfocused, out of it.

      Falcón held the photo Marisa had given him yesterday up to the screen. Margarita's hair was plaited in the shot.

      ‘You're right, Cristina. Good work,’ he said. ‘Now we're getting to it, Marisa, aren't we?’

      ‘Getting to what?’ asked Ferrera.

      ‘Another version of Marisa's story,’ said Falcón. ‘The reason why she was having an affair with Esteban Calderón, why that affair included more than just sexual duties, and, perhaps, why Inés was murdered in her own home.’

      ‘Marisa is in with the Russians?’

      ‘I've been to see her twice and each time I've had a threatening phone call within hours of our meetings,’ said Falcón. ‘Has the man in this shot been identified?’

      ‘Not yet.’

      ‘Tell Cortés and Díaz that, out of the three, this is the first shot that they have to work on. This guy will tell us where Margarita is being held,’ said Falcón. ‘Now let's go back to Marisa.’

      ‘Both of us?’

      ‘She doesn't like men,’ said Falcón. ‘I want you involved with her.’

      On the way to Calle Hiniesta Cristina Ferrera called Inspector José Luis Ramírez and Vicente Cortés. The shot was accessible on Ramírez's computer in padlocked files to which only he and Ferrera had the password.

      Marisa was not at home. They walked to her atelier on Calle Bustos Tavera. Marisa answered the door in a scarlet silk dressing gown open to reveal bikini briefs. She held a hammer and a wood chisel in one hand, a chewed cigar stub in the other.

      ‘You again,’ she said, making eye contact with Falcón, before dropping her gaze to Ferrera. ‘Who is this?’

      ‘I can perfectly understand why you don't like men now, Marisa,’ said Falcón. ‘So I've brought another member of my squad to talk to you. This is Detective Cristina Ferrera.’

      ‘Encantada,’ said Marisa, and turned her back on them.

      She put the hammer and chisel down on the work bench, tied up her dressing gown, sat on a high stool and lit the cigar stub. Resistant was a mild description of her attitude.

      ‘Now?’ she asked. ‘Why can you understand it now, Inspector Jefe?’

      ‘Because we've just found your sister,’ said Falcón.

      The line was intended to shock and it did. In the intense silence after its delivery Falcón saw pain, fear and horror flash across Marisa's beautiful features.

      ‘I distinctly remember telling you that my sister was not lost,’ said Marisa, summoning all the self-control she could muster.

      Ferrera stepped forward and gave her the printout of the still image taken from Vasili Lukyanov's disks. Marisa looked down at it, pursed her lips. Her face was impassive as she reconnected with Falcón.

      ‘What is this?’

      ‘This was in the possession of a known Russian gangster who died in a motorway accident yesterday morning,’ said Falcón. ‘Maybe you knew him, too: Vasili Lukyanov.’

      ‘How is this relevant to me?’ asked Marisa, that name thudding into her with the force of a slaughterer's bolt. ‘If my sister, who I haven't seen for six or seven years, has chosen to take up prostitution…’

      ‘Chosen to take up prostitution?’ said Ferrera, unable to contain herself. ‘Of the four hundred thousand prostitutes operating in Spain, barely five per cent have chosen their profession. And I don't think any of them are working for the Russian mafia.’

      ‘Look, Marisa, we're not here to take you down,’ said Falcón. ‘We know you've been coerced. And we know who's been doing the coercing. We're here to relieve your situation. To get you out of it, and your sister.’

      ‘I'm not sure what this situation is that you're talking about,’ said Marisa, not ready yet, needing to keep it going while she weighed things up in her mind.

      ‘What was the deal? Did they say they'd let Margarita go if you started up an affair with Esteban?’ asked Falcón. ‘If you fed them information, told them he was beating his wife, got them a key to his apartment…’

      ‘I don't know what you're talking about,’ said Marisa. ‘Esteban and I are lovers. I go to see him every week in prison – or at least I did, until you stopped my visits.’

      ‘So they haven't let Margarita go yet,’ said Ferrera. ‘Is that right?’

      ‘Is what right?’ said Marisa, turning on Ferrera, feeling that she could loose off some of her fierceness at her. ‘What …?’

      ‘That you've got to keep up the after-sales service,’ said Falcón. ‘But how long for, Marisa? How long do you think they'll keep you dangling? A month? A year? Maybe for ever?’

      As he said this he wondered whether he was the right man for this job. Maybe he was too personally involved. This woman's responsibility for Inés's death was perhaps making him too brutal, giving her nowhere to turn. But he had to show the full weight of his knowledge, make her face the gravity of her circumstances, before showing her that he was the softer option. This, he thought, might not be achievable in a single visit.

      ‘Esteban and I are very close,’ said Marisa, setting off on another round of fabrication. ‘It might not look it from the outside. You might think I've been using him in some way. That he was somehow my ticket to a better life. But I'm not …’

      ‘I've heard all this before, Marisa,’ said Falcón. ‘Maybe I should let you see Esteban again.’

      ‘Now