‘You’re not coming, Inspector Jefe?’
‘I’ve a question for Sra Krugman.’
Calderón made it clear he would wait.
‘You must go off and do your work, Juez,’ said Maddy, giving him a dismissive little wave.
A herd of emotions ravaged Calderón’s face. Hope, delight, disappointment, longing, jealousy, anger and resignation. They left him trampled. He stumbled down the remaining stairs unable to coordinate his feet.
‘Your question, Inspector Jefe?’ she said, her look as level as the sea’s horizon.
He asked to see the shots of Sr Vega in his garden again. She went into the darkroom and laid the prints out on the table. Falcón pointed to the top corner of the shots.
‘Smoke,’ he said.
‘He was burning stuff,’ she said. ‘He quite often burnt papers down there.’
‘How often?’
‘Since the beginning of the year…quite a lot.’
‘And all your shots are…’
‘From this year,’ she said. ‘Although he didn’t become a regular down at the river until March.’
‘You knew he was disturbed by something,’ said Falcón, annoyed by her now.
‘I told you, it’s not my business,’ she said. ‘And you seem to be confused yourself as to whether it’s suicide or murder.’
He turned without a word and headed for the door.
‘He’s a very sensitive and intelligent man, the Juez,’ she said.
‘He’s a good man,’ said Falcón. ‘And he’s a happy man, too.’
‘They’re a rarity once they get over thirty,’ said Maddy.
‘Why do you say that?’
‘I see more men down at the river than I do women.’
‘Women have a talent for remaining connected to the world,’ said Falcón. ‘They find it easier to talk.’
‘There’s no secret to it,’ said Maddy. ‘We just get on with it. Men, like Marty for instance, get sidelined by trying to answer unanswerable questions. They allow things to complicate in their minds.’
Falcón nodded and set off down the stairs. She stood at the top, folded her arms across her chest and leaned against the wall.
‘So, why is the Juez so happy?’
‘He’s getting married later this year,’ said Falcón, without turning.
‘Do you know her?’ she asked. ‘Is she nice?’
‘Yes,’ said Falcón, and he turned to the door.
‘Lighten up’ she said in English. ‘Hasta luego, Inspector Jefe.’
Wednesday, 24th July 2002
Falcón understood those words perfectly and he strode back to the Vegas’ house in a fury that was only broken by the sight of the maid walking off towards Avenida de Kansas City. He caught up with her and asked her whether she’d bought any drain cleaner recently. She hadn’t, ever. He asked her when was the last time she’d cleaned the kitchen floor. Sra Vega, who was obsessed with the idea that Mario would catch germs from a dirty floor, had insisted that it was done three times a day. Mario had already gone across to Consuelo Jiménez’s house before she cleaned the floor for the last time yesterday evening.
The ambulance containing the two bodies pulled away as he arrived back at the Vegas’ house. The front door was open. Calderón was smoking in the hallway. Felipe and Jorge nodded to him as they left with their forensic kits and evidence bags. Falcón closed the door behind them against the heat.
‘What did you ask her?’ said Calderón, pushing himself away from the wall.
‘I saw from the barbecue that Vega had been burning papers. I wanted to see if he was burning anything in the shots she had taken of him,’ said Falcón. ‘He was.’
‘Is that all?’ said Calderón, both accusing and mocking.
Falcón’s anger came back to him.
‘Did you get anywhere with her, Esteban?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You were over there for half an hour with your mobile switched off. I assumed you were talking about something with an important bearing on the investigation.’
Calderón dragged hard on his cigarette, drew in the smoke with a rush of air.
‘Did she say what we talked about?’
‘I heard you talking about her photographs as I came up the stairs,’ said Falcón.
‘They’re very good,’ said Calderón, nodding gravely. ‘She’s a very talented woman.’
‘You’re the one who called her a “paparazzo of the emotions”.’
‘That was before she talked to me about her work,’ he said, flicking his cigarette fingers at Falcón. ‘It’s the thinking behind the photographs that makes them what they are.’
‘So they’re not Hola! with feelings?’ said Falcón.
‘Very good, Javier. ‘I’ll remember that one,’ said Calderón. ‘Anything else?’
‘We’ll talk after the autopsy reports have come out,’ said Falcón. I’ll meet Sra Vega’s sister off the AVE and take her to Sra Jiménez later this evening.’
Calderón nodded without knowing what Falcón was talking about.
‘I’ll talk to Sr Ortega now…he’s the other neighbour,’ said Falcón, unable to resist the sarcasm.
‘I know who Sr Ortega is,’ said Calderón.
Falcón went to the front door. By the time he turned back Calderón was already lost in labyrinthine thoughts.
‘I meant what I said this morning, Esteban.’
‘What was that?’
‘I think you and Inés will be very happy together,’ said Falcón. ‘You’re very well suited.’
‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘We are. Thanks.’
‘You’d better come with me,’ said Falcón. ‘I’m going to lock up now.’
They left the house and parted ways in the drive. Falcón shut the electric gates with a remote he’d picked up from the kitchen. The entrance to Ortega’s house was to the left of the Vegas’ driveway and covered by a large creeper. He watched Calderón from its shade. The man hovered by his car and appeared to be checking his mobile for messages. He headed off in the direction of the Krugmans’ house, stopped, paced about and gnawed on his thumbnail. Falcón shook his head, rang Ortega’s bell and introduced himself over the intercom. Calderón threw his hands up and went back to his car.
‘That’s the way, Esteban,’ said Falcón to himself. ‘Don’t even think about it.’
The smell of raw sewage had already reached Falcón’s nostrils as he stood by the gate. Ortega buzzed him in to a stink gross enough to make him gag. Large bluebottles cruised the air as threatening as heavy bombers. Brown stains crept up the walls of the corner of the house where a large crack had appeared in the façade. The air seethed with the busy richness of decay. Ortega appeared