Arturo Perez-Reverte - The Flanders Panel

“But that’s ancient history,” she said, letting the ash from her cigarette fall into the pristine ashtray full of paper clips that Feijoo had on his desk. “We stopped seeing each other over a year ago… as I’m sure you know.”

The Inspector put his elbows on the desk and leaned towards her.

“Yes,” he said, almost confidentially, as if his tone were irrefutable proof that they were old acquaintances now and that he was entirely on her side. “But you did have a meeting with him three days ago.”

Julia managed to conceal her surprise and merely looked at the policeman with the expression of someone who’s just heard an exceptionally foolish remark. Naturally, Feijoo had been making enquiries at the university. Any secretary or porter could have told him. But neither was it something she needed to hide.

“I went to ask for his help on a painting I’m restoring.” She found it odd that the policeman wasn’t taking notes, but assumed that was part of his method: people speak more freely when they think their words are disappearing into thin air. “As you are apparently well aware, we talked for nearly an hour in his office. We even arranged to meet later, but I never saw him again.”

Feijoo was turning the box of matches round and round.

“What did you talk about, if you don’t mind my asking? I’m sure you’ll understand and forgive such an… um… personal question. I assure you it’s purely routine.”

Julia regarded him in silence while she pulled on her cigarette and then she shook her head slowly.

“You seem to take me for some kind of idiot.”

The policeman looked at her through lowered eyelids but he sat a little straighter.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know what you mean.”

“I’ll tell you what I mean,” she said and stubbed out her cigarette hard in the little pile of paper clips, indifferent to the pained look with which he followed her gesture. “I have no objection whatsoever to answering your questions. But, before we go on, I want you to tell me if Alvaro slipped in the bath or not.”

Feijoo seemed to be caught off guard. “I have no firm evidence…”

“Then this conversation is unnecessary. If you think there is something suspicious about his death and you’re trying to get me to talk, I want to know right now whether I’m being questioned as a possible suspect. Because, in that case, either I leave this police station at once or I get a lawyer.”

The policeman raised his hands in conciliatory fashion.

“That would be a bit premature.” With a lopsided smile, he shuffled in his seat as if he were once again looking for the right words. “The official line, as of this moment, is that Professor Ortega had an accident.”

“And what if your marvellous pathologists decide otherwise?”

“In that case” – Feijoo waved his hand vaguely – “you will be considered no more suspicious than any of the other people who knew the deceased. You can imagine the list of candidates…”

“That’s the problem. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Alvaro.”

“Well, that’s your opinion. I see it differently: suspended students, jealous colleagues, angry lovers, intransigent husbands…” He ticked these off with one thumb on the fingers of the other hand and stopped when he ran out of fingers. “No. The thing is, and I’m sure you’ll be the first to recognise this, your testimony will be extremely valuable.”

“Why? Are you putting me in the category of angry lovers?”

“I wouldn’t go that far, Senorita. But you did see him only hours before he, or someone else, fractured his skull.”

“Hours?” This time Julia really was disconcerted. “When did he die?”

“Three days ago. On Wednesday, between two in the afternoon and midnight.”

“That’s impossible. There must be a mistake.”

“A mistake?” the Inspector’s expression had changed. He was looking at Julia with open distrust now. “Certainly not. That’s the pathologist’s verdict.”

“There must be a mistake. An error of twenty-four hours.”

“Why do you think that?”

“Because on Thursday evening, the day after my conversation with him, he sent me some documents I’d asked him for.”

“What sort of documents?”

“About the history of the painting I’m working on.”

“Did you receive them by post?”

“No, by messenger, that same evening.”

“Do you remember the name of the company?”

“Yes. Urbexpress. And it was on Thursday, around eight o’clock. How do you explain that?”

The policeman emitted a sceptical sigh from beneath his moustache.

“I can’t. By Thursday evening, Alvaro Ortega had already been dead for twenty-four hours, so he couldn’t have sent them. Someone…” – Feijoo paused briefly to allow Julia time to take in the idea – “someone must have done it for him.”

“Someone? But who?”

“The person who killed him, if he was killed that is. The hypothetical murderer. Or murderess.” He looked at Julia with some curiosity. “I don’t know why we always immediately assume it was a man who committed a crime.” Then he had an idea. “Was there a letter or a note accompanying the documents supposedly sent by Alvaro Ortega?”

“No, just the documents. But it is logical to think he sent them. I’m sure there’s been some mistake.”

“There’s no mistake. He died on Wednesday, and you received the documents on Thursday. Unless the company delayed delivery…”

“No, I’m sure about that. It was dated the same day.”

“Was there anyone with you that evening?”

“Two people: Menchu Roch and Cesar Ortiz de Pozas.”

The policeman seemed genuinely surprised.

“Don Cesar? The antiques dealer on Calle del Prado?”

“The same. Do you know him?”

Feijoo hesitated before nodding. He knew him, he said, through his work. But he did not know that Julia and Cesar were friends.

“Well, now you know.”

“Yes, now I know.”

The policeman tapped his pen on the desk, suddenly uncomfortable, and with good reason. As Julia learned the following day from Cesar, Inspector Casimiro Feijoo was far from being a model police officer. His professional relationship with the world of art and antiques allowed him to supplement his police salary at the end of each month. From time to time, when a consignment of stolen goods was recovered, some of it would disappear through the back door. Certain trusted intermediaries participated in these operations and gave him a percentage of the profits. And, it being a small world, Cesar was one of them.

“Anyway,” said Julia, who still knew nothing of Feijoo’s background, “I suppose having two witnesses proves nothing. I could have sent the documents to myself.”

Feijoo merely nodded, but his eyes betrayed a greater degree of caution, as well as a new respect, which, as Julia understood later on, had a purely practical basis.

“The truth is,” he said at last, “this whole business seems very odd.”

Julia was staring into space. From her point of view, it was no longer merely odd; it was beginning to take on a sinister edge.

“What I don’t understand is who could possibly be interested in whether I got those documents or not.”

Biting his lower lip again, Feijoo took a notebook from a drawer, his moustache appeared flaccid and preoccupied. He was obviously less than enthusiastic to find himself embroiled in this matter.

“That,” he murmured, reluctantly making his first notes, “that, Senorita, is another very good question.”

She stood on the steps of the police station, aware that the uniformed man guarding the door was watching her with some curiosity. Beyond the trees on the other side of the Paseo, the neoclassical facade of the Prado Museum was lit by powerful spotlights concealed in the nearby gardens, amongst the stone benches, statues and fountains. It was raining, a barely perceptible drizzle, but enough for the lights of the cars and the relentless green-to-amber-to-red of the traffic lights to be reflected on the asphalt surface of the road.