Robert Wilson - The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

'What do you do with your time?'

'Yes, well, I spend an uncomfortable amount of it inside my own head. More than I should or want to.'

'What did you do last night?'

'I got drunk on my own. A bad habit, I know. I fell asleep right here and woke up freezing cold from the air conditioning at five in the morning.'

'When I asked you about visitors to the Vegas, I didn't mean anything

'Look, the only regulars I saw were Lucia's parents and the tough bitch from across the road who used to take care of the kid occasionally.'

'The tough bitch?'

'Consuelo Jiménez. You don't want to cross her, Javier. She's the kind that only smiles when she's got a man's balls in a vice.'

'You've had some disagreements?'

'No, no, I just recognize the type.'

'What type is that?' asked Falcón, unable to resist the question.

'The type that doesn't like men but is unfortunately not a lesbian and finds they have to go to men for their demeaning sexual needs. This leaves them in a permanent state of resentment and anger.'

Falcón chewed the end of his pen to stop himself smiling. It sounded as if the great Pablo Ortega had offered his outstanding services and been rebuffed.

'She likes children, that one,' said Ortega. 'She likes little boys running around her legs. The more the better. But as soon as they grow hair…'

Ortega grabbed a great tuft of his white chest hair and flicked his head up in disdain. It was a perfect cameo, in which male foolishness and female pride met in the same body. Falcón laughed. Ortega basked in the acclaim from his audience of one.

'You know,' he said, topping up his glass with Cruzcampo, offering it to Falcón who refused, 'the best way to meet women?'

Falcón shook his head.

'Dogs.'

'You have dogs?'

'I have two pugs. A big, burly male called Pavarotti and a smaller, darker-faced female called Callas.'

'Do they sing?'

'No, they crap all over the garden.'

'Where do you keep them?'

'Not in here with my collection all over the floor. They'll cock their leg over a masterpiece and I'll do something unforgivable.'

'Your collection?'

'You don't think I live in this sort of mess all the time? I had to move my collection in here when the cesspit cracked,' said Ortega. 'Anyway, let me finish with the dogs. Pugs are the perfect way to start talking to a lone woman. They're small, unthreatening, a little ugly and amusing. Perfect. They always work with women and children. The children can't resist them.'

'Is that how you met Consuelo Jiménez?'

'And Lucia Vega,' he said, winking.

'Perhaps you don't realize this… I should have made it clear… Sra Vega has been murdered.'

'Murdered?' he said, getting to his feet, beer spilling into his lap.

'She was suffocated with her pillow…'

'You mean he killed her and then himself? What about the boy?'

'He was at Sra Jiménez's house at the time.'

'My God… this is a tragedy,' he said, going to the window, thumping it with his fist and looking out into the garden for some reassurance.

'What you were saying about Sra Vega… You didn't have an affair with her, did you?'

'An affair?' he said, terrible things now occurring to him. 'No, no, no que no. I just met her on that little bit of park, walking the dogs. She's not really my type. She was rather fascinated by my celebrity, that was all.'

'What did you talk about?'

'I don't remember. I think she'd seen me in a play or… What did we talk about?'

'When did this happen?'

'March some time.'

'You winked when you mentioned her name.'

'That was just some ridiculous braggadocio on my part.'

Falcón's pen hovered over his notebook. He was running some memory footage of fifteen months ago through his mind. The photographs that Raúl Jiménez had hanging on his wall behind his desk in the apartment in the Edificio Presidente. Celebrities who'd dined at his restaurants, but also the people from the town hall, the policemen and the judiciary. And that was where he'd seen Pablo Ortega's face before.

'You 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.'