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

'But you saw him again?'

'Twice. Two weeks after I got out I found the house where he worked. We just talked. He told me what had happened to him. The work he'd had to do on the building sites – dangerous work where men died – how much he hated Europe and wanted to get back to Lvov.'

'Did he tell you who he worked for?'

'Yes, I don't remember the name. It wasn't important. He was the owner of the construction sites where Sergei had worked.'

'When was the second time?'

'Wednesday morning he came to the apartment and told me to get my things… that we were leaving. He said that the man he worked for was dead on the floor of his kitchen and that he had to run.'

'Why did he have to run?'

'He said he didn't want to go back to the building sites. He said we had to be quick, that the police were going to come and he had to move very fast.'

'Did he have money?'

'He said he had enough money. I don't know how much that was.'

She blinked, tried to swallow but couldn't. She sipped the water. Ramírez gave her another cigarette.

'You didn't go?' said Falcón.

'I couldn't. I was too scared. He said goodbye and that was it.'

'Can you remember exactly what he said when he told you his employer was dead?'

She put her face in her hands, pressed the fingertips into her forehead.

'He just said he was dead.'

'Did he say he'd been murdered?'

'No… he was dead, that's all.'

'And since then – has anybody been to see you about Sergei?' asked Falcón.

She pointed at the bruises on her arms.

'They knew Sergei would come to see me,' she said. 'They held me down and did some things to me, but

I couldn't tell them anything. All I knew was that he had gone.'

She looked up at the clock, nervous.

'What did they ask you?'

'They wanted to know why Sergei had run and what he'd seen, and I told them that he'd only seen a dead man lying on the floor. That was it,' she said. 'Now I have to go.'

Falcón called Serrano in, but he'd already left and been replaced by Ferrera. He told her to get the girl back to the bar on Calle Alvar Nunez Caleza de Vaca in twenty-three minutes. Ramírez gave her his cigarettes. She grabbed the money, stuffed it down the front of her skirt and left.

The translator struggled to fill in the receipt, as if the last quarter of an hour had removed some of the purpose from her life. Ramírez reminded her of the confidentiality agreement she'd signed. She left. Ramírez smoked in silence, his legs braced on either side of his chair.

'It's our job to listen to that,' he said, 'and do nothing. That's what we're paid for.'

'Go and take a look at Alberto Montes,' said Falcón. 'He's had those stories up to here.'

'I don't know how your meeting went with Calderón this morning,' said Ramírez, 'but that has clarified one thing. We definitely have Russian mafia involvement in this case.'

He stubbed out his cigarette in the cheap tin ashtray. They walked back up to the office. Ramírez jangled his car keys.

'I'll put some men on the bus stations this afternoon, check the airport, send Sergei's photograph down to the ports and e-mail the Policía Judiciária in Lisbon,' said Ramírez, and left for lunch.

Falcón stood at the window. Ramírez appeared below him and walked the length of the main block of the Jefatura to his car. In the adjoining block of offices Falcón could see another man standing at his window looking down at the same dull scene – Inspector Jefe Alberto Montes. Falcón's mobile vibrated. Isabel Cano wanted to talk to him in her office sometime before 9 p.m. He said he would do his best and shut the phone down.

Montes opened his window and looked down the two floors into the car park. Falcón took another call. Consuelo Jiménez asked him to dinner that night at her house in Santa Clara. He agreed without thinking because he was so fascinated by Montes, who was now leaning out of the window, both elbows on the ledge. Nobody opened their window to 45°C heat in an air- conditioned office. Montes's head turned. He backed away and closed the window.

Falcón went home for lunch. The heat and Nadia's story had ruined his appetite, but he managed two bowls of chilled gazpacho and a chorizo sandwich. He spoke to Encarnación to find out if she'd let anybody in the house yesterday. She said she hadn't but that she had left the front doors open for an hour in the morning to try and circulate some air. He went up to bed and drifted off into a doze in which his mind played back disturbing versions of the day's interviews, which culminated with a view into a cell whose walls bore the faint, bloody prints of human hands. He dragged himself to the shower to wash away the appalling sense of dread that had accompanied the last image. The water poured through his hair and over his lips and the thought came to him that it was time to stop being the detective monk and to immerse himself in life.

On the way to the Jefatura he took a call from Alicia Aguado, who'd already listened to the Sebastián Ortega tapes. She was interested in talking to him if Pablo Ortega was happy and the prison authorities amenable.

Falcón told her about the discussion he'd had with Pablo Ortega that morning, how the actor had been reluctant to allow something that might result in the deterioration of Sebastián's already fragile state of mind.

'Well, there's bound to be some history between those two,' she said. 'Just as there was between Sebastián and his mother who abandoned him twice, in divorce and death. I'm sure Pablo Ortega knows that if his son is willing to talk to us they'll both end up on the couch. The expression he used – "stirring things up" – won't just be in his son's mind, and that will be making him uncomfortable. Perhaps I should meet him. He's probably got some fame paranoia and won't like it if just anybody starts rummaging about in his private thoughts.'

'I'm going out that way this evening. I'll drop in and see him again,' said Falcón.

'I'm free tomorrow morning, if he wants to have an informal meeting.'

From the car park of the Jefatura he could see that the offices of the Grupo de Homicidios were full. Everybody was reporting back after a long week on the hot streets. As he headed for the rear entrance he glanced up at Montes's office and found the man standing there at his window. His stomach was straining against his white shirt, his tie was down his chest. Falcón gave him a short wave. He did not react.

The noise coming from his office had the excitement of the impending weekend, August and the holiday season about it. The squad was about to lose Perez, Baena and Serrano for two weeks, which was going to mean a lot more footwork for the three left behind. He expected to find them all in shorts with cold beers in their hands in full readiness, but they were sitting on desk corners, smoking and chatting. Falcón stood at the door, smiling and nodding.

'Inspector Jefe!' shouted Baena, as if he was three beers ahead of the game.

Perez and Serrano gave extravagant salutes. He was going to have to wait until Perez came back from holiday before he tore a strip off him about failing to search the Vegas' garden properly.

'So the holidays have started,' said Falcón.

'We filed our reports,' said Perez. 'We spent the whole afternoon out at the bus stations and Santa Justa. Carlos even went out to the airport for you as a going- away present.'

'No Sergei?'

'The girl was as close as we got,' said Serrano.

'That guy's just going to disappear,' said Baena. 'I would if I had the Russian mafia chasing my ass.'

'Did you have any luck with the other residents of Santa Clara?'

'Hardly anybody was around,' said Perez. 'Cristina called all the private security companies and most of the people are away. Those we did interview had seen nothing.'