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

He told her what Montes had explained to him about the manipulation of the boy's statement and Sebastián Ortega's refusal to defend himself.

'Well, that doesn't exactly renew my faith in the justice system,' she said. 'But I saw that glimmer of vanity in Juez Calderón when he was working on Raúl's case.'

'Did you see anything else in him?'

'Like what?'

'What we were talking about before… like, say, Ramírez.'

'You mean, on the lookout for opportunities?' she said. 'Well, I spotted him as unmarried and therefore a free agent.'

'Yes, I suppose that's different.'

'Oh, I see, you're asking me why, since he's announced his engagement to your little truth-seeker, is he sniffing around Maddy Krugman?'

'Is there such a thing as pre-marital infidelity?'

'He was there this afternoon,' she said. 'As you know, I don't keep regular hours. I'm here when most people are at work or, in the case of Juez Calderón, when he should be at work.'

'Was Marty there?'

'I assumed it was to do with the investigation into Rafael's death,' she said, shaking her head.

'That would not be normal procedure.'

'He doesn't seem the sort to give a shit about normal procedure,' said Consuelo. 'Anyway, why should it bother you? You're not still interested in Inés?'

'No, I'm not,' he said, as if to emphasize it to himself.

'Liar. Don't make the same mistake twice, Javier,' she said. 'I know it's a deeply ingrained human trait, but it should be resisted, because all the pain that was there the first time round will be present and correct the second time round… and then doubled.'

'I keep hearing from women with the powerful voice of experience.'

'Listen to them,' she said, standing up and slipping on her sandals. 'I'm going to give you some food now and I don't want any more talk about these fools in love or your investigation.'

She served jamon on toast with salmorejo, crostini of grilled red peppers with an anchovy fillet, gambas al ajillo, octopus salad and piquillo peppers stuffed with saffron rice and chicken. They drank a cold red Basque rioja. Consuelo ate as if she'd starved herself all day and Falcón found the appetite that the summer heat had previously suppressed.

'You are allowed that shameful final piquillo pepper,' she said, lighting a cigarette. 'There will now be a pause before the main course.'

'I read in a magazine review that you knew how to do everything in your restaurants,' he said.

'It's all simple stuff done well,' she said. 'I don't understand those restaurants with a menu the size of a novel but which can't cook any of the dishes properly. Never spread yourself too thinly… neither in life, nor in love.'

'I'll drink to that,' he said, and they clinked glasses.

'A question -' she said. 'Not about your investigation, but it is connected to what happened… before. It's something I think about every day since Raúl's past came out.'

'I know what you're going to ask.'

'You do?'

'I've thought about it myself.'

'Go on, then.'

'What happened to Arturo?' said Falcón. 'Is that it? What happened to Raúl's little boy?'

Consuelo came round the table and took his face in both her hands and kissed him hard on the lips. The voltage slammed through his spine and earthed itself down the chair legs.

'I knew it,' she said, and let him go, running her fingertips across his cheeks so that nerves flashed all over his body.

Falcón wondered if this physical invasion had changed him. He saw himself, hair frizzed and clothes smoking. He had the taste of her on his mouth. Things started up inside him, small bits of machinery which turned cogs and ran belts setting bigger wheels in motion, thrusting drive shafts forward, which were geared to pull back some vast unused piston, rusted into its chamber.

'Are you all right, Javier?' she asked as she reached her end of the table. 'I'll get the main course while you decide how we're going to find out what happened to Arturo Jiménez.'

He gulped down half a glass of wine which nearly choked him. Stay calm. Consuelo returned with two grilled pieces of steak an inch thick. Blood oozed from the meat into a potato confection and a salad. More Basque rioja was put in his hand and a corkscrew. He pulled the cork, poured the wine. He wanted to get her down on the floor amongst the chair legs, find out what was under the blue crepe. Stay calm. He watched her waist, hips, buttocks move around the table. His eyeballs felt hot. His cooling system was shot. She sat back down.

He drank. He was drunk.

'How are we going to find Arturo?' she asked, unaware of the turmoil on the other side of the table. 'I've never even been to Morocco.'

'We should go,' he said, the words out of his mouth before he could stop them.

'What are you doing this summer?'

'I'm free in September.'

'Then in September we shall go,' she said. 'The estate of Raúl Jiménez can pay the expenses.'

'This steak is fantastic.'

'Hand cut by Rafael Vega,' she said.

'My God, he knew what he was doing.'

'You're not concentrating,' she said.

'There's too much happening to me at once,' he said, slugging down more wine. 'I think I'm reaching critical mass.'

'Don't go off in here,' she said, 'I've just had the decorators in.'

He laughed, poured more wine.

'We should start a charity,' he said, 'which specifically looks for missing children.'

'There must be one already.'

'We'll use retired policemen. I know just the man. He's the Inspector Jefe of the Grupo de Menores and he's coming up for retirement.'

'Slow down, Javier,' she said. 'You're talking too much, you're eating too quickly, you're drinking like a fish.'

'More wine?' he asked. 'We need more wine.'

'You'll be drunk and incapable if

Their eyes met across the table and stuff that was far too complicated to be talked about was instantly understood. Falcón dropped his knife and fork. Consuelo stood up. They kissed. She pushed her hands up under his shirt. All sorts of personal hygiene matters tore through his brain. He eased the zipper down her back, ran his finger along the furrow of her spine and encountered no underwear. His thighs shuddered. Her hands found his back. Adrenalin careered around his system.

Steady on, he thought, or I won't have even got out of my trousers.

She saved him.

'Not here,' she said. 'I don't want la puta americana nosing around with her camera.'

She led him upstairs, holding him by the wrist.

'You know I haven't done this for a long time,' he said, following the two dimples in her lower back.

'Nor have I,' she said. 'Perhaps we should turn up the air conditioning.'

Saturday, 27th July 2002

In bed Consuelo Jiménez was as he had expected her to be – exciting, demanding and unrelenting. In one of the several cigarette breaks she'd revealed that this had been her first sex since she'd been with Basilio Lucena on the night her husband, Raúl, had been murdered. Since then she'd been concentrated on the children.

'I had an AIDS test, too,' she said, 'when I found out about Basilio's promiscuity. You know, I haven't had much luck…'

Falcón turned his head on the pillow to find her dark eyes close to him.

'It was negative,' she said.

This was how they'd talked, which had fascinated Falcón. He couldn't remember lying in bed with a woman and talking about anything and everything. Even in the two big relationships in his life, lying in bed had never been a time for honesty but for some acting role whose lines he wasn't sure of and a part he was not suited to.

They woke up early and stickily in the morning.

Consuelo took him off for a shower and soaped him up with her body so that he had to support himself on the glass doors. She took advantage of his arousal, thrusting down on him so that the whole structure shuddered. They dressed looking at each other.