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

He stood in her kitchen with a coffee and toast drizzled with olive oil. His legs felt brand new, straight out of the factory. He didn't have even the scintilla of a hangover and yet three bottles of Basque rioja stood empty by the bin. Still he looked at her wordlessly, with big, risky things going through his head.

'I'd like to see you again,' he said.

'I'm glad we've got that out of the way,' she said. 'Since the invention of the mobile phone women haven't had to spend the day waiting, but now we know for certain that he didn't call.'

'You'll have to tell me how I can fit into your life,' he said.

'Yours is more complicated than mine.'

'You have children.'

'They're going away.'

'You'll follow them.'

'Later in August.'

'I have no control over my time at the moment,' he said. 'Something happens and I have to react.'

'Then call me when you have some time to spare,' she said. 'Unless… it's all taken up talking to your lawyers about Manuela so that you can't have dinner with me.'

He smiled. He was falling in love with her humour, her directness. He told her his idea about selling the house to Manuela and what Isabel Cano had advised.

'Take her advice,' said Consuelo. 'The best you can expect from Manuela is respect, and you get that by driving a hard bargain. I'll say this once, Javier, and then it's finished. You can listen or ignore. Get a valuation on the house, offer her a private sale less the agent's commission, and give her a week to respond before you put it on the open market.'

He nodded. This was what he needed in his life – simplification. He pulled her to him, kissed her through the smell of coffee and toast.

It was 9.30 a.m. He called Ramírez on his mobile.

'Have you made an appointment to see Carlos Vázquez this morning?' asked Falcón.

'What about the search warrant from Juez Calderón?'

'I couldn't get hold of him,' said Falcón. 'And I checked his office last night.'

'Then we'll just have to try and talk it out of Vázquez,' said Ramírez. 'I'll call you when I've set up the meeting with him. I've just put Sergei's face up on the computer – national and international.'

Falcón called Alicia Aguado to ask her if he could pick her up and bring her out to Santa Clara to meet Pablo Ortega later that morning. On the way back into town Ramírez told him that Vázquez would be in his office until midday. Falcón took down the address and said he'd meet him there in fifteen minutes.

He took a call from Cristina Ferrera.

'Nadia's gone,' she said. 'Two guys came round last night and picked her up and they didn't bring her back.'

'Has that happened before?'

'She's always back in the apartment by five or six in the morning,' said Ferrera. 'What do I do?'

'Unless there's someone who's prepared to give you a detailed description of the two guys – which I doubt – there's nothing you can do,' said Falcón.

Carlos Vázquez's offices were in the Edificio Viapol in a soulless part of the city on the edge of San Bernardo. Ramírez was waiting for him at the entrance. They went up in the lift. Ramírez stared into the side of his face.

'What are you looking at, José Luis?'

'You,' he said, grinning. 'I heard it in your voice. Now I've seen you in the same clothes you were wearing yesterday, it's confirmed.'

'What, exactly?' he said, thinking he'd be able to brazen this out.

'I am the expert,' said Ramírez, holding his huge fingers to his chest, nearly offended by his boss's effrontery. 'I can tell, even over the phone, that you've finally come to the end of a drought.'

'What drought?'

'Is it true… or am I a liar?' said Ramírez, laughing. 'Who is it?'

'I don't know what you're talking about.'

Ramírez's big, dark, mahogany face took up Falcón's vision. The individual rails of the Inspector's black pomaded hair stood out pin sharp.

'It wasn't la americana, was it? I've heard about her from Felipe and Jorge. They said she'd leave a man as hollow as a spare suit.'

'I think we should concentrate on what we're going to say to Carlos Vázquez, José Luis.'

'No, no, no, she's not the one. La americana is Juez Calderón's latest squeeze.'

'Who did you hear that from?' said Falcón. 'The guy's just announced his engagement, for God's sake.'

Ramírez laughed, a mirthless guffaw. The lift stopped. They went into Vázquez's offices to be confronted by a large painting of an abstract city-scape – vague lights and building outlines coming through fog. It struck Falcón that this was the sort of piece that Ramon Salgado might have sold.

'I'll lead this discussion,' said Falcón. 'I don't want you to instigate anything, because I know things you don't, José Luis. It's important.'

'And I know things you've never even thought about,' said Ramírez.

Falcón wanted to know what those things were, but one of Vázquez's junior lawyers was already on top of them. They were shown into Vázquez's office, which had a view of the back of the buildings on Calle Balbino Marron. Vázquez asked them to sit down while he continued to read through a document. There was a large map of Seville behind him on which the locations of various projects were shown in different coloured squares. Vázquez threw the papers in an out-tray and sat back. Falcón introduced Ramírez and Vázquez took an instant dislike to him.

'So I'm getting the full weight of the homicide squad,' he said.

'That painting in your reception area,' said Falcón. 'Who's it by?'

'That's an interesting question,' said Vázquez, lost for a moment.

'He likes to get warmed up first,' said Ramírez, smiling.

'It's by a German called Kristian Lutze. I understand it's an abstract of Berlin. He's done another one of

Cologne which hangs in the foyer of Vega Construcciones.'

'How did you and Sr Vega acquire them?'

'Through an art dealer here in Seville called Ramon Salgado. He… of course, you know, he was murdered.'

'How did Sr Vega know Ramon Salgado?'

Ramírez slumped in his chair, bored.

'I don't know,' said Vázquez.

'Not through you?'

'I have to confess that it's not really my interest. It was a gift from Rafael,' said Vázquez. 'I like cars.'

'What sort of cars?' asked Ramírez.

They looked at him. He shrugged.

'Can I smoke?' he asked.

Vázquez nodded. Ramírez lit up, sat back, hands behind his head.

'Is this social,' asked Vázquez, annoyed, 'or something else?'

'Sr Vega was running two projects with Russian partners,' said Falcón. 'Vladimir Ivanov and Mikhail Zelenov.'

'They aren't strictly partnerships,' said Vázquez. 'Vega Construcciones was contracted by two Russian clients to provide technical help. They were being paid for architectural plans, site engineers, gang supervisors and some equipment. On completion of the structure Vega Construcciones were also to be involved in the interior planning – air conditioning, electrics, lift installation, plumbing… that kind of thing.'

'These are unusual projects for Vega Construcciones,' said Falcón. 'Normally they do all the physical work while the partners supply the necessary finance and… in recent times, as far as I know, they've always retained a controlling percentage in the projects.' 'That's true.'

'Who owned the land on which the two Russian projects were being built?'

'The Russians themselves. They came to Rafael with the proposal,' said Vázquez. 'They are not Seville-based. Sr Zelenov has had some projects in Marbella and Sr Ivanov is in Vilamoura in the Algarve. It was easier for them to contract the work out than start up their own companies.'

'Are they linked, these Russians?' asked Falcón. 'Do they know each other?'

'I… I don't know.'

'So you dealt with them separately?' said Falcón.