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

'Sr Ortega mentioned that he seemed very disappointed by the American concept of loyalty,' said Falcón. 'That they were your friends until they no longer had any use for you. Do you know where that came from?'

'In business, I imagine. He never spoke about specifics. He took honour very seriously. He seemed to operate on a strict code, which seemed quite old- fashioned by modern standards. He was dismayed by the more practical American belief: honour's fine until you start losing money, then it all goes out the window.'

'It sounded more personal than that. He wouldn't be such a successful businessman if he didn't have a more relaxed code of morality as far as money was concerned. There was a business aspect to his marriage arrangement. His code was such that, having given his word, he wouldn't leave his wife because of her mental state, but it was loose enough that he would marry to get his hands on the property in the first place.'

'So, you tell me,' said Marty.

Falcón flipped through his notes.

'Pablo Ortega reported him as saying: "as soon as you stop making money for them or giving them information they drop you like a stone.'"

'Well, that sounds weird, like some sort of corporate espionage. Money. Information. If he was into that

I don't know where he'd expect to find honour in that world.'

'Or was it politics?' said Falcón. 'Your conversations were primarily political.'

'I can't think that politics would have any bearing on his death here in Seville.'

'Do you know anything about the Russian investors in Sr Vega's projects?'

'I know that there are some, but that's all. I'm just the architect. I do the drawings, I manage the practicalities, but I don't meet the investors. That happens at a higher level, a business level.'

'These Russians are known mafiosi and we're pretty sure they're laundering money through Sr Vega's projects.'

'It's possible. That's the nature of the construction industry. But I don't know anything about it. I'm on the creative side.'

'Can you think of any reason why the Russians should want to kill Sr Vega?'

'He was cheating on them? That's normally why you get killed by the mafia. But that will be difficult to prove.'

'We've had threats,' said Falcón. 'Have you been threatened?'

'Not yet.'

If Marty Krugman was nervous he wasn't showing it to Falcón. The basketball pumps stayed up on the desk. He was relaxed.

'Why did you leave America, Sr Krugman?' asked Falcón, moving into the third phase of his interview.

'You've asked me that before.'

'Your answer's going to be different now that Reza Sangari is out in the open.'

'Then you already know the answer.'

'I want to hear you tell it.'

'We decided that if our relationship was going to survive we had to get away from the environment in which it started. We both love Europe. We thought a simple life together would bring us closer.'

'But this isn't a simple life – big city, job, house in Santa Clara.'

'We tried a small house in Provence to start with. It didn't work.'

'And how has it been, working here?'

'This is very personal, Inspector Jefe,' said Marty, 'but if you must know it's been going fine.'

'You're nearly twenty years older than your wife. Has that ever presented any problems?'

Marty shifted in his seat, the first sign he'd shown of any discomfort in the whole interview.

'Maddy has an effect on men. A predictable and boring effect. The first connection I made with Maddy was up here -' he said, tapping his forehead. 'I surprised her and I still do. Now, you can call this syndrome whatever you like – father/daughter, teacher/pupil – but all I know is that it works and it will continue to work, because unlike all the other guys I'm not and never have been focused solely on her pussy.'

'So what happened with Reza Sangari was… unpredictable,' said Falcón, feeling the tension build in the room.

Marty Krugman sat back in his chair with his long artistic hands folded over his lean stomach. He fixed Falcón with his dark, embedded eyes and nodded.

'Are you a jealous man, Sr Krugman?'

Silence.

'Does it annoy you to see your wife talking to other men, laughing with them, being interested in them?'

More silence.

'Was there something that surprised you after you discovered your wife's betrayal with Reza Sangari?'

Marty frowned, searched his head. Leaned forward.

'What is this something that you're talking about?'

'That you, the intellectual, the political animal, the man of ideas and thoughts, could be… passionate?'

'What happened between Maddy and Reza Sangari was what the French call un coup de foudre, a lightning strike that set something on fire and which burnt itself out. By the time somebody killed Reza Sangari whatever happened between him and Maddy was just smoke, ash and embers. That's the nature of passion, Inspector Jefe. It burns hard and fast and consumes too greedily for mere sex to keep it satisfied. So once the sex has run its course the passion flames out and, if you're lucky, you survive the fall.'

'That's true if it was just sex,' said Falcón. 'But if it was something more…'

'What are you trying to do here, Inspector Jefe?' said Marty. 'Your probes are in. I can feel them. They're hurting. They're stirring up memories that I'd rather let lie. But what are you getting out of it?'

'Sr Vega used to take your wife to bullfights,' said Falcón, determined to drive his point home. 'How did you feel about that?'

'If two intelligent people want to watch such a disgusting spectacle as the torment of a dumb animal, that is their business and they can do it without me.'

'Your wife told me that she was surprised at how quickly she became accustomed to the sight of blood and the violence,' said Falcón. 'She perceived a sexual aspect to the drama.'

Marty shook his head in disbelief.

'Would you describe your marriage as quite open, Sr Krugman? By that I mean you don't appear to see the necessity of establishing yourself as a couple in society. You're quite happy for your wife to spend time with Sr Vega or other men. She was independent in Connecticut. She had her own work and freedom…'

'What "other men"?' said Marty, opening his hands, welcoming the exchange.

'Juez Calderón, for instance,' said Falcón.

Marty blinked at the information. As the name slid cleanly into Krugman's mind, Falcón realized that this was news to him.

'Maddy has different energies and pursuits to mine. She can sit by the river for hours taking photographs. That's her world. She also likes the street and bar life of Seville. I don't have time for that. She likes the animation and constant sense of theatre about the people. I am not someone who can bring that alive for her. Rafael was happy to show it to her, as I'm sure is the judge. I have no desire to stop her enjoying herself. To try would be destructive.'

The words came out like a pre-prepared statement from an administration under pressure.

Sunday, 28th July 2002

In the morning Falcón was woken by a call from Ignacio Ortega, who he'd finally managed to contact late the previous night and who had now arrived in Seville. He wanted to visit his brother's house. They arranged to meet at midday.

Falcón and Consuelo had a breakfast of huevos rancheros. She was still stunned after hearing about Pablo Ortega's death. The local news on the radio featured Ortega's suicide and an item about a massive forest fire, which had started last night and was now burning out of control near a town called Almonaster la Real in the Sierra de Aracena. Consuelo turned it off. She didn't need her Sunday ruined any more than it was.