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

'Who paid you the fifteen hundred euros to do this?' he asked.

'I don't know his name.'

'How do you know him? How does he know you?' asked Falcón. 'You don't ask just anybody to burn a house down. That's a serious thing, isn't it? There has to be some trust. You only trust people you know.'

Silence from Carlos as he swallowed hard.

'Are you afraid of this man?' asked Falcón.

Carlos shook his head.

'How old are you?'

'Thirty-three.'

'You're a Sevillano. You've never lived anywhere else?'

'That's right.'

'Still got friends from your childhood?'

'Pedro. Pedro's the only one.'

'You're the same age?'

He nodded, unable to think where this was going.

'When was the last time you saw your old childhood friend Salvador Ortega?'

Carlos was stunned. He sat there blinking, uncomprehending.

'I don't know anybody called Salvador Ortega,' he said.

Falcón felt something cold developing in his stomach.

'Was the name of the man who gave you fifteen hundred euros to burn down the finca Ignacio Ortega?'

Carlos shook his head. Falcón looked into his eyes and knew that he'd never heard that name before, that it inspired no fear, no dread and no horrific memories.

'Tell me the name of the man who paid you to burn down the finca. Speak clearly, please.'

'Alberto Montes.'

Falcón left the room and knocked on Ramírez's door. He leaned against the wall in the corridor feeling sick.

'You got him already?' asked Ramírez, closing the door.

'I didn't get the right result, though,' said Falcón. 'I should have thought this out properly. I've been believing in my own stupid instinct too much. He's just named Alberto Montes.'

'Joder,' said Ramírez, thumping the wall.

'And now it's all fallen into place,' said Falcón. 'This is precisely what Montes would have done. He'd panic, or his self-disgust would finally get the better of him, or both, and he'd just want to get rid of the problem. Burn the place down. Except… the whole sierra caught fire, thousands of hectares were destroyed. And he'd blown it again. That's why he jumped.

'The day I saw Ignacio Ortega I knew he was a cunning little bastard and I didn't think. He's on a different level. The reason why we're getting the pressure is that he's told those people to put pressure on us. He would never do anything as stupid and unsubtle as arson. He's gone straight to the top of his client list and told them to stop us dead, or face the consequences.'

Carlos and Pedro were sent back down to the cells without writing their statements. Falcón took the audio tape of Carlos's confession and kept it with him. He picked up Maddy Krugman's laptop from the evidence room. Ramírez went home. They reconvened at Falcón's house and copied the tape. It was grim viewing, but they realized it was the product of a secret camera hidden in the wall of one particular room. It featured only four clients. The businessman from Ramírez's barrio, a well-known defence lawyer, a TV presenter and an unknown.

'This is how the Russians get things done,' said Ramírez, as they packed everything away. 'I don't know why they do it. I'm not a clever lawyer or businessman and I can't think of any sexual excitement that would induce me to expose myself to such risk.'

'This isn't about sex,' said Falcón. 'This is about damage. Having had damage done to you, or doing damage to others. Sex is a long way from what's going on on that tape.'

'Whatever,' said Ramírez, pouring out another two beers. 'We've done this. We've made the copy of the tape. And now what? We're fucked, aren't we? This isn't going anywhere. As soon as it comes out that Montes paid the arsonists, we're dead in the water. We have to keep our mouths shut or they go through us with a hobnail enema.'

'Elvira gave me a lecture about not being too zealous in the pursuit of justice in this case,' said Falcón. 'Institutions are protected by powerful people who want to hold on to power and they will ensure that I never get what I want. But when you see something like this, and that finca out in the sierra, and you begin to understand the level of corruption that made it possible, I start thinking that maybe we should clear the whole lot out and start again. I've realized that I'm very naive when it comes to these elevated heights of operation.'

'Well, you know who that will include, if you want to clear out the old,' said Ramírez, tapping his chest. 'My past is not so sweet. I think that priest I confessed to aged a decade when he heard me out.'

'What are we talking about, José Luis? A few favours from hookers?'

'It's not good,' he said, shrugging. 'In this sort of atmosphere, nobody gets let off.'

'You're not in the same league as these people.'

'And you know what it is about these people?' said Ramírez, the beer hitting his empty stomach. 'That cabron from the barrio – he's successful, wealthy, has a couple of houses here, some more on the coast, a yacht, a speedboat, more cars than trousers, and yet he still wants more. You see, there's only so much lobster you can eat, only so much champagne you can drink, only so many pretty girls you can fuck for money… and then what?'

'The excitement of the forbidden fruit,' said Falcón. 'So, maybe I was wrong, before. Maybe it isn't about damage, at this level. Maybe it's about power. The power to do these things with impunity.'

'I'd better go. I can see where this evening is heading,' said Ramírez. 'But I tell you, once they get hold of the Montes shit, they're going to make sure we live in fear.'

'Did you see the printouts Cristina found of Marty Krugman?'

'I didn't recognize the guy he was talking to.'

'He's called Mark Flowers,' said Falcón. 'He's the communications officer at the American Consulate.'

'Hah! Not so crazy Krugman.'

'There's probably a very reasonable explanation for it.'

'They were lovers,' said Ramírez. 'Good night.'

Desperate for some good news, Falcón called Alicia Aguado and was glad to find her still elated after her session with Sebastián Ortega. The first big step had been taken. He'd revealed the extent of the sexual abuse he'd suffered at the hands of Ignacio Ortega. Despite the horror of what the boy had been through, the breakthrough had made her happy – the healing process had started. Falcón longed for that sort of job satisfaction. Instead, on nights like these, with the arrowroot stalks of fortune up in the air, he could only see his work as a desperate shoring-up of the breakdowns, a sticky plaster applied to the gourd-sized stinking abscess in the body of society. He wished her well and hung up.

He hid the video behind two locked doors in Francisco's old studio. Back in the study, he checked he had Krugman's house keys, the laptop, the printout of Mark Flowers, and his loaded revolver. He drove out to Santa Clara and parked his car in Consuelo's driveway. He went in to explain his night's work to her and she insisted on feeding him. She was not herself. She was listless, quiet, distracted, even depressed. She said she was missing her children, that she was worried about them even with the police protection, but there seemed to be something else as well. At 10.30 p.m. he walked across to the Krugmans' house, let himself in and went upstairs and put Maddy Krugman's laptop back in her work room. He went to the bedroom, switched off his mobile, lay down and dozed fitfully.

At two o'clock in the morning his eyes opened to a sharp click from downstairs. He waited and listened to the complete silence of a good thief at work. There was no sound for several minutes. Then a flashlight came on in the corridor outside the bedroom. He was a first- rate, methodical thief, not a cheap, rowdy one, prone to defecating on the floor. He went into Maddy Krugman's work room. There was a sound like a nylon zip opening as the thief booted up the laptop.