Robert Wilson: The Ignoranceof Blood

'I'm glad.'

'I wanted to ask you about Abdullah,' said Pablo.

'He had to have twelve stitches in his shoulder…'

'Would he be interested in helping us?'

'You? How could he help you? He's been exposed.'

'Maybe and maybe not,' said Pablo. 'I just wanted to know how he'd feel about, you know, playing the game.'

'That letter has left him a lot to think about,' said Falcon.

'And you, Javier?'

'Me?' said Falcon. 'The amateur?'

'Think about it,' said Pablo, and hung up.

Falcon went to the window, looked out over the car park in the late evening light. House martins were ducking and diving, weaving in and out, scribbling the air with their antics. He felt empty and immensely lonely. Police work did this to him. When it was all over there was nothing left but disappointment. Mystery gone, quest terminated. All that remained was an overwhelming sense of loss and pointlessness.

As he stared into the inane ranks of cars, each within their neat lines of demarcation, he found himself searching for a reason. And what came to him was an image that had first come to him as he'd driven back from Fes: Yacoub in the middle of the ocean on a small boat in complete darkness, with the power of sacrifice in his hands to rescue his son from fanatics and, in doing so, restore some nobility to the human race.

He sat and let the world grow dark around him until Ferrera knocked, leaned in and told him that Elvira's car was ready. He went down, got into the back seat with the Comisario, who handed him the press release and his statement. He read them and looked out at the lights of the city and the faceless people going about their business.

The press conference was packed. It hadn't heaved like this since the day Comisario Lobo had announced that Calderon had been found trying to dispose of his wife's body in the Guadalquivir river and was being replaced as the instructing judge in the Seville bombing.

The long tedious process started. Everybody had to have their say and bask a little in the afterglow of success: Lobo, Elvira, the mayor. Normally, the Juez Decano Spinola would have been there, but, given the circumstances, that did not seem appropriate. Falcon tuned out of the proceedings, looked back at the avid faces staring up at him, blinked at the flash photography. His turn came. It was the last word, but in this case, the least important. He read Elvira's prepared statement and then added his own:

'Nobody in this room should forget that everything that has been said here today could only come about as a result of some extraordinary and, in many cases, unpaid dedication, from people who are unknown, never seen and rarely heard. They work tirelessly, under dangerous circumstances, to keep the people of Seville safe, removing murderers and gangsters from the streets so that men, women and children can live in this city without fear. For once, I think, their names should be heard. They are: Inspector Jose Luis Ramirez, Sub-Inspector Emilio Perez, Detective Julio Baena, Detective Carlos Serrano and Detective Cristina Ferrera. And I'd like to thank them all.'

He sat down. Comisario Elvira was annoyed at the departure from the script. A couple of journalists clapped, four more joined in and then the room rose as one and applauded the unseen and the unheard. Elvira smiled and basked in some partially deserved adulation.

As they filed into the mayor's private rooms where drinks were being served, Falcon asked for a quick word with Comisario Elvira. It lasted a matter of two minutes, they parted and rejoined the gathering. A dinner had been planned afterwards and Falcon was duly invited, but he politely declined. The powers that be were quite glad about that. The presence of the taciturn Inspector Jefe seemed to imply some unspoken criticism.

Falcon went home. He showered and changed. Abdullah declined Consuelo's dinner invitation. It would be a celebration and he was still in mourning. Falcon drove out to Santa Clara, where they had a family dinner. Consuelo's sister's family were there as well. It was a welcome home for Dario. Consuelo had baked him a cake. It felt like his birthday. They ate and drank. People left. Others went to bed. At a little after one in the morning Consuelo and Falcon lay naked in each other's arms, their contours smoothed out by a light sheet.

'I want you to come and live with me, Javier,' said Consuelo.

'I will,' said Falcon. 'But it might have to be somewhere different.'

'What's wrong with here?'

'Nothing,' he said. 'It's just that tonight I resigned as Inspector Jefe del Grupo de Homocidios de Sevilla.'

'Did you jump or were you pushed?'

'I jumped,' he said.

'That's a big jump. When did you decide?'

'It first occurred to me when we drove back after that night with the Russians. Then, when I went out to kill Mustafa Barakat, I realized how much I'd changed and that I couldn't do the work any more,' he said. 'You should be happy. I know you never liked it.'

'I can't pretend I'm sad,' she said. 'What are you going to do with yourself?'

'I haven't got that far.'

'Sell your house. Live on the proceeds. Paint?'

'Maybe I'll learn how to sail a yacht,' he said, squeezing her shoulder, '… so you'll still have me.'

'We could live by the sea in Valencia,' she said. 'The estate agent called again today.'

'I can already smell the paella on the beach.'

And, rather than thoughts of the future, he remembered what he'd done before coming out that night. He'd found that dried husk of a plant skulking in its dark corner under the gallery, taken it by the scruff of the neck and marched it to the bin.