Robert Wilson - The Blind Man of Seville

‘She toughed it out,’ said Ramírez.

‘You’ll go back to her though, won’t you?’ said Calderón.

In the quiet that followed their nods Falcón gave Calderón a short report about his discussion with Lobo on the level of corruption in the building of Expo ‘92 and Raúl Jiménez’s involvement. He mentioned the warning he was given by the Comisario.

‘If there’s corruption associated with this murder I have to be free to talk about it,’ said Calderón, eyes alight, suddenly the crusading judge.

‘You are, of course,’ said Falcón. ‘But there are some sensitive issues here and important people, who, even if they’re clean, might not like the associations. You remember who was in those photographs from your side: Bellido and Spinola, to name two.’

‘It’s ten years old, anyway,’ said Calderón, idealism instantly doused.

‘That’s not so long to hold a grudge,’ said Falcón, and the two men looked at him as if he might be holding several simultaneously.

Falcón gave a report on his conversation with Consuelo Jiménez and handed over the print-out of the address book, mentioning that the killer had stolen Raúl Jiménez’s mobile. Calderón ran his finger down the list. Ramírez yawned and lit another cigarette.

‘So what you’re saying,’ said Calderón, ‘is that despite that terrible scenario the killer left in the apartment, despite all the interviews and statements so far … we actually have no definite leads?’

‘We still have Sra Consuelo Jiménez as the prime suspect. She is the only one with defined motive and she has the means to execute it. Eloisa Gómez is a possible accomplice to a murderer acting on his own.’

‘Or not,’ said Calderón. ‘The killer could still be paid for by Sra Jiménez and, if that’s the case, I’m sure she wouldn’t want to draw attention to herself by giving the killer his own key. She would have told him to find his own way in.’

‘And he’d use the prostitute or the lifting gear?’ asked Ramírez. ‘I know what I’d do.’

‘If he used the girl to get in why would he film her?’ asked Calderón. ‘That doesn’t make sense. It makes more sense the other way round — to show us how brilliant he is.’

‘There’s possibilities and improbabilities in both scenarios,’ said Falcón.

‘Do you both have Sra Jiménez down as a serious candidate for having her husband killed?’

Ramírez said yes, Falcón no.

‘Which way do you want to take the case, Inspector Jefe?’

Falcón cracked his knuckles one by one. Calderón winced. Falcón didn’t want to have to come clean just yet about what his instinct was telling him. He needed more time to think. There were enough extraordinary things about this case already without him suggesting that they take a look at what had happened to Raúl Jiménez in the late 1960s. But he was the leader and as such he had to have the ideas.

‘We should work on both scenarios and on Raúl Jiménez’s address list,’ he said. ‘I think we have to maintain a presence in and around the building to try to find a witness who will corroborate one theory of the killer’s entry and possibly give us a description. We need to interview the removals company. And we should keep the pressure up on both Consuelo Jiménez and Eloisa Gómez.’

There was no argument from Calderón.

They were driving back to the Jefatura on Blas Infante. Ramírez was at the wheel. As they crossed the river to the Plaza de Cuba, the advertisement for Cruzcampo beer triggered a sudden parched quality to the Inspector’s throat. He wouldn’t mind one, he thought, but not with Falcón. He wanted to drink with somebody more convivial than Falcón.

What do you think, Inspector Jefe?’ he asked, jerking Falcón out of his reflection on how awkward his first meeting with the young judge had been.

‘I think more or less what I said to Juez Calderón.’

‘No, no, I don’t think so,’ said Ramírez, tapping the steering wheel. ‘I know you, Inspector Jefe.’

That turned Falcón in his seat. The idea that Ramírez had the first idea on how his mind worked was nearly laughable to him.

‘Tell me, Inspector,’ he said.

‘You were telling him things while you were thinking something else,’ replied Ramírez. ‘I mean, you know that going through that address book is going to be as big a waste of time as, say, interviewing those kids that Sra Jiménez fired.’

‘I don’t know that,’ said Falcón. ‘And you know that the basics have to be done. We have to be seen to be thorough.’

‘But you don’t think there’s a connection, do you?’

‘I’ve an open mind.’

‘This is the work of a psychopath and you know it, Inspector Jefe.’

‘If I was a psychopath and I enjoyed killing people, I wouldn’t choose an apartment on the sixth floor of the Edificio Presidente with all the complications it-entailed.’

‘He likes to show off.’

‘He’s studied these people. He’s got to know his target. He’s been specific,’ said Falcón. ‘He will have seen them visiting their new house. He will have seen the removals people coming to the apartment …’

‘We need to talk to them first thing tomorrow,’ said Ramírez. ‘Missing overalls, that sort of thing.’

‘It’s Viernes Santo tomorrow,’ said Falcón. Good Friday.

Ramírez pulled into the car park at the back of the Jefatura.

‘Motive,’ he said, getting out of the car. ‘Why are you taking the bitch out of the frame?’

‘The bitch?’

‘Those boys I spoke to, the ones who were glad to get away from Consuelo Jiménez, they didn’t have a good word to say about her personally, but professionally, they said she was brilliant.’

‘And that’s unusual in Seville?’ said Falcón.

‘It is for that kind of woman, the wife of a rich husband. Normally they don’t like to get their hands dirty and they’ll only talk to the Marqués y Marquesa de No Sé Que. But Sra Jiménez, apparently, did everything.’

‘Like?’

‘She washed salad, chopped vegetables, cooked revuel-tos, waited at table, went to the market, paid the wages and kept the books, and she did the talking and the greeting, too.’

‘So what’s your point?’

‘She loved that business. She made it her business. The new place they opened in La Macarena — that was her idea. She made all the drawings, supervised the building of the interiors, decorated it, found the right staff — everything. The only thing she didn’t touch was the menu, because she knows that people go there for the menu. Simple, classic Sevillano dishes done to perfection.’

‘You sound as if you’ve been there?’

‘Best salmorejo in Seville. Best pan de casa in Seville. Best jamón, best revueltos, best chuletillas … best everything. And reasonable, too. Not exclusive either, although they always keep a table for the toreros and other idiots.’

Ramírez shouldered through the door at the back of the Jefatura, held it open for Falcón and followed him up the stairs.

‘Where are you taking me on this?’ asked Falcón.

‘How do you think she’d react, say, if her husband decided to sell the business?’ asked Ramírez, which stopped Falcón mid step. ‘I didn’t bring it up in front of Calderón, because I’ve only got those two boys’ word for it.’

‘Now I’m glad it was you who talked to them,’ said Falcón. ‘What did I just say about the basics?’

‘You still won’t get me to work through that address book,’ said Ramírez.

‘So these boys saw Raúl Jiménez talking to somebody?’

‘Have you heard of a restaurant chain called Cinco Bellotas run by a guy called Joaquín López? He’s young, dynamic and he’s got good backing. He’s one of the few people in Seville who could buy and run Raúl Jiménez’s restaurants tomorrow.’