Читать книгу The Silent and the Damned - Robert Thomas Wilson, Robert Wilson - Страница 9

Wednesday, 24th July 2002

Consuelo Jiménez opened the door to Javier Falcón and led him down the corridor to her L-shaped sitting room overlooking a manicured lawn, whose greenness was lurid in the bleaching sunlight. The water in the blue pool, with its necklace of white tiles, trembled against its confinement pushing silky rhomboids towards the garden house, whose walls and roof were blasted by purple bougainvillea.

Falcón stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors with his hands clasped behind his back, feeling self-consciously official. Consuelo sat on the sofa dressed in a tight cream silk skirt and a matching blouse. They were tense but oddly comfortable with each other.

‘Do you like bougainvillea?’ she asked.

‘Yes,’ he said, without thinking, ‘it gives me hope.’

‘I’m beginning to find it trite.’

‘Perhaps you see too much of it here in Santa Clara,’ said Falcón. ‘And framed by these windows it looks like a painting that says nothing.’

‘I could have a man endlessly diving naked into the pool and call it my Hockney vivant,’ she said. ‘Can I get you anything? I’ve made some iced tea.’

He nodded and looked at her figure as she went to the kitchen. His blood stirred at the sight of the muscles in her calves. He glanced around the room. There was a single painting on the wall of a large cerise canvas with a dark blue widening stripe diagonally across it. The surfaces of tables and a sideboard contained photographs of her children – individuals and grouped. Apart from a dark blue sofa which turned a right angle with the L-shaped room and an armchair there was little else. He turned back to the facile garden thinking that she’d mentioned Hockney because this barrio, in the incessant sunshine, was much more like California than Andalucía.

Consuelo Jiménez handed him an iced tea and pointed him into the armchair. She lounged on the sofa, nodding her foot at him, her low-heeled sandal hanging from her toes.

‘It doesn’t feel like Spain out here,’ said Falcón.

‘You mean we’re not falling over each other like a basket of puppies.’

‘It’s quiet.’

They sat in silence for a moment – no traffic, no church bells ringing, no whistling, no handclapping down the streets.

‘Double-glazing,’ she said. ‘And I live with noise all the time in the restaurants. I live my Spanish life three times over while I’m there so when I’m out here it’s like…the afterlife. I’d have thought you’d be the same, doing what you do.’

‘I prefer to be in the midst of things these days,’ said Falcón. ‘I’ve done my time in limbo.’

‘I’m sure in that massive house of your father’s you don’t exactly feel in…I mean, not your father…Sorry.’

‘I still refer to Francisco Falcón as my father. It’s a forty-seven-year habit which I haven’t been able to break.’

‘You’ve changed, Inspector Jefe.’

‘Call me Javier.’

‘Your style is different.’

‘I cut my hair. I’ve given up suits. There’s been a relaxation of standards.’

‘You’re not so intense,’ she said.

‘Oh, I am. I’ve just realized that people don’t like it, so I hide it. I’ve learnt to keep smiling.’

‘I had a friend whose mother gave her the advice: “Keep moving, keep smiling.” It works,’ said Consuelo. ‘We live in an age of glibness, Javier. When was the last time you had a serious conversation?’

‘I have them all the time.’

‘With someone other than yourself.’

‘I’ve been seeing a clinical psychologist.’

‘Of course you have, after what you’ve been through,’ she said. ‘But that’s not conversation, is it?’

‘Very little of it,’ he said. ‘Sometimes it’s like an absurd self-indulgence, other times vomiting.’

She snatched at the cigarettes on the table, lit one up and sank back satisfied.

‘I’m annoyed with you,’ she said, pointing at him with the lit cigarette. ‘You never called me and we were supposed to have dinner…remember?’

‘You moved house.’

‘Does that mean you tried?’

‘I haven’t had much time,’ he said, smiling.

‘Smiling doesn’t work with me,’ she said. ‘I know what it means. You’ll have to learn some new strategies.’

‘Things have been coming to a head,’ he said.

‘In the therapy?’

‘Yes, that, and I have legal problems with my sister Manuela. My half sister.’

‘She’s the acquisitive one, I seem to remember.’

‘You’ve read all the scandal.’

‘You’d have to have been in a coma to avoid it,’ she said. ‘So what does Manuela want?’

‘Money. She wanted me to write a book about my life with Francisco, including all the journals, and my take on the murder case that brought it all to light. Or rather she wanted me to work with her journalist boyfriend, who would ghost the book for me. I refused. She got angry. Now she’s working on proving that I’m not the rightful heir to Francisco Falcón’s house, that I am not his son…You see how it goes.’

‘You have to fight her.’

‘She has very different mental processes. She thinks how Francisco used to think, which was probably why he never liked her,’ said Falcón. ‘She’s a manipulator and a public relations expert which, combined with her energy, ambition and wallet, is lethal.’

‘I’ll buy the dinner.’

‘It’s not that bad. It’s just something that adds to the background pressure of life.’

‘What you need is some foreground pleasure, Javier,’ she said. ‘That brother of yours, the bull breeder, Paco. Is he any help to you?’

‘We get on well. There’s been no change there, but this kind of thing is not his strength. He needs Manuela, too. She’s his vet and one word to the authorities about any possible threat of BSE in his herd and he’d be finished.’

‘You are remarkably sane.’

‘Thank you,’ he said, and decided not to tell her that it was probably the drugs.

‘But, having disdained it, I now think you are in need of some glibness and fun.’

Silence. Falcón tapped his notebook. A sad inevitability compressed her lips. She smoked it away.

‘Bring on the questions, Inspector Jefe,’ she said, beckoning him to her.

‘You can still call me Javier.’

‘Well, Javier, at least you’ve learnt a few things.’

‘Like what?’

‘How to ease somebody…or rather how to ease a suspect, into an interrogation.’

‘Do you think you’re a suspect?’ he asked.

‘I’d like to be one so that we can relive the detective/suspect dynamic,’ she said drily.

‘And how do you know it was murder?’

‘Why are you here, Javier?’

‘I investigate any death that is not by natural causes.’

‘Did Rafael die of a heart attack?’

Falcón shook his head.

‘So it’s murder.’

‘Or a suicide pact.’

‘Pact?’ she said, stubbing out the cigarette. ‘What pact?’

‘We found Sra Vega dead upstairs, suffocated by her pillow.’

‘Oh my God,’ she said, looking over her shoulder. ‘Mario.’

‘Sr Vega had drunk a litre of drain cleaner, which was probably either boosted or poisoned, or he’d taken pills beforehand. We’ll have to wait for the Médico Forense’s report.’

‘I can’t believe it.’

‘You mean you didn’t think he was the suicidal type?’

‘He appeared so connected to life. His work, the family…especially Mario. He’d just bought a new car. They were going away on holiday…’

‘Was Sr Vega there when you called last night about Mario?’

‘I spoke to Lucía. I assumed he was there but I don’t know.’

‘Where were they going on holiday?’ asked Falcón.

‘Normally they go to El Puerto de Santa María but this time they thought Mario was old enough so they’d rented a house in La Jolla near San Diego and they were going to take him to Sea World and Disneyland.’

‘Florida would have been closer.’

‘Too humid for Lucía,’ she said, lighting another cigarette and shaking her head, staring at the ceiling. ‘We’ve got no idea what goes on in people’s heads.’

‘His lawyer didn’t mention any of this.’

‘He might not have known about it. Rafael was the type who kept his life compartmentalized. He didn’t like overlaps, one thing bleeding into another. Everything had to be separate and in its place. I got all the holiday stuff from Lucía.’

‘So he was a control freak?’

‘Like a lot of successful businessmen.’

‘You met him through Raúl?’

‘He was very supportive after Raúl was murdered.’

‘He let Mario sleep over?’

‘He liked my boys, too.’

‘Was it a regular thing, Mario sleeping over?’

‘At least once a week. Normally on a weekday night or over the weekend in the summer when I have more time,’ she said. ‘The only thing he wouldn’t allow was for Mario to go in the pool.’

‘Surprising that Sr Vega didn’t have a pool.’

‘There was one there but he filled it in and turfed it over. He didn’t like them.’

‘Did anybody else know about the arrangement with Mario?’

‘They might have if they were nosey enough,’ she said. ‘Don’t you find all this incredibly tedious, Javier?’

‘In my experience it’s through the minutiae of everyday life that you find out about how people really live. The small details lead to bigger things,’ he said. ‘Some years ago I was beginning to find it dull, but now, strangely, I find it quite riveting.’

‘Since you restarted your own life?’

‘Sorry?’

‘I didn’t mean to be so intrusive.’

‘I’d nearly forgotten…but that’s your style, isn’t it, Doña Consuelo?’

‘You can dispense with the Doña, Javier,’ she said. ‘And I’m sorry. It was a thought that should have remained a thought.’

‘I come across a lot of people who think things about me,’ he said. ‘Because of my story I’ve become public property. The only reason I don’t get accosted more is that people have too many questions. They don’t know where to start.’

‘All I meant was that, from my own experience, when the foundations of your life collapse it’s the everyday things that begin to matter. They hold things together,’ she said. ‘I’ve had a lot of rebuilding to do myself since we last met.’

‘New life, new home…new lover?’ he asked.

‘I deserved that,’ she said.

‘It’s just my job.’

‘But was that a personal inquiry or solely for the purposes of your investigation?’

‘Let’s say both,’ said Falcón.

‘I have no lover and…if this is where you’re leading to, Rafael was not interested in me.’

He played that back in his mind and found no nuances.

‘Let’s get back to the minutiae,’ he said. ‘When did you last speak to the Vegas?’

‘I spoke to Lucía at about eleven p.m. to tell her that Mario had fallen asleep and I’d put him to bed. There was some mothers’ talk and that was it.’

‘Was it any longer than usual?’

Consuelo blinked as her eyes filled. Her mouth crumpled around the cigarette. She spat the smoke out, swallowed hard.

‘It was the same as always,’ she said.

‘She didn’t ask to speak to the boy or…’

Consuelo leaned forward, dug her elbows into her thighs and wept. Falcón got to his feet, went to her and gave her a handkerchief. He patted her between the shoulder blades.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘The minutiae lead to bigger things.’

He took the cigarette from her hand and crushed it out in the ashtray. Consuelo recovered. Falcón returned to his chair.

‘Since Raúl’s death I get very emotional about children. All children.’

‘It must have been hard for your boys.’

‘It was, but they showed remarkable resilience. I think I felt more for their loss than they did. It’s surprising the route that grief takes,’ she said. ‘But now I find myself constantly pledging money to kids who’ve been orphaned by AIDS in Africa, to children who’ve been exploited in India and the Far East, to street children in Mexico City and São Paulo, the rehabilitation of boy soldiers…It just pours out of me and I have no idea why this should suddenly have happened.’

‘Didn’t Raúl leave some money to Los Niños de la Calle, the street children charity?’

‘I think it was something deeper than that.’

‘Guilt money for…Arturo? That son of his who was kidnapped and never seen…’

‘Don’t start me off again,’ she said. ‘I can’t stop thinking about that.’

‘OK. Something else,’ he said. ‘Lucía has a sister in Madrid, doesn’t she? She should be able to look after Mario.’

‘Yes, she’s got two children, one who’s Mario’s age. I’ll miss him,’ she said. ‘Losing your father is bad enough, but to lose a mother as well is a catastrophe, especially at that age.’

‘You adapt,’ said Falcón, feeling the stab of his own experience. ‘The survival instinct hasn’t been undermined. You accept love from wherever it comes.’

They stared at each other, minds orbiting around the concept of the parental void, until Consuelo went to the bathroom. As the taps ran Falcón slumped back in his chair, already exhausted. He had to find the stamina for this work again or perhaps try to find new ways of keeping the worlds he pried into at a distance.

‘So what do you think happened in that house last night?’ said Consuelo, face repaired.

‘It looks as if Sr Vega smothered his wife and then killed himself by drinking a bottle of drain cleaner,’ said Falcón. ‘Official cause of death will be established later. If the scenario is as it appears we’ll expect to find pillow material under Sr Vega’s fingernails…that sort of thing, which will give us –’

‘And if you don’t?’

‘Then we’ll have to look deeper,’ said Falcón. ‘We’re already…puzzled.’

‘By the new car and the fact he was going on holiday?’

‘Suicides rarely advertise what they’re about to do. They carry on as normal. Think how many times you’ve heard the relatives of victims say, “But he seemed so calm and normal,”’ said Falcón. ‘It’s because they’ve made up their minds and it’s given them some peace at last. No, we’re puzzled by the scenario and by the strange note.’

‘He wrote a suicide note?’

‘Not exactly. In his fist he had a piece of paper on which was written in English “…the thin air you breathe from 9/11 until the end…”’ said Falcón. ‘Does that mean anything to you?’

‘Well, it’s not explaining anything, is it?’ she said. ‘Why 9/11?’

‘One of the forensics said he was probably bankrolling al-Qaeda,’ said Falcón. ‘As a joke.’

‘Except…aren’t we being led to believe that anything is possible these days?’

‘Did Sr Vega seem unstable to you in any way?’

‘Rafael seemed to be completely stable,’ said Consuelo. ‘Lucía was the unstable one. She was a depressive, with occasional bouts of manic compulsive behaviour. Have you seen her wardrobe?

‘A lot of shoes.’

‘Many of them were the same design and colour, as were her dresses. If she liked something she’d buy three straight off. She was on medication.’

‘So, if he was in crisis, given his nature, he would be unlikely to turn to anyone outside the family and he wouldn’t have been able to talk to his wife.’

‘The restaurant business has taught me not to judge people’s lives from the outside. Couples, even crazy ones, have ways of communicating, some of which are not attractive, but they work.’

‘What about their domestic situation? You saw that, too.’

‘I did, but a third party always changes the dynamics. People start behaving.’

‘Is that a general or specific observation?’

‘I meant it specifically but it can be applied generally,’ she said. ‘And that felt like the second time you’ve tried to insinuate that I might have been having an affair with Sr Vega.’

‘Did it?’ said Falcón. ‘Well, I didn’t mean to be specific. I was just thinking that under those stressful circumstances a lover might have been a possibility, and that would have changed mental and marital landscapes.’

‘Not Rafael,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘He’s not the type.’

‘Who is the type?’

She tapped a cigarette on the box, lit it and blew smoke at the glass.

‘Your Inspector Ramírez is the type,’ she said. ‘Where is he, by the way?’

‘He’s taken his daughter to have some medical tests.’

‘Not serious, I hope.’

‘They don’t know,’ said Falcón. ‘But you’re right about Ramírez, he was always a player…combing his hair for the secretaries in the Edificio de los Juzgados.’

‘Maybe the work he did gave him an eye for the vulnerable,’ she said. ‘That’s another definition of the type.’

‘But not, apparently, Rafael Vega. The Butcher.’

‘You said it. That’s a pastime that really doesn’t go with lovemaking: “Do you want to see my latest cuts?”’

‘What did you make of all that?’

‘I used him. His beef always tasted better. Almost all the steaks served in my restaurants are cut by him.’

‘And psychologically…?’

‘It ran in the family. I don’t think it’s any more than that. If his father had been a carpenter…’

‘Of course, some spare-time cabinet making. But butchery…?’

‘It gave Lucía the creeps, but then…she had her sensitivities.’

‘She was squeamish, as well?’

‘Squeamish, nervous, depressed, unable to sleep. She used to take two sleeping pills a night. One to knock her out and then another when she woke up at three or four in the morning.’

‘Bulletproof windows,’ said Falcón.

‘She needed total silence to sleep. The house was hermetically sealed. Once you were inside there was no sense of the outside world. No wonder she was a little crazy. Sometimes when she opened the door I expected a rush of air as if the pressures were different inside.’

‘In a world of glibness and fun she doesn’t sound like much fun,’ said Falcón.

‘There you go again, Javier. That’s number three,’ she said. ‘Anyway, she was glib. She used the material and the trivial to hold her life together. She found relationships complicated. Even Mario could be too much for her at times, which was why she was so happy for him to come over here. But that’s not to say he wasn’t the focus of her life.’

‘So how did Sr Vega fit into his family?’

‘I don’t think they were expecting a child. I didn’t see them much at that time, but I seem to remember it was a shock,’ she said. ‘Anyway, a marriage changes after a child. Perhaps you’ll find that out for yourself one day, Javier.’

‘You pretend not to understand what I’m doing but you know I have to do this. I have to look for the weaknesses and vulnerabilities in a situation,’ said Falcón, sounding oversensitive even to himself. ‘My questions can be ugly, but then it’s not so nice to have a double murderer out there leaving a crime scene to look like a suicide pact.’

‘It’s OK, Javier, I can take it,’ said Consuelo. ‘Despite the attractions of the detective/suspect dynamic I’d rather you eliminated me from your inquiries with whatever ugly questions you have to ask. I have a good memory and I did not enjoy being accused of Raúl’s murder.’

‘Well, these are just the preliminaries. I’m hoping for some harder facts on which to base my suspicions about the way in which the Vegas died. So you’ll be seeing me again.’

‘I look forward to it.’

‘How did you get into the grounds of the Vegas’ house?’

‘Lucía gave me the code to open the gate.’

‘Did anybody else know that?’

‘The maid. Probably Sergei. I’ve no idea, but the Krugmans’ garden butts on to the Vegas’ and there’s a gate at the bottom, so they would have access. As for Pablo Ortega, I don’t know.’

‘Sergei?’ said Falcón. ‘You said he was a Russian or Ukrainian. That’s a bit unusual.’

‘Even you must have noticed the number of Eastern Europeans around these days,’ said Consuelo. ‘I know it’s wrong, but I think people prefer them to Moroccans.’

‘What do you know about Madeleine Krugman?’

‘She’s friendly in the way that Americans are…immediately.’

‘You could say the same of the Sevillanos.’

‘Perhaps that’s why we get so many Americans here every year,’ said Consuelo. ‘I’m not complaining, by the way.’

‘She’s an attractive woman,’ said Falcón.

‘Rafael’s never had it so good in your eyes,’ she said. ‘Anyway, all men think Madeleine Krugman is attractive – even you, Javier. I saw you looking.’

Falcón flushed like a fifteen year old, grinned and ran through a range of displacement activity. Consuelo gave him a sad smile from the sofa.

‘Maddy knows her power,’ she said.

‘So she’s the femme fatale of the barrio?’ asked Falcón.

‘I’m trying to edge her out,’ said Consuelo, ‘but she’s got a few years on me. No. She just knows that men melt around her. She does her best to ignore it. What’s a girl supposed to do when everybody from the gas man to the fishmonger to the Juez de Instrucción and the Inspector Jefe de Homicidios seem to have lost control of their lower jaws?’

‘What about Sr Krugman?’

‘They’ve been married a long time. He’s older.’

‘Do you know what they’re doing here?’

‘Taking a break from living in America. He works for Rafael. He’s designing, or has designed, a couple of his projects.’

‘Were they taking a break after 9/11?’

‘That happened while they were here,’ she said. ‘They were living in Connecticut, he was working in New York and I think they just got bored…’

‘Children?’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Have you been to any social occasions there?’

‘Yes…Rafael was there, too.’

‘But not Lucía?’

‘Too much for her.’

‘Any observations?’

‘I’m sure he was probably interested in the idea of having sex with her because that’s what travels through every man’s brain when they see Maddy Krugman, but I don’t think it happened.’

There was a loud bellow from upstairs, the terrible noise of an animal in pain. It shot up Consuelo’s spine and jerked her to her feet. Falcón scrambled out of his chair. Feet rumbled down the stairs. Mario in a pair of shorts and shirt came running down the corridor. He had his arms held out from his puny body, his head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth open in a silent scream. The famous war photograph of the napalm attack on a Vietnam village snapped into Falcón’s mind but not focused on the central figure of a naked Vietnamese girl running down the road. It was on the boy in front of her, his black mouth stretched open, crammed full of horror.