The Blind Man of Seville

p.m. which meant that he never saw her. The only evidence of her presence was the occasional note and her habit, annoying to him, of moving things around. The plant pots on the patio would suddenly be arranged in a different corner, small pieces of furniture would be removed to reappear in different rooms, effigies of the Virgen del Rocio would occupy previously vacant niches. His wife, his ex-wife, had been a great promoter of change, too.

‘We could make this room your snooker room,’ she’d said. ‘We could put a humidor there for your cigars.’

‘But I don’t smoke.’

‘I think it would be nice.’

‘And I don’t play snooker.’

‘You should try.’

These stupid conversations drifted back to him as he sat at his desk with his magnifying glass. Not the ridiculous antique Sherlock Holmes affair his wife had bought him for a birthday, which was too absurd for the Inspector Jefe del Grupo de Homicidios. This was a magnifying glass mounted on a perspex box that also shed light on to whatever he was observing.

He was going through the photographs he’d taken from Raul Jimenez’s desk. In front of him, leaning against a framed photograph of his mother holding him as a baby, flanked by his then seven-year-old brother Paco and five- year-old sister Manuela, were two other photographs side by side. The first was another shot of his mother, who was sitting on the beach with the wind in her hair, wearing a swimsuit and holding a bathing cap covered with rubber white-petalled flowers. It was her favourite informal photograph. On the back was written Tangier, June 1952. She had been twenty-five years old and it was impossible to believe, looking at her there, full of vitality, that she only had nine more years to live.

The second photograph was of his father — black hair swept back, a small pencil moustache, his nose too big for his young face, the mouth of a sensualist and the eyes. Even in black and white, the eyes were extraordinary. They looked as if they were used to seeing clearly over great distances and any received light would glow in the irises, which were green but turned to amber close to the pupil. In his eighties, after the first heart attack had weakened him, those green eyes still managed to hold the light in them. They were the eyes you’d expect an artist of his stature to have — observant, piercing and numinous. In the shot his father was wearing a white dinner jacket and a black bow tie. On the back was written New Year’s Eve, Tangier, 1953.

Falcon worked his way through the Jimenez photographs, furious at the poor quality of the prints. He wondered why the hell he was doing this. He had a habit of working tangentially, but this was absurd. There was no connection to the case. What difference would it make if he did see either of his parents in these photographs? What if they were in Tangier at the same time as Raul and Gumersinda Jimenez? So were 40,000 other Spaniards. As he built the argument against his illogical muddling so his fascination grew and it occurred to him briefly that he might just be getting old.

The yacht photographs, which were just shots of Raul Jimenez’s new toy, didn’t interest him until he came to one of the harbour full of boats and people partying on the decks. Jimenez and his wife and children were in the foreground. They looked happy. His wife was waving with the two kids over her knees giggling. Falcon shifted the magnifying glass up and along through the other boats lined up behind Jimenez’s. He stopped, slid back to a couple on the deck and dismissed the likeness. He carried on and then returned to the couple and realized why he’d dismissed them. It was his father and he was leaning on the ship’s rail of a yacht, much larger than Raul’s. He was with a woman whose face he could not see properly but who had blonde hair. They were kissing. It was a quick, private moment that the Jimenez photographer had inadvertently caught. He checked the back. Tangier, August 1958. Pilar, his mother, would still have been alive. He looked at the blonde woman more closely and was stunned to find that it was Mercedes, his father’s second wife. He felt nauseous and pushed the magnifying glass away. He pressed his palms into his eyes. That’s what happened when you went off on a tangent … you came across unexpected truths. It was the whole reason he did it.

The phone rang — his sister on a mobile in a packed bar.

‘I knew I’d find you at home if you weren’t at work,’ said Manuela. ‘What are you doing, little brother?’

‘I’m looking through some old photographs.’

‘Hey! Come on, grandpa, you’ve got to learn to live a little. We’re here in La Tienda for the next half-hour, come and have a cervecita with us. Then we’re going to dinner at El Cairo. You can come there too, if you bring your walking stick.’

‘I’ll join you for the cervecita.’

‘You do that, little brother. And one thing. One very important condition … ‘

‘Yes, Manuela?’

‘You’re not allowed to say the word “Ines”. OK?’

She hung up. He shook his head at the dead phone. Manuela’s bad psychology. He put on his jacket, straightened his tie, checked his pockets and found Raul Jimenez’s son’s address and telephone number. It was Viernes Santo tomorrow. The holiday. He tried the number just on the off chance. Jose Manuel Jimenez picked up the phone. Falcon introduced himself and offered his condolences.

‘I’ve already been informed,’ he said, about to put down the phone.

‘I just wanted to talk to you about —’

‘I can’t speak to you now.’

‘Perhaps we could meet tomorrow … for a short talk. It would be important for background detail.’

‘I really don’t see …’

‘I would come to Madrid, of course.’

‘There’s nothing to be said. I haven’t seen my father in years.’

That’s the point. I’m not interested in now.’

There’s really nothing.’

Think about it overnight. I’ll call again in the morning. It won’t take long and it would be a great help.’