'What does that mean exactly?'
'It means what I've just said. I've introduced single women to Esteban before and he's had affairs with… some of them.'
'I was wondering if you meant that you had an arrangement, like some sort of informal pimping service,' said Falcon mildly, but with calculated aggression.
'I resent that, Inspector Jefe.'
'Then clarify the understanding you had with your cousin for me.'
'I'm younger than him. I'm not married. I meet young, available women…'
'But what is the understanding? Has anything ever been said between the two of you about what you're doing?'
'As you said yourself, Inspector Jefe, my job is to know what people like.'
'In that case, what was your purpose, Senor Spinola?'
'My purpose, Inspector Jefe, is to build up favours in all walks of life, so that in my own, or the mayor's, crucial moments I can call on people for support,' said Spinola. 'Local politics is only pretty on the surface, and the surface is very important. Nobody ever asks for a bribe. Nobody ever asks for a nice young chick to blow him under his desk. I have to know, and then I have to make it look as if I didn't, so that we can still look at each other at the next party.'
Spinola had taken the first round by a whisker. Falcon stood up. He went to the door, reached for the handle. Spinola lifted his feet off the drawer, shoved it in.
'You might not have heard, Senor Spinola,' said Falcon. 'Marisa Moreno was murdered last night. They used her own chain saw on her. Cut off her hand. Cut off her foot. Cut off her head.'
The small triumph disappeared from Spinola's face and what was left behind was not sorrow or horror but a very live kind of fear.
16
Consuelo's house, Santa Clara, Seville – Monday, 18th September 2006, 16.15 hrs
Consuelo had found an old mobile phone, but with a flat battery, which she was now recharging. She reckoned half an hour would give her enough juice. Voices reached her from downstairs. She was nervous about making the call in the house. If something happened and she had an emotional reaction, they would hear her and that might affect Dario's safety.
The patrolman at the front door did not move as she passed him. She saw that his head was resting on the wall. He was asleep. In the kitchen, the sound man and the family liaison officer were having one of those endless Sevillano conversations about everything that had ever happened to them and their families. Consuelo made some coffee, served them and took her own into the living room. She watched the second patrolman sitting by the pool. He was slumped in his chair. It was 40°C out there. He, too, must be asleep. Time leaked by until she could bear it no longer.
Back upstairs. The phone had recharged enough. She entered the phone number from the email into the memory, not sure, in her emotional state, that she could rely on her brain to remember it. She called the service provider and set up a pay-as-you-go account for twenty-five euros. She changed into some flat pumps, slipped back downstairs, past the first patrolman, past the kitchen and out through the sliding doors. She walked the length of the pool. The patrolman didn't move. At the bottom of the garden there was a rough break in the hedge where a gate led to the adjoining property. It was rusted and had never been opened as far as she knew. She vaulted over it and found herself at the back of her neighbour's pool house.
She called the number. It rang interminably. She breathed back her fear, apprehension and rampant agitation, but when the answer came it was still like cold steel in the stomach.
'Diga.'
Nothing came out of her paralysed throat.
'Diga!'
'My name is Consuelo Jimenez and I've been told to call this number. You're holding my -'
' Momentito.'
There was muffled talk. The phone changed hands.
'Listen to me, Senora Jimenez,' said a new voice. 'Do you understand why we have taken your son?'
'I'm not sure who you are.'
'But do you understand why your son has been taken from you?'
Put like that she nearly broke down.
'No, I don't,' she said.
'Your friend, Javier Falcon, the inspector -'
'He is not my friend,' she said, blurting it.
'That's a pity.'
She wasn't sure why he should have said that: sad because they'd split up, or a shame because he could be useful?
'You need friends at a time like this,' said the voice.
'Why do I need him?' she asked. 'He is the cause of all this.'
'It's good that you understand that much.'
'But I don't understand why you have taken my son because of his investigations.'
'He was warned.'
'But why my son?'
'I am in no doubt that you are a good person, Senora Jimenez, but even you, in your business, must understand the nature of pressure.'
'The nature of pressure,' she said, her mind blank.
'Direct pressure is always met with resistance. However, indirect pressure is a much more complicated business.'
Silence, until Consuelo realized that her response was required.
'And you want me to apply… some indirect pressure. Is that it?'
'There was a car accident on the motorway between Jerez and Seville a few days ago in which a Russian named Vasili Lukyanov was killed,' said the voice. 'Inspector Jefe Falcon was put in charge of this accident because there was a lot of money in the boot – eight million two hundred thousand euros – and a number of disks, which contain footage of men and women in compromising situations. We would like the money and the disks returned to us. If you are successful in persuading Inspector Jefe Falcon to act for you, then no harm will come to your son. He will be released, you have my word on that. If, however, you decide to involve other agencies, or your old friend calls on other resources, then your son will still come back to you, Senora Jimenez, but piece by piece.'
The line went dead. Consuelo vomited a horrible bilious liquid that burned her throat and nostrils. She wheeled around under the big, white sky and fell back against the pool house, panting, sweat streaming down her face and neck. She wiped her nose, coughed, sniffed. Blurted out some more tears and frustration. Remembered the patrolman by the pool. Pulled herself together. She got back into her own garden. Slipped into the house. Up the stairs. She stripped and stood under the shower. The first solid thought to form in her mind was: had she just done something very stupid? 'Where are you?' asked Falcon.
'I'm with Inspector Ramirez at the Jefatura,' said Cristina Ferrera. 'We're typing up the report on Marisa Moreno.'
'Did you get anything apart from the paper suits?'
'A witness. A twenty-three-year-old woman saw three men in Calle Bustos Tavera, but she's a bit hazy about the time. She thought it was around midnight, which probably sounds about right. She was going home early, felt sick in a club on La Alameda.'
'Did she get a good look?'
'She lost her nerve, didn't like the… not so much the look of them, because she couldn't see much down there at night. It's unlit. But she didn't like the feel of the situation. She made a detour to avoid them.'
