The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

'Ah, yes, yes, the people… business.'

'I have a question. There are two Russians who are connected to my investigation into the death of Sr Vega, the constructor – you remember?'

Silence. He shouted Montes's name.

'I'm waiting for the question,' Montes said.

'Do the names Vladimir Ivanov and Mikhail Zelenov mean anything to you?'

Concentrated nasal breathing came over the ether.

'Did you hear me?' asked Falcon.

'I heard you. They don't mean anything to me, but my memory is not what it should be. I've had a couple of beers, you see, and I'm not at my best tonight.'

'We'll talk Monday then,' said Falcon, and hung up.

Falcon had a strong sense of circling, as if he was a bird of prey high up in the thermals and there were things going on down in the terrestrial world that could be of interest. He leaned against the roof of his car, tapping his forehead with his mobile. It was unusual for Montes, a married man, to be drunk early on a Friday evening in a crowded bar, probably alone. Was that an evasive reaction to the two names? Had he seemed drunker at the end of the conversation than he was at the beginning?

Ortega buzzed him into his stinking, flyblown courtyard. He wasn't as edgy as he'd been on the phone because he'd reached the affable stage of drunkenness. He was wearing a voluminous white shirt untucked over blue shorts. He offered Falcon a drink. He himself was sipping from a massive glass of red wine.

'Torre Muga,' he said. 'Very good. Would you like some?'

'Just a beer,' said Falcon.

'A few prawns with your beer?' he asked. 'Some jamon… Iberico de bellota? I bought it today in the Corte Ingles.'

Ortega went to the kitchen and came back fully supplied.

'I'm sorry I was sharp with you on the phone,' he said.

'I shouldn't be bothering you with these things on a Friday night.'

'I only go out at the weekend if I'm working,' said Ortega, who had been completely smoothed out by the excellence of the Torre Muga. 'I'm a very bad member of the audience. I see all the techniques. I never lose myself in the play. I prefer reading books. I'm sorry if I'm rambling, this is my second glass and, as you can see, they are quite some glasses. I must find a cigar. Have you read a book by… it'll come to me.'

He found the cigar box amongst the clutter.

'Cohibas,' he said. 'I have a friend who goes to Cuba regularly.'

'No, thank you,' said Falcon.

'I don't give away my Cohibas easily.'

'I don't smoke.'

'Take one for a friend,' said Ortega. 'I'm sure even cops have friends. As long as you don't give it to that cabron Juez Calderon.'

'He's not a friend,' said Falcon.

Ortega slipped the cigar into Falcon's top pocket.

'Glad to hear it,' he said, moving off. 'A Heart So White. That was the book. Javier Marias is the author. Have you read that?'

'Some time ago.'

'I don't know how I could forget the title. It's from Macbeth, of course,' said Ortega. 'After Macbeth has killed the king he returns with the bloody daggers, which he is supposed to have left in the servants' quarters. His wife is furious and tells him he has to go back. He refuses and she has to go. When she returns, she says:

''My hands are of your colour; but I shame To wear a heart so white.'

'Her guilt at this stage is only a colour and not yet a stain. She is ashamed of her innocence in the matter. She wants a share in his guilt. It's a wonderful moment because, of course, by Act V it's 'out damned spot' and 'all the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this little hand'. Why am I telling you this, Javier?'

'I have no idea, Pablo.'

Ortega took two huge gulps of red wine, which leaked out of the corners of his mouth. Drops of red appeared on his white shirt.

'Hah!' he said, looking down at himself. 'You know what that is? That is a filmic moment. This only happens in the movies, never in real life. Like… oh, come on, there must be hundreds… I can't think now.'

'The Deer Hunter.'

'The Deer Hunter?'

'A couple get married before the guy goes off to be a soldier in Vietnam. They drink out of a double cup and the wine spills on her bridal dress. It prefigures

'Yes, yes, yes. It prefigures something terrible,' said Ortega. 'An embarrassment at dinner. Extra bleach in the washing. Awful, awful things.'

'Can I show you these photographs?'

'Before I lose all visual-oral linkage you mean?'

'Er… yes,' said Falcon.

Ortega roared with exaggerated laughter.

'I like you, Javier. I like you very much. I don't like many people,' he said, and stared out into the dark lawn, the unlit swimming pool. 'I don't like… anybody in fact. I've found the people I've dealt with in my life… lacking. Do you think that's something that happens to celebrities?'

'Fame attracts a certain type of person.'

'Fawning, obsequious, deferential, flattering sycophants.'

'Francisco Falcon hated them. They reminded him of his fraudulence. They reminded him that the only thing he wanted more than fame was real talent.'

'We want people to love us for what we are not, for what we pretend to be… Or in my case all those people I've pretended to be,' said Ortega, who was becoming more dramatic by the moment. 'I'm wondering if, at my death, I'll drop to the floor and, like a mad Touretter, all the characters I've ever portrayed will pour out of me in a compressed babble to silence, leaving only a husk to be blown here and there in the wind.'

'I don't think so, Pablo,' said Falcon. 'You've got a lot to lose to become a husk.'

'I'm just layers,' he said, not listening. 'I remember

Francisco said: 'The truth about an onion, Pablo, is nothing. You tease open that last bit of onion skin and that's what you find – nothing.''

'Well, Francisco was a man who knew his onions,' said Falcon. 'Human beings are a little more complicated. You tease them open -'

'And what do you find?' said Ortega, looming over Falcon, anxious with anticipation.

'That we're defined by what we hide from the world.'

'My God, Javier,' said Ortega, sucking in a vast quantity of Muga. 'You should try some of this wine, you know. It's really very, very good.'

'The photographs, Pablo.'

'Let's get that out of the way.'

'When you told me you saw two Russians going into Sr Vega's house on Noche de Reyes, were these the men?'

Ortega took the shots and went to hunt down his spectacles.

'I haven't seen your dogs tonight,' said Falcon.

'Oh, they're asleep, those two, all curled up in their pug fug. It's a good life… the canine one,' said Ortega. 'I never showed you my collection, did I?'

'Another time.'

'I am not defined by what I hide, but what I show to the world,' said Ortega, his arm