The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

by Robert Wilson

  'My God,' said Falcón.

  'Allah is great, you mean. Inspector Jefe,' said Marty.

  'We've seen from your wife's photographs that Sr Vega was in some sort of crisis that dated from the end of last year. This was confirmed by his doctor. Was there any difference in the way your talks developed around that time?'

  'He drank more,' said Marty. 'Sometimes he would pass out for a few minutes. I remember once going over to cover him with a blanket and, just as I reached him, his eyes opened and I could see he was very frightened. He started to plead with me as if he was a prisoner begging not to be taken away for torture, until he remembered who I was and where we were.'

  'Sr Ortega mentioned that he seemed very disappointed by the American concept of loyalty,' said Falcón. 'That they were your friends until they no longer had any use for you. Do you know where that came from?'

  'In business, I imagine. He never spoke about specifics. He took honour very seriously. He seemed to operate on a strict code, which seemed quite old- fashioned by modern standards. He was dismayed by the more practical American belief: honour's fine until you start losing money, then it all goes out the window.'

  'It sounded more personal than that. He wouldn't be such a successful businessman if he didn't have a more relaxed code of morality as far as money was concerned. There was a business aspect to his marriage arrangement. His code was such that, having given his word, he wouldn't leave his wife because of her mental state, but it was loose enough that he would marry to get his hands on the property in the first place.'

  'So, you tell me,' said Marty.

  Falcón flipped through his notes.

  'Pablo Ortega reported him as saying: "as soon as you stop making money for them or giving them information they drop you like a stone.'"

  'Well, that sounds weird, like some sort of corporate espionage. Money. Information. If he was into that

  I don't know where he'd expect to find honour in that world.'

  'Or was it politics?' said Falcón. 'Your conversations were primarily political.'

  'I can't think that politics would have any bearing on his death here in Seville.'

  'Do you know anything about the Russian investors in Sr Vega's projects?'

  'I know that there are some, but that's all. I'm just the architect. I do the drawings, I manage the practicalities, but I don't meet the investors. That happens at a higher level, a business level.'

  'These Russians are known mafiosi and we're pretty sure they're laundering money through Sr Vega's projects.'

  'It's possible. That's the nature of the construction industry. But I don't know anything about it. I'm on the creative side.'

  'Can you think of any reason why the Russians should want to kill Sr Vega?'

  'He was cheating on them? That's normally why you get killed by the mafia. But that will be difficult to prove.'

  'We've had threats,' said Falcón. 'Have you been threatened?'

  'Not yet.'

  If Marty Krugman was nervous he wasn't showing it to Falcón. The basketball pumps stayed up on the desk. He was relaxed.

  'Why did you leave America, Sr Krugman?' asked Falcón, moving into the third phase of his interview.

  'You've asked me that before.'

  'Your answer's going to be different now that Reza Sangari is out in the open.'

  'Then you already know the answer.'

  'I want to hear you tell it.'

  'We decided that if our relationship was going to survive we had to get away from the environment in which it started. We both love Europe. We thought a simple life together would bring us closer.'

  'But this isn't a simple life – big city, job, house in Santa Clara.'

  'We tried a small house in Provence to start with. It didn't work.'

  'And how has it been, working here?'

  'This is very personal, Inspector Jefe,' said Marty, 'but if you must know it's been going fine.'

  'You're nearly twenty years older than your wife. Has that ever presented any problems?'

  Marty shifted in his seat, the first sign he'd shown of any discomfort in the whole interview.

  'Maddy has an effect on men. A predictable and boring effect. The first connection I made with Maddy was up here -' he said, tapping his forehead. 'I surprised her and I still do. Now, you can call this syndrome whatever you like – father/daughter, teacher/pupil – but all I know is that it works and it will continue to work, because unlike all the other guys I'm not and never have been focused solely on her pussy.'

  'So what happened with Reza Sangari was… unpredictable,' said Falcón, feeling the tension build in the room.

  Marty Krugman sat back in his chair with his long artistic hands folded over his lean stomach. He fixed Falcón with his dark, embedded eyes and nodded.

  'Are you a jealous man, Sr Krugman?'

  Silence.

  'Does it annoy you to see your wife talking to other men, laughing with them, being interested in them?'

  More silence.

  'Was there something that surprised you after you discovered your wife's betrayal with Reza Sangari?'

  Marty frowned, searched his head. Leaned forward.

  'What is this something that you're talking about?'

  'That you, the intellectual, the political animal, the man of ideas and thoughts, could be… passionate?'

  'What happened between Maddy and Reza Sangari was what the French call un coup de foudre, a lightning strike that set something on fire and which burnt itself out. By the time somebody killed Reza Sangari whatever happened between him and Maddy was just smoke, ash and embers. That's the nature of passion, Inspector Jefe. It burns hard and fast and consumes too greedily for mere sex to keep it satisfied. So once the sex has run its course the passion flames out and, if you're lucky, you survive the fall.'

  'That's true if it was just sex,' said Falcón. 'But if it was something more…'

  'What are you trying to do here, Inspector Jefe?' said Marty. 'Your probes are in. I can feel them. They're hurting. They're stirring up memories that I'd rather let lie. But what are you getting out of it?'

  'Sr Vega used to take your wife to bullfights,' said Falcón, determined to drive his point home. 'How did you feel about that?'

  'If two intelligent people want to watch such a disgusting spectacle as the torment of a dumb animal, that is their business and they can do it without me.'

  'Your wife told me that she was surprised at how quickly she became accustomed to the sight of blood and the violence,' said Falcón. 'She perceived a sexual aspect to the drama.'

  Marty shook his head in disbelief.

  'Would you describe your marriage as quite open, Sr Krugman? By that I mean you don't appear to see the necessity of establishing yourself as a couple in society. You're quite happy for your wife to spend time with Sr Vega or other men. She was independent in Connecticut. She had her own work and freedom…'

  'What "other men"?' said Marty, opening his hands, welcoming the exchange.

  'Juez Calderón, for instance,' said Falcón.

  Marty blinked at the information. As the name slid cleanly into Krugman's mind, Falcón realized that this was news to him.

  'Maddy has different energies and pursuits to mine. She can sit by the river for hours taking photographs. That's her world. She also likes the street and bar life of Seville. I don't have time for that. She likes the animation and constant sense of theatre about the people. I am not someone who can bring that alive for her. Rafael was happy to show it to her, as I'm sure is the judge. I have no desire to stop her enjoying herself. To try would be destructive.'

  The words came out like a pre-prepared statement from an administration under pressure.

  Chapter 19

  Sunday, 28th July 2002

  In the morning Falcón was woken by a call from Ignacio Ortega, who he'd finally managed to contact late the previous night and who had now arrived in Seville. He wanted to visit his brother's house. They arranged to meet at mid
day.

  Falcón and Consuelo had a breakfast of huevos rancheros. She was still stunned after hearing about Pablo Ortega's death. The local news on the radio featured Ortega's suicide and an item about a massive forest fire, which had started last night and was now burning out of control near a town called Almonaster la Real in the Sierra de Aracena. Consuelo turned it off. She didn't need her Sunday ruined any more than it was.

  At midday Falcón crossed the road, let himself in to Pablo Ortega's garden and opened up the house. He turned on the air conditioning, shut the door to the room where Pablo had died and jammed a damp towel at its base in an attempt to reduce the terrible stink. He checked the fridge for beer.

  Ignacio arrived and knocked at the sliding doors. They shook hands. He looked younger than Pablo, but not by much. He was bald but hadn't made the drastic error of trying to plaster his still dark hair from one side over to the other, although the idea had possibly occurred to him. He was slimmer and fitter than his brother but had no presence whatsoever. This was a man who would disappear in a room and Falcón understood why he'd asked his brother to come to his business functions. He badly needed to borrow some charisma.

  Ortega apologized for ruining his Sunday but he'd felt a need to see the place where his brother had died. Falcón said he was going to be busy the following day and mentioned the identification of the body and where that would take place. They agreed a time. Falcón offered him a drink and they opened up a litre bottle of Cruzcampo from the fridge. The beer seemed to make Ignacio emotional. He had to wipe away tears and stare at the floor.

  'You were close,' said Falcón.

  'He was my only brother,' said Ignacio, 'but I didn't see much of him. He was a famous man travelling the world, while I sold and installed air-conditioning systems. Our paths didn't cross that often.'

  'You must have seen him more often since Sebastián's trial. He hasn't been working so much and there's been this problem with the house.'

  'That's true,' said Ortega, pulling out a pack of Ducados and lighting one. 'He'd been going through a rough time, but… I tried to help him with this problem. I sent someone round the other day. I can't believe… it just seems so strange that he's not here.'

  'I went to see Sebastián in prison yesterday,' said Falcón.

  Ignacio looked up with watery eyes as if he was going to get more information.

  'That was a difficult relationship,' he said. 'Father and son.'

  'Any reason for that?'

  'Our own father… he was a very difficult man.'

  'In what way?'

  'He'd had a hard life,' said Ignacio. 'We don't know what happened to him exactly. There was nobody left to tell us except him, and he never talked about anything. Our mother only told us that his village was caught up in the Nationalist advance during the Civil War and that the Moors did terrible things to people. As far as Pablo and I were concerned the worst thing they did was to let him survive.'

  'Pablo was the eldest?'

  'Our parents married the year the war ended and Pablo was born the year after that.'

  'And you?'

  'I was born in 1944,' he said.

  'Those were hard times in this part of the country.'

  'We had nothing… like everybody else had nothing. So it was hard, but nobody was alone in their poverty. That wouldn't explain why our father was so brutal with us. Pablo always bore the brunt of it. He said that it was those years dealing with our father that made him into an actor. It wasn't a great childhood. Pablo said it was why he never wanted kids.'

  'But he did,' said Falcón. 'And you?'

  'I've got two… they're grown up now,' he said.

  'Do they live in Seville?'

  'My daughter is married and lives in California. My son… my son is still here.'

  'Does he work with you?'

  'No,' said Ignacio, his mouth snapping shut, dismissing the notion.

  'What does he do?' asked Falcón, more to be polite than to intrude.

  'He buys and sells things… I'm not really sure what.'

  'You mean you don't see so much of him?'

  'He has his own life, his own friends. I think I represent something that he wants to rebel against… respectability or… I don't know.'

  'So what about Pablo's relationship with Sebastián? Was that coloured by the fact that he didn't want children in the first place?'

  'Is there a problem here?' asked Ignacio, squinting up from his glass of beer.

  'A problem?' said Falcón.

  'All these questions… very personal family questions,' said Ignacio. 'Is there some doubt about what happened here?'

  'Not what, but why it happened,' said Falcón. 'We're interested in what triggered your brother's suicide. It might have a bearing on another case.'

  'Which case is that?'

  'His next-door neighbour's.'

  'I heard about that. There was a piece about it in the Diario de Sevilla.'

  'You knew him, of course.'

  'I… I did know him,' said Ignacio, faltering as if this was not something he immediately wanted to admit. 'And I read there was some doubt about what had happened in his case… but I don't really see how Pablo's death could possibly be linked.'

  'Pablo knew him as well… through you.'

  'Yes, that's right, Pablo would occasionally come with me to functions in the years when I was trying to get the business off the ground,' said Ortega. 'So why do you think Pablo's suicide was connected to Rafael and Lucia Vega's death?'

  'I'm looking at it more from the point of view of strange coincidence at this stage,' said Falcón. 'Three people dead within days of each other in a small barrio like this. That's odd. Did one trigger the other? What were the pressures on Pablo in the lead up to his death'

  'For a start, I can tell you that Pablo couldn't kill a chicken. It was one of our father's abuses that he used to force him to do it.'

  'Rafael Vega drank, or was forced to drink, a bottle of acid.'

  'Pablo was a completely non-violent person,' said Ignacio.

  'So what do you think could have triggered your brother's fatal decision?'

  'There must have been a letter, surely?' said Ignacio.

  'The way it happened was that he and I arranged to meet here yesterday morning. He wanted me, as a professional, to find the body. There was a letter to me explaining that, and a short note to Sebastián.'

  'But nothing written to me?' said Ignacio, puzzled. 'What did he write to Sebastián?'

  'He said he was sorry and asked for his forgiveness,' said Falcón. 'Do you know why he should write something like that?'

  Ignacio coughed against some involuntary sobbing. He pressed the beer glass to his forehead as if trying to cram it into his brain. He broke out of it and hung his head, staring at the floor, as if he was thinking of something plausible to say.

  'He was probably sorry that he hadn't been able to show his son enough love,' said Ignacio. 'It's all tied up with our father. I think the same happened between me and my son. I failed him, too. Pablo used to say that damage was passed from generation to generation and it was difficult to break the cycle.'

  'Pablo had theories about this, did he?'

  'Because he read all these books and plays he had intellectual ideas about it. He said that it was an atavistic trait of fathers to make themselves unknowable to their sons in order to retain power in the family or tribe. Showing love weakened that position, so men's instincts were for aggression.'

  'Interesting,' said Falcón. 'But it avoids the issue, which is much more personal. Suicide is a personal matter, too, and most of the time in my job it doesn't matter why it happened, but in this case I want to find out.'

  'So do I,' said Ignacio. 'We all feel blame when something like this happens.'

  'That's why my questions have to be personal,' said Falcón. 'What can you tell me about Pablo's relationship with his wife – Sebastián's mother? He wasn't married before, was he?'

  'No, Gloria was his only
wife.'

  'When did they marry?'

  'In 1975.'

  'He was thirty-five.'

  'I told him he was leaving it too late,' said Ignacio. 'But he had a career, there were actresses, it was a lifestyle.'

  'There were lots of girlfriends before Gloria, then?'

  Ignacio's hand rasped against his face as he rubbed the nascent bristles. He glanced at Falcón, a quick shift of the eye whites. It lasted only a fraction of a second but it added to Falcón's unease about this man. He began to think that the reason Ignacio had come round here was not so much to mourn his brother or to help Falcón, but to find out how much was known. It nagged at Falcón's mind that Pablo hadn't written a note to his only brother.

  'There were a few,' said Ignacio. 'As I said, our paths didn't cross much. I was just an electrician and he was a famous actor.'

  'How did Gloria persuade him to have a child?'

  'She didn't. She just got pregnant.'

  'Do you know why she left Pablo?'

  'She was a little puta,' said Ignacio, some vicious- ness on his thin lips. 'She fucked around and then left the country with someone who would give her the fucking she wanted.'

  'Are those your own observations?'

  'Mine, my wife's, Pablo's. Anybody who met Gloria knew her for what she was. My wife saw it from day one. This was a woman who should not be married and she proved it by leaving everybody… including Sebastián.'

  'And Pablo brought up his son on his own?'

  'Well, he went away a lot, so a fair amount of the time Sebastián joined our family.'

  'Were your kids the same age?'

  'I got married young. Our kids were eight and ten years older,' said Ignacio.

  'So after Gloria left, you were Sebastián's father a fair amount of the time.'