bell jar of her glamour, resumed.
‘She’s very beautiful, isn’t she?’ said Consuelo Jiménez, annoyed at her own need to draw attention back to herself.
‘Yes,’ said Falcón, ‘and quite different to the beauty we’re accustomed to around here. White. Translucent.’
‘Yes,’ said Consuelo, ‘she’s very white.’
‘Do we know where the gardener is?’ he asked.
‘He’s disappeared.’
‘What do we know about him?’
‘His name is Sergei,’ she said. ‘He’s Russian or Ukrainian. We share him. The Vegas, the Krugmans, Pablo Ortega and me.’
‘Pablo Ortega…the actor?’ asked Calderón.
‘Yes, he’s just moved here,’ she said. ‘He’s not very happy.’
‘That doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Of course, it was you, wasn’t it, Juez Calderón, who put his son in jail for twelve years?’ said Consuelo. ‘Terrible case that, terrible. But I didn’t mean that when I said…although I’m sure that’s a contributing factor. There’s a problem with his house and he finds the area a bit…dead after living in the centre of town.’
‘Why did he move?’ asked Falcón.
‘Nobody in the barrio would talk to him any more.’
‘Because of what his son did?’ said Falcón. ‘I don’t remember this case…’
‘Ortega’s son kidnapped an eight-year-old boy,’ said Calderón. ‘He tied him up and abused him over several days.’
‘But didn’t kill him?’ asked Falcón.
‘The boy escaped,’ said Calderón.
‘In fact it was stranger than that,’ said Consuelo. ‘Ortega’s son released him and then sat on the bed in the soundproofed room he’d prepared for the kidnap and waited for the police to arrive. He was lucky they got to him first.’
‘They say he’s having a hard time of it in prison,’ said Calderón.
‘I can’t find any pity for people who destroy the innocence of children,’ said Consuelo, savagely. ‘They deserve everything they get.’
Madeleine Krugman returned with the telephone number. She was now wearing sunglasses as if protecting herself from her own painful whiteness.
‘No name?’ said Falcón, punching the number into his mobile.
‘My husband says his name is Carlos Vázquez.’
‘And where’s your husband?’
‘At home.’
‘When did Sr Vega give you this number?’
‘Before he went to join Lucía and Mario on holiday last summer.’
‘Is Mario the child who slept at your house last night, Sra Jiménez?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do the Vegas have any family in the Seville area?’
‘Lucía’s parents.’
Falcón broke away from the group and asked to speak to the lawyer.
‘I am Inspector Jefe Javier Falcón,’ he said. ‘Your client, Sr Rafael Vega, is lying on his kitchen floor incapacitated, possibly dead. We need to get into his house.’
A long silence while Vázquez digested this devastating news.
‘I’ll be there in ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I advise you not to try to break in, Inspector Jefe, because it will certainly take you much longer.’
Falcón looked up at the impregnable house. There were two security cameras on the corners. He found two more at the back of the building.
‘It seems the Vegas were very security conscious,’ he said, rejoining the group. ‘Cameras. Bulletproof windows. Solid front door.’
‘He’s a wealthy man,’ said Consuelo.
‘And Lucía is…well, neurotic to say the least,’ said Maddy Krugman.
‘Did you know Sr Vega before you moved here, Sra Jiménez?’ asked Falcón.
‘Of course. He told me that the house I eventually bought was going to come up for sale before it appeared on the market.’
‘Were you friends or business associates?’
‘Both.’
‘What’s his business?’
‘Construction,’ said Madeleine. ‘That’s why the house is built like a fort.’
‘He’s a client of mine at the restaurant in El Porvenir,’ said Consuelo. ‘But I also knew him through Raúl. They were in the same business, as you know. They joined forces once on some developments in Triana years ago.’
‘Did you know him just as a neighbour, Sra Krugman?’
‘My husband is an architect. He’s working on some projects for Sr Vega.’
A large silver Mercedes pulled up outside the house. A short, stocky man in a white long-sleeve shirt, dark tie and grey trousers got out. He introduced himself as Carlos Vázquez and ran his fingers through his prematurely white hair. He handed the keys to Falcón, who opened the door with a single turn. It had not been double locked.
The house seemed bleak and freezing after the heat of the street. Falcón asked Juez Calderón if he and the forensics could take a quick look before the Médico Forense started his work. He took Felipe and Jorge to the edge of the tiled floor of the kitchen. They looked, nodded to each other and backed away. Calderón had to prevent Carlos Vázquez from entering the kitchen and contaminating the crime scene. The lawyer didn’t look as if he was used to having a hand placed on his chest by anybody but his wife in bed. The Médico Forense, already gloved, was ushered in. While he checked for a pulse and took the temperature of the body Falcón went outside and asked Consuelo and Madeleine if they would be available for interviews later. He made a note that Consuelo was still taking care of Vega’s son, Mario.
The Médico Forense murmured into his dictaphone as he checked the ears, nose, eyes and mouth of the victim. He took a pair of tweezers and turned over the plastic bottle which lay close to the body’s outstretched hand. It was a litre of drain cleaner.
Falcón backed away down the corridor and checked the downstairs rooms. The dining room was ultra modern. The table was a thick single sheet of opaque green glass mounted on two stainless steel arches. It was fully laid for ten people. The chairs were white, the floor was white, the walls and light fixtures were also white. In the chill of the air conditioning the dining experience must have been like the inside of a
