feet so suddenly that the chair collapsed beneath him, ‘was a large explosion.’
‘But where?’
‘The sound came from the north.’
‘Oh shit, Angel! Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!’
‘What?’ said Angel, expecting to see her with red nail polish all over her foot.
‘It can’t possibly have slipped your mind already,’ said Manuela. ‘We’ve been up half the night talking about it. The two properties in the Plaza Moravia—which is north of where we’re standing now.’
‘It wasn’t that close,’ said Angel. ‘That was outside the city walls.’
‘That’s the thing about journalists,’ said Manuela, ‘they’re so used to having their fingers on the pulse that they think they know everything, even how far away an explosion is.’
‘I’d have said…Oh my God. Do you think that was in the Estación de Santa Justa?’
‘That’s east,’ she said, pointing vaguely over the rooftops.
‘North is the Parliament building,’ he said, looking at his watch. ‘There won’t be anybody there at this time.’
‘Apart from a few expendable cleaners,’ said Manuela.
Angel stood in front of the TV, flicking from channel to channel, until he found Canal Sur.
‘We have some breaking news of a large explosion to the north of Seville…somewhere in the area of El Cerezo. Eyewitnesses say that an apartment block has been completely destroyed and a nearby pre-school has been badly damaged. We have no reports of the cause of the explosion or the number of casualties.’
‘El Cerezo?’ said Angel. ‘What’s in El Cerezo?’
‘Nothing,’ said Manuela. ‘Cheap apartment blocks. It’s probably a gas explosion.’
‘You’re right. It’s a residential area.’
‘Not every loud noise you hear has to be a bomb.’
‘After March 11th and the London bombings, our minds move in natural directions,’ said Angel, opening up a street map of Seville.
‘Well, you’re always wanting something to happen and now it has. You’d better find out if it was gas or terrorism. But, whatever you do, Angel, don’t give—’
‘El Cerezo is two kilometres from here,’ he said, cutting through her rising hysteria. ‘You said it yourself, it’s a cheap residential area. It’s got nothing to do with what you’re trying to sell in the Plaza Moravia.’
‘If that was a terrorist bomb, it doesn’t matter where it went off…the whole city will be nervous. One of my buyers is a foreigner making an investment. Investors react to this kind of thing. Ask me, if you like—I am one.’
‘Did the Madrid property market crash after March 11th?’ asked Angel. ‘Keep calm, Manuela. It was probably gas.’
‘The bomb could have detonated accidentally while they were preparing it,’ she said. ‘They might have blown themselves up because they realized that they were about to be raided by the police.’
‘Call Javier,’ said Angel, stroking the back of her neck. ‘He’ll know something.’
Falcón called his immediate boss, the Jefe de Brigada de Policía Judicial, Comisario Pedro Elvira, to give his initial report that the Fire Chief was almost certain this level of destruction was caused by a significant bomb, and gave the number of casualties so far.
Elvira had just come out of a meeting with his boss, Seville’s most senior policeman, the Jefe Superior de la Policía de Sevilla, Comisario Andrés Lobo, who had appointed him to lead the entire investigative operation. He also confirmed that the Magistrado Juez Decano de Sevilla had just appointed Esteban Calderón as the Juez de Instrucción in charge of directing the investigation. Three companies had been contacted to supply demolition crews to start removing the rubble and to work with rescue teams, who were already on their way, to try to find any survivors as quickly as possible.
Falcón made a number of requests: aerial photography, before the huge crime scene became too contaminated by the rescue and demolition operation. He also asked for a large police presence to cordon off nearly a square kilometre around the building, so that they could investigate every vehicle in the vicinity. If it was a bomb, it had to have been transported and the vehicle could still be there. When they started searching suspect vehicles they would also need a team of forensics and a unit from the bomb squad. Elvira confirmed everything back to him and hung up.
The Fire Chief was a man in his moment. He’d trained for this terrible day and brought the immediate calamity under control in less than ninety minutes. He accompanied Falcón to the edge of the destruction. On the way he ordered a crew of firemen to stop work on supporting the roof of the destroyed classroom so that the bomb squad could see how the explosion had affected the building. He talked Falcón through the architecture of the destroyed apartment block and how enormous the explosion must have been to blow out the four main supporting pillars for that section. The effect of that would have brought the sudden and phenomenal weight of all the reinforced concrete floors on to the skin walls between each storey. There would have been an accumulative weight and acceleration as each level fell from a greater and greater height.
‘Nobody could have survived that collapse,’ he said. ‘We’re praying for miracles here.’
‘Why are you so certain that this couldn’t have been a gas explosion?’
‘Apart from the fact that there’s been no reported leak, and we’ve only had to deal with two small fires, the mosque in the basement is in daily use. Gas is heavier than air and would accumulate at the lowest point. A large enough quantity of gas couldn’t have accumulated without anybody noticing,’ he said. ‘Added to that, the gas would have had to collect in a big enough space before exploding. Its power would be dissipated. Our main problem would have been incendiary, rather than destruction. There would have been a massive fireball, which would have scorched the whole area. There would have been burns victims. A bomb explodes from a small, confined source. It therefore has far more concentrated destructive power. Only a very large bomb, or several smaller bombs, could have taken out those reinforced concrete supporting pillars. Most of the dead and injured we’ve seen so far have been hit by flying debris and glass. All the windows in the area have been blown out. It’s all consistent with a bomb blast.’
At the edge of the destruction the light was bruised and sickly yellow. The pulverized brick and concrete formed a fine dust, which clogged the throat and nostrils with the stench of decay. From within the stacked floors came the repetitive, desperate sounds of mobile phone jingles, the same customized tunes begging to be answered. Here, rather than being an irritant, they had personality. The Fire Chief shook his head.
‘It’s the worst thing,’ he said, ‘listening to someone else’s hope fading away.’
Falcón almost jumped as his own mobile vibrated against his thigh.
‘Manuela,’ he said, walking away from the Fire Chief.
‘Are you all right, little brother?’ she asked.
‘Yes,
