The crime scene team were now congregated around the bed, looking down at Sra Vega, hands behind backs, solemn as if in prayer. The pillow was off her face and had been put in a plastic bag and leaned against the wall. Her mouth was open. The top lip and teeth were set in a snarl as if she'd left life bitterly. Her lower jaw was off centre.
'She'd been hit once with the right hand,' Calderón explained to Falcón. 'The jaw's dislocated… Probably knocked her unconscious. The Médico Forense thinks it was done with the flat of the hand, rather than a closed fist.'
'What was the time of death?'
'Same time as the husband: three, three thirty. He can't be more accurate than that.'
'Sra Jiménez said she used sleeping pills, two a night, to knock herself out. She must have woken up and had to be subdued before being suffocated. Is there any link between this death and Sr Vega's yet?'
'Not until I get them back to the Instituto,' said the Médico Forense.
'We're hoping for some sweat or saliva on the upper side of the pillow,' said Felipe.
'This strengthens your case for an unknown murderer, Inspector Jefe,' said Calderón. 'I can't see a husband dislocating his wife's jaw.'
'Unless, as I said, she woke up, perhaps got out of bed just as Sr Vega came in full of intent. She might have seen something different in him, become hysterical and he felt the need for violence,' said Falcón. 'I'm still keeping an open mind on this. Any ghosts in here'
'Ghosts?' asked Calderón.
'Something that makes a crime scene look "off", not as it should be,' said Falcón. 'We all had the same feeling about Sr Vega's body in the kitchen. Somebody else had been there.'
'And here?'
Jorge shrugged.
'She was murdered,' said Felipe. 'Nobody was trying to make this scene look like anything else. Whether it was Sr Vega remains to be seen. All we've got is the pillow.'
'What did the neighbours have to say?' asked Calderón, moving away from the others in the room.
'We have some conflicting views,' said Falcón. 'Sra Jiménez has known Sr Vega for some time and did not consider him the suicidal type. She also noted the new car and said he was about to go on holiday to San Diego. Sra Krugman, however, showed me these photographs, taken recently, of Sr Vega in private, clearly distressed and possibly unstable. She let me have this contact sheet.'
Calderón looked over the images, frowning.
'He's barefoot in his garden in January,' said Falcón. 'And there's another one of him crying down by the river.'
'What's she doing, taking these photographs?' asked Calderón.
'It's her work,' said Falcón. 'The way she expresses herself.'
'Taking shots of people's private distress?' said Calderón, raising an eyebrow. 'Is she weird?'
'She told me that she was interested in the private, inner struggle,' said Falcón. 'You know, that voice that Sr Vázquez talked about. The one nobody ever hears.'
'But what's she doing with it?' asked Calderón. 'Recording the face but not the voice… I mean, what's the point?'
'The voice is loud in the head but silent to the outside world,' said Falcón. 'She's interested in the distressed person's need to be out in the open… amongst his fellow strangers, walking his pain out of himself.'
They exchanged a look, left the room and went into Mario's bedroom. Calderón gave him back the contact sheet.
'What's all that bullshit about?' said Calderón.
'I'm telling you what she said.'
'Is she getting some… vicarious experience from this?'
'She's got a photograph of me on her wall,' said Falcón, still seething. 'A blow-up of me staring down into the river from the Puente de Isabel II, for God's sake.'
'She's like some paparazzo of the emotions,' said Calderón, wincing.
'Photographers are strange people,' said Falcón, who was one himself. 'Their currency is perfect moments from real life. They define their idea of perfection to themselves and then pursue it… like prey. If they're lucky they find an image that intensifies their idea, makes it more real… but in the end they're capturing ephemera.'
'Ghosts, internal struggles, captured ephemera…' said Calderón. 'This is unusable stuff.'
'Let's wait for the autopsy. That should give us something tangible to work with. In the meantime I'd like to find Sergei, the gardener, who was physically the closest person to the crime scene and discovered the body.'
'There's another ghost,' said Calderón.
'We should search his rooms down at the bottom of the garden.'
Calderón nodded.
'Maybe I'll go across and take a look at Sra Krugman's photographs while you search the gardener's rooms,' said Calderón. 'I want to see these shots full size.'
Falcón tracked the judge with his eyes back to the second crime scene. Calderón exchanged words with the Médico Forense, rolling his mobile in his hand like a bar of soap. He trotted down the stairs in a hurry. Falcón shrugged away the unsettling thought that
Calderón seemed oddly self-conscious and keen, which was not part of his usual knowing style.
As he sweated his way down the unshaded lawn Falcón noticed a pile of blackened paper in the grill on the paved barbecue area. The uppermost paper had been crumpled and was thoroughly burned so that it disintegrated at the touch of his pen. Beneath it were pages that had not been so completely consumed by fire, on which there was discernible handwriting.
He called Felipe down to the garden with his forensic kit. He looked it over wearing his custom-made magnified goggles.
'We're not going to save much of this,' he said, 'if anything.'
'They look like letters to me,' said Falcón.
'I can only make out partial words, but the writing has that rounded look of a female hand. I'll take a shot of it before we wreck it.'
'Give me the partial words you can see.'
Felipe called out some words which at least confirmed the language as Spanish and he took a couple of shots with his digital camera. The blackened paper collapsed as he dug in deeper with his pen. He found a partial line 'en la escuela' – in the school – but nothing else. At the bottom of the pile he came across paper of a different quality. Felipe lifted some filigree remains from the blackened flakes.
'This is a modern photograph,' he said. 'They're very flammable. The chemicals blister as the paper underneath burns and all that's left is this. Older photographs don't burn so easily. The paper is thicker and higher quality.'
He teased out some paper which was glossy black and curled at the edges but still white in the middle. He turned it over to reveal a black-and-white shot of a girl's head and shoulders. She was standing in front of a woman whose presence had been reduced to a ringed hand resting on the girl's clavicle.
'Can we date it?'
'This sort of stock hasn't been used commercially in Spain for years, but it could have been developed privately or come from abroad where they are still using that kind of stuff. So… tricky,' said Felipe. 'The girl's hairstyle looks a bit old-fashioned.'
'Sixties, seventies?' asked Falcón.
'Maybe. She certainly doesn't look like a girl from the pueblo. And the woman's hand on her shoulder doesn't look as if it's done any manual labour. I'd have said they were well-off foreigners. I've got some cousins out in Bolivia who look a bit like this, you know, just not up to date.'
They bagged the piece of photograph, found some shade and cleaned themselves up.
'You burn old letters and photographs if you're putting your house in order,' said Felipe.
'Or your head,' said Falcón.
'Maybe he did kill himself and we're just imagining things.'
'Why would you burn this sort of stuff?' said Falcón. 'Painful memories. A part of your life you don't want your wife to find out about…'