The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

'That's your ten minutes,' said Isabel, putting on her shoes. 'Walk me to my car.'

The law students fired questions at her as she strode through the office. She ignored them all. Her heels cracked across the marble foyer.

'I've got another question for you,' said Falcón.

'Let's hope it's cheaper than the last,' she said, 'or you won't be able to afford me.'

'Do you know Juez Calderón?'

'Of course I do, Javier,' she said, stopping dead in the street so Falcón knocked into her. 'Ah, now I get it. You're emotionally distraught about him and Inés. Let's forget this meeting ever happened and when you're calm we'll -'

'I'm not that emotionally distraught.'

'So what is it about Juez Calderón?'

'Does he have a reputation?'

'As long as your arm… longer than your leg… longer than this street.'

'I mean… with women.'

Falcón, who was staring eagerly into her face, saw all her fierceness disappear to be replaced by a vast hurt, which surfaced like a harpooned whale and disappeared. She turned away and pointed her keys at her car, whose lights flashed back.

'Esteban has always been a hunter,' she said.

She got in the car and pulled away, leaving Falcón on the pavement thinking that Isabel Cano had been happily married for more than ten years.

Chapter 12

Friday, 26th July 2002

On the way to Ortega's house he took a call from Jorge, who told him that the paper used for the Inés print was of a different make and quality to the blank stock he'd given him. The news momentarily elated him until he realized that this proof of his sanity must also mean that someone had got into his home and planted the photo. Not only that, they also knew about him and his particular vulnerability. His blood felt sharp in his veins but he calmed his paranoia with the thought that everybody knew about him. Since the Francisco Falcón scandal his story was public property.

Pablo Ortega was coming back from walking his dogs. Falcón buzzed down his window as he drew alongside and asked if he could spare a few minutes. Ortega nodded grimly. Falcón pulled the photograph out of his briefcase. Ortega held the gate open for him. The stink from the cesspit was as thick as a mud wall. They went around the house and into the kitchen. The dogs drank noisily.

'I've had some good news about the cesspit,' said Ortega, unable to sound delighted by it. 'One of my brother's contractors thinks he can rebuild without having to knock down all the rooms and he could do it for five million.'

'That's good,' said Falcón. 'I'm glad it's going to work out for you.'

They went into the living room and sat down.

'I might have some more good news for you,' said Falcón, wanting to keep things positive. 'I'd like to help with Sebastián's case.'

'It's no use you helping from the outside if Sebastián doesn't want to be helped from the inside.'

'I think I can help there, too,' said Falcón, taking the risk that Aguado would agree. 'I have a clinical psychologist who's looking at his case and might be prepared to talk to him.'

'A clinical psychologist,' said Ortega, slowly. 'And what would he talk to Sebastián about?'

'She would try to find out why Sebastián felt the need to incarcerate himself.'

'He didn't incarcerate himself,' said Ortega, leaping to his feet, throwing out a big dramatic hand. 'The state incarcerated him with the help of that cabron Juez Calderón.'

'But Sebastián didn't defend himself. He seems to have welcomed his punishment and failed to offer anything that might have reduced his sentence. Why?'

Ortega dug his fists into his expansive waist and drew in a massive breath as if he was about to blow the house down.

'Because,' he said, very quietly, 'he was guilty… It was just his mental state at the time that was in question. The court decided he was sane. I dispute that.'

'She will find that out from him,' said Falcón.

'What will she talk to him about?' said Ortega. 'The boy has a fragile mind as it is. I don't want her stirring up more trouble. He's already in solitary confinement. I don't want him feeling suicidal.'

'Have there been any reports from the prison that he might be?'

'Not yet.'

'She's very good at her work, Pablo. I don't think this will do him any harm,' said Falcón. 'And while she helps him clarify things, I'll look at various elements of the case

'Like what?'

'The boy he kidnapped – Manolo. I should talk to his parents.'

'You won't get anywhere there. The Ortega name cannot be spoken in that house. The father has suffered some sort of collapse. He can't work any more. They spread malicious gossip so that the whole barrio has turned against me. I mean, that is why I am here, Javier… and not there.'

'I have to talk to them,' said Falcón. 'It was the seriousness of Manolo's testimony that resulted in such a heavy prison sentence for Sebastián.'

'Why should he change it?' said Ortega. 'It's his testimony.'

'That's what I have to find out: whether it was his testimony or something that he was encouraged to say by others.'

'What's that supposed to mean?'

'He's a very young boy. At that age you do what you're told.'

'You know something, Javier, don't you?' said Ortega. 'What do you know?'

'I know that I want to help.'

'Well, I don't like it,' said Ortega. 'And I don't want it to rebound on Sebastián.'

'It can't get any worse for him, Pablo.'

'It'll stir things up…' said Ortega, repeating his fear. He started out angry but then softened. 'Can you just let me think about it for a bit, Javier? I don't want to rush into these things. It's delicate. The media has only just fallen silent. I don't want them on my back again. Is that all right?'

'Don't worry, Pablo. Take your time.'

Ortega blinked at the photograph whose corner Javier was flicking.

'Anything else?' he asked.

'I was confused,' said Falcón, throwing back the pages of his notebook, 'as to your relationship with Rafael Vega. You said: "I knew him. He introduced himself about a week after I moved in here." Does that mean you did know him before you moved here, or that you've only known him since you've lived in Santa Clara?'

Ortega was staring at the photograph face down on the table in front of Falcón as if he was a poker player and it was a draw card whose suit and number he wouldn't mind knowing.

'I did know him before,' he said. 'I suppose I should have said he reintroduced himself. I met him at some party or other. I can't remember whose…'

'Once, twice, three times?'

'It's not so easy for me to remember. I meet so many…'

'You knew Consuelo Jiménez's late husband,' said Falcón.

'Yes, yes, Raúl. That would have been it. They were in the same business. I used to go to the restaurant in El Porvenir. That's what it was.'

'I thought the connection was your brother and his air-conditioning systems?'

'Yes, yes, yes, now I've got it. Of course.'

Falcón gave him the photograph, watching his face as he did so.

'Who are you talking to in that photograph?' asked Falcón.

'God knows,' said Ortega. 'The one you can't see is my brother. I know that from his bald head. This guy… I don't know.'

'It was taken at one of Raúl Jiménez's parties.'

'That doesn't help. I went to dozens of functions. I met hundreds of… All I can say is that he wasn't from my profession. He must be in the construction industry.'

'Raúl divided his friends up into celebrities and… useful people for his businesses,' said Falcón. 'I'm surprised you didn't appear in his celebrity photographs.'

'Raúl Jiménez thought Lorca was a brand of sherry. He'd never been near a theatre in his life. He'd like to think of himself as a friend of Antonio Banderas and Ana Rosa Quintana, but he wasn't. It was all a publicity stunt. I was a… No, let's be accurate: I occasionally gave support to my brother by turning up at functions. I knew Raúl and I'd met Rafael, but I wasn't exactly a friend.'