The Silent and the Damned aka The Vanished Hands

'What do you think?'

'I think about a lot of things – what the affair did to Marty, what it did to me, and I think about Reza and the madness of those months – but I don't let myself think about his end, who killed him or why, because that's where insanity lies.'

'You never suspected Marty?'

'You're kidding – the weekend he was killed I was still struggling to be without Reza. I couldn't bear to be on my own. Marty and I were drunk and stoned and watching old movies. Then, on the Wednesday, the FBI came calling and everything changed.'

'Well… it explains your fascination with the internal struggle.'

'It also explains why I'm disdainful of everything I did before I came here,' she said. 'Dan Fineman was right. I remember his headline, it played on the title of the show: "Short on content, small in stature".'

'You said Sr Vega used to come here for dinner… quite often on his own,' said Falcón. 'That's unusual for a Spanish man with a family.'

'You're so transparent, Inspector Jefe,' she said. 'And you've insinuated that before.'

'These aren't trick questions, Sra Krugman,' he said. 'Nor do they necessarily imply any impropriety on your part. I'm just asking if you think he was in love with you, or infatuated with you, as a lot of men seem to be.'

'But not you, Inspector Jefe. I've noticed that,' she said. 'Perhaps your lust is directed elsewhere… maybe that's it, yes, maybe you just don't like me… Your friend Consuelo doesn't like me either.'

'My friend?'

'Or is she a little more passionate than a friend?'

'Do you think Sr Vega was interested in you sexually?' asked Falcón, shouldering through her insinuations. 'You went to see bullfights together.'

'Rafael liked to be accompanied by a pretty woman. That's it. Nothing happened. In the same way that nothing ever happens with the gas man either.'

'Did you know if you had an effect on Sr Vega's mind?'

'You think I was the cause of his disturbed state,' she said. 'You think he was burning papers down the bottom of his garden because of me. You're crazy.'

'He was a man trapped in difficult marital circumstances. He had a wife who was severely depressed, but they had a son together they both loved. He wasn't going to break up his family, but his relationship with his wife was limited by her condition.'

'It's a plausible theory… except I think I was a side attraction for Rafael. His main interest was talking things over with Marty. I mean, Marty would always meet us after the bullfight for tapas, then we'd have dinner and, I'm telling you, those two were still talking long after I went to bed.'

'About what?'

'Their favourite topic. The United States of America.'

'Had Sr Vega lived in America?'

'He spoke American English and he talked about Miami a lot, but he didn't react well to direct questions, so I'm not sure. But Marty's convinced that he'd lived there. Unlike most Europeans, he wasn't full of the usual cliches on the American way of life,' she said. 'He enjoyed talking with Marty because Marty isn't that interested in personal details. Marty was happy to talk about theories, thoughts and ideas without having to know where the guy lived or his favourite colour.'

'Did they talk in Spanish or English?'

'Spanish until they got on the brandy, and then English. Marty's Spanish fell apart with alcohol.'

'Did Sr Vega ever get drunk?'

'I was in bed. Ask Marty.'

'When was the last time Sr Vega and Marty had one of these evenings?'

'The really long sessions happened during the Feria. They'd be up until dawn then.'

Falcón finished his coffee, got to his feet.

'I don't know whether I'll invite you again, if all you're going to do is interrogate me,' she said. 'Esteban doesn't interrogate me.'

'It's not his job to interrogate you. I'm the one who has to go digging in the dirt.'

'And you find out a few things about Esteban on the way.'

'His private life is not my concern.'

'You're used to keeping yourself in tight, aren't you, Inspector Jefe?'

'It's best not to let my sort of job and social life bleed into each other.'

'Very funny, Inspector Jefe,' she said. 'You do have a social life, then? Most cops don't. I understand their lives are full of broken relationships, separations from their kids, alcoholism and depression.'

Falcón couldn't help thinking that he scored two, maybe three, out of four.

'Thank you for your time,' he said.

'We should try meeting socially, just to see if we really get along without all this stuff getting in the way,' she said. 'I'm interested in the cop with artistic vision. Or is your mind made up about me? I'd hate you to think I was some stereotype, like the femme fatale.'

'I'll go back the way I came,' he said, heading for the sliding doors out into the garden, and he could tell he'd annoyed her.

'Columbo always left his last question for the doorstep,' she said to the back of his head.

'I'm not Columbo,' he said, and sealed her back in with the sliding door.

Chapter 13

Friday. 26th July 2002

On the way back to pick up the evidence bag containing the bottle of muriatic acid, his mobile vibrated in his pocket.

'Digame, José Luis,' he said.

'They've found a Ukrainian hooker in the Poligono San Pablo who they're pretty sure is Sergei's mystery friend,' said Ramírez. 'She doesn't speak much Spanish, but she reacted to the photo of Sergei when they showed it to her.'

'Take her down to the Jefatura and get a translator,' said Falcón. 'Don't interrogate her until I get there.'

'It's nearly lunchtime.'

'Do what you can.'

Back in the Jefatura, Nadia Kouzmikheva, dressed in a black mini-skirt, a white halter-neck top and flat shoes with no stockings, paced the floor of the interrogation room while Policía Carlos Serrano watched her through the pane of glass in the door. She'd already gone through three of his cigarettes and he was hoping that the translator was a smoker and would arrive soon.

Ramírez and Falcón walked down the corridor with a female Russian translator from the university. Serrano opened the door for them. Introductions were made. The two women sat together on one side of the table, the men on the other. The translator lit a cigarette. Ramírez looked over his shoulder as if there might be a waiter. Serrano opened the door.

'Another ashtray, Carlos,' Ramírez said.

Falcón explained the purpose of the interview while looking at Nadia's passport and finding the visa, which still had six months to run. The Ukrainian girl's shoulders relaxed a couple of microns.

'She's enrolled in a language school,' said Ramírez.

'We're not here to make your life difficult,' said Falcón to the girl. 'We need your help.'

In the passport photo her hair was dark brown. The roots were still visible under the rough peroxide job she'd presumably done herself. She had green eyes under blue eye shadow which did not quite obscure the fact that her left eye was recovering from some damage. Her skin was white and blotchy as if she had not seen the sun for some months. She had fresh bruises on her upper arms. He smiled to encourage her. She smiled back, revealing a tooth missing from behind the incisor. He positioned the photo of Sergei in the middle of the table.

'Where do you come from in the Ukraine?' he asked.

The translator repeated the question to the side of the girl's head.

'Lvov,' she said, playing with her cigarette in red chapped fingers.

'What did you do in Lvov?'

'I worked in a factory until it closed. Then I did nothing.'

'Sergei came from Lvov… Did you know him?'

'There's nearly a million people in Lvov,' she said.

'But you knew him,' said Falcón.

Silence. More smoking through trembling lips.