'All right, all right, you've proved your point,' said Vázquez. 'You've discovered a Russian connection. But that is all. If you want to know things about that relationship then I can't help you because I don't know anything. All I can say is… ask the Russians, if you can find them.'
'How do you contact them?'
'I don't. I drew up the contracts. They were returned to me by Vega Construcciones, signed and stamped,' said Vázquez. 'And you won't find anybody in their offices who's spoken to them either.'
'They must have phone numbers, addresses, bank accounts?' said Ramírez.
'You think they're the Moscow mafia.'
'We know they are.'
'Well, maybe they are. And maybe they had good reason to kill a man who was facilitating their business needs, but I can't think what that reason would be,' said Vázquez. 'And I doubt you'll ever find out if there was a reason and that they did kill him. These people keep themselves well removed from the situation. As I said, I've never met them. So, Inspector Jefe, Inspector… it's all in your hands now. You know as much as I do. Now, I think that concludes our business for this morning so… please excuse me.'
On the way down in the lift Ramírez jangled the change in his pocket. Falcón told him to get Cristina Ferrera to find the names of the original owners of the two plots sold to the Russians.
'That's police work for you,' said Ramírez, punching Ferrera's number into his mobile. 'One moment you think you've got them nailed and the next they've disappeared over the horizon.'
'What things do you know that I've never even thought about?' asked Falcón, remembering Ramírez's earlier comment.
'Even if we do find Sergei and he has seen something… what's he going to tell us?' said Ramírez, regretting his loose talk now.
'We were talking about Juez Calderón on the way up in the lift and you said that you knew things that I'd never even thought about, José Luis.'
'It was nothing… just something to say.'
'It didn't sound like that,' said Falcón. 'It sounded as if it was something about Juez Calderón that was personal to me.'
'It's nothing… forget it,' said Ramírez.
Ferrera came on the line and Ramírez relayed Falcón's message about the plots of land.
'Tell me, José Luis. Just tell me,' said Falcón. 'I'm not mad any more. I'm not going to throw myself into the traffic if you -'
'All right, all right,' said Ramírez, as the lift reached the ground floor. 'I'll ask you a question and you see if you can tell me the answer.'
They left the building and stood facing each other in the sweltering street.
'When did Juez Calderón and Inés start seeing each other?' said Ramírez.
Chapter 16
Saturday, 27th July 2002
Back at home, in the cool of his bedroom, Falcón stripped off the clothes that had marked him out to Ramírez as an amateur. He stood under the shower and stared out through the fogged glass doors and thought about the way Isabel Cano had spoken to him about Inés – 'an innocent little sweetie'. She knew. Those words that Inspector Jefe Montes had used about Calderón: 'You like him, Inspector Jefe. I'd never have thought it.' He knew. Felipe and Jorge. Perez, Serrano and Baena. The whole of the Edificio de los Juzgados and the Palacio de Justicia. They all knew. That's what happens to you when you're buried in your own life. You don't see anything. You don't even see that someone else is fucking your wife under your nose. He shook his head as he remembered that horrible algebra that the police psychologist had made him use. When did you split up with your wife? When did you last have sex with her? If we separated in July then it must have been May. That was May 2000.
He dressed and left the house. He needed another coffee before he went to pick up Alicia Aguado. He bought El Pais and went to the Cafe San Bernardo and ordered a cafe solo at the bar. Cristina Ferrera called from the Vega Construcciones offices giving him the details of the original owner of the plots who'd sold out to the Russians. Unfortunately the man was on holiday in South America and would not be back until September. She also mentioned that the accountant had hacked into Vega's address book and had found a number for the Russians. A single number for both Russians and it was in Vilamoura in the Algarve, Portugal.
He closed down the phone and tried to read his newspaper, but this time, rather than the humiliation of learning about a tawdry affair running through his mind, he found memories of last night surfacing. The sight of Consuelo astride him, the small strip of her pubic hair hovering over him. Her unswerving stare as she eased him into her. Her words: 'I want to see you inside me.' Christ. His throat was too tight for him to swallow. The newsprint blurred. He had to shake himself back into real life, the cafe, people sitting around.
Sex mattered to Consuelo. She was good at it. When her orgasm was coming she let out a kind of low, feline growl and when she came it was with a massive grunt of effort, like a sprinter hitting the finishing line. She liked to be on top and when it was over she knelt above him, hair hanging down, some of it plastered to her face, panting, unconscious to the world, her breasts shuddering with each breath. He thought sex with Inés had been good. He thought they had hit it off in bed. But now he realized there had been something withdrawn about her, something held back. It was as if she couldn't let herself go to the animal edge of her being. Something in her head told her that this was not quite how she should behave.
Was that true? Is this what the mind does when you've been drawn to another partner? Persuade you that the last one wasn't up to much? Maybe that was what Calderón had seen as well. That with Inés there is none of that difference that Isabel Cano spoke about. Inés is beautiful, intelligent and attractive, but he knows how it's all going to unfold. And it was at that moment, just as his mobile had started to vibrate in his pocket, that he realized it was over. It was none of his business. It didn't matter to him any more. He didn't give a shit about Inés or Calderón or what the hell happened to them in their miserable lives. Something gave way inside him. He had a physical sensation of release, of tension breaking, of ropes flying off and whipping back into the night. He grinned and looked around himself at the whole cafe's magnificent unconcern and then took the call from Alicia Aguado asking him where the hell he was.
Because this wasn't a consultation they kissed hello and she immediately noticed a difference in him.
'You're happy,' she said.
'A few things have fallen into place.'
'You've had some sex.'
'I don't believe you can tell that,' he said. 'And anyway, this isn't an appointment.'
They drove out to Santa Clara for the meeting with Pablo Ortega. There was no answer when Falcón rang the bell by the gate, but he noticed that the wooden door had been left open. They coughed at the stench from the cesspit which Falcón had warned her about. Aguado held on to Falcón's elbow as they made their way to the kitchen on the other side of the house. There was no sign of Ortega and it was past eleven o'clock.
'He's probably walking the dogs,' said Falcón. 'We'll take a seat in the shade by the pool and wait for him.'
'I don't know how he can live with that stink.'
'Don't worry you don't notice it inside. He's had that part of the house sealed off.'
'Walking into that everyday would make me suicidal.'
'Well, Pablo Ortega is not a happy man.'
He sat her down at the table by the pool and walked along the edge towards the deep end. He stood on the small diving board and looked down. There seemed to be a sack sitting on the bottom. He found a pole lying by the side of the pool. It had a net at one end and a hook at the other.