'So he knew Francisco, but only bought one of his paintings once he'd been exposed,' said Aguado. 'That's telling us something.'
He told her about the Picasso drawing of a centaur and how Ortega used it as a test.
'Talk me down the list,' she said. 'I'll stop you if I need more information.'
'Two carved African ebony figures of boys holding spears, Ivory Coast. One mask, Zaire.'
'Describe the mask, Javier,' she said. 'Actors are experts on masks.'
'It's sixty centimetres long, twenty wide. It has red hair, two slit eyes and a long nose. There's pieces of bone and shards of mirror stuck in the mouth like teeth. It's a pretty terrifying thing, but beautifully shaped. Bought in New York in 1996 for nine hundred and fifty dollars.'
'It sounds like a witch doctor's mask. Carry on.'
'The next four are Meissen figurines, all male.'
'I hate figurines,' she said.
'One mirror, full length with a rococo gilt frame. Paris. 1984. Nine thousand francs.'
'Something to look at himself in with a halo of gold.'
'A Roman glass bottle, opaque with the colours of the rainbow. A set of eight silver coins, also Roman. One gilt chair – Louis XV. London 1982. For which he paid nine thousand pounds.'
'That's expensive enough to be his throne.'
'One horse, bronze at full gallop – Roman. One bull's head – Greek. One shard of pottery of a boy running – Greek. A piece by Manuel Rivera called Anatomia en el Espejo.'
'Anatomy through a mirror? What's that?'
'Metal fabrics on wood. Mirror image. Difficult to describe,' said Falcón. 'There's also a painting here by Zobel called Dry Garden and an Indian erotic painting.'
'What sort of eroticism?'
'A pretty graphic depiction of a man with an oversized penis having sex with a woman,' said Falcón. 'And that's it.'
'A very complicated man with his figures, masks and mirrors,' she said. 'Is there any indication as to how the collection was originally set out?'
Falcón looked through the drawers of the antique desk and found a series of photographs of the collection, each one dated on the back. In all of them Pablo Ortega was seated on the Louis XV chair. He found the most recent shot, which included all the pieces except the Indian erotic painting and the Zobel. Then he realized that the Zobel was positioned so that Ortega was looking at it and the Indian painting was such a recent acquisition it hadn't been included. He described the layout to Alicia Aguado.
'He seems to be showing us the Beauty and the Beast. The mask from Zaire is both. All the pieces on one side seem to be the stuff of beauty, nobility and magnificence: Picasso's centaur, the bull's head, the galloping horse, the running boy. I'm simplifying it because there are complications. Centaurs are monsters, too. What's the boy running away from? There are the coins and the beautiful, but empty, Roman bottle. Also the Rivera painting reflected in the gilt mirror. I don't understand that.'
'And the other side?'
'The fraudulent Francisco Falcón. Ortega spent his life pretending. The beautiful figurines locked in porcelain – the actor in his roles. And the inference of "I am as hollow as they are". The mirror is a hard, reflective thing that gilds his narcissism.'
'And the black ebony boys?'
'I don't know – guarding his secrets or keeping them?'
'And why is he always looking at the Dry Garden?'
'That's probably his vision of death – beautiful but desiccated,' she said. 'You know you can't use any of this in court, Javier.'
'No,' he said, laughing at the absurdity. 'I'm just hoping for an insight. Pablo told me he had everything on show in this collection. He had nothing to hide. What's your overall impression?'
'It's a very male collection. The only female figure is in the Indian erotic painting. Even the non-human pieces are masculine: horses, bulls and centaurs. What happened to his wife, Sebastián's mother?'
'She died of cancer but – this is interesting – not before she'd run off… and I'll quote Pablo directly on this… not before she'd "run off to America with a guy with a big dick".'
'Oh dear,' said Alicia, in mock dismay. "Trouble in the bedroom. Now I'm wondering with all these mirrors, masks and figures whether the biggest role he ever played was himself in his own life, pretending to be a strong, powerful, sexually potent male when in fact… he wasn't.'
'Maybe it's time for us to speak to his son,' said Falcón.
Chapter 17
Saturday, 27th July 2002
On the way to the prison, which was outside Seville in Alcalá, Falcón called the director, whom he knew well, and explained the situation. The director was at home but said that he would make all the necessary calls. The prisoner would be made available to him on his arrival and there was no problem about bringing Alicia Aguado in with him. He made it clear that a prison psychologist would also have to be present and a nurse, in case Sebastián Ortega had to be sedated.
The prison, out on a burnt piece of landscape on the road to Antequera, oscillated so violently in the waves of heat shimmering off the ground that at times it completely disappeared to the eye. They drove through the outer gates, between two chain-link fences topped by razor wire, and up to the prison walls, where they parked.
After the brutality of the heat outside the security checks in the cool, institutional corridors were a relief. As they came closer to where the prisoners were kept the stink of incarcerated men became more powerful. The air ticked with bored minds bent on compressing time while they rebreathed the strong hormonal brew of bottled frustrations. They were taken to a room with a single high window which was barred on the outside. There was a table and four chairs. They sat. Ten minutes later the prison psychologist on duty came and introduced himself.
The psychologist knew Sebastián Ortega and believed him to be harmless. He explained that the prisoner was not totally silent but rarely said any more than the bare minimum. A nurse would be along in a moment and they were prepared for all eventualities including violence, although he didn't think it would come to that.
Two guards brought Sebastián Ortega in and sat him down at the table. Falcón had not seen a photograph of him before this meeting and so was unprepared for the man's beauty. He had none of the physical traits of his father. He was slim, 1.85 metres, with blond hair and tobacco coloured eyes. He had high, fragile cheekbones, which didn't look as if they could survive much prison violence. He moved with a slow grace and sat with his long-fingered artistic hands resting on the table in front of him. He used the fingers of one hand to polish each individual nail of the other. The prison psychologist made the introductions. Sebastián Ortega did not take his eyes off Alicia Aguado for one moment and when the psychologist had finished he leaned forward slightly.
'Excuse me,' he said, in a high, almost girlish voice, 'but are you blind?'
'Yes, I am,' she replied.
'That's an affliction I wouldn't mind,' he said.
'Why?'
'We believe too much in what our eyes tell us,' he said. 'They draw us into enormous disappointments.'
The prison psychologist, who was standing at the side of the table, explained to him that Falcón had come here to give him some news. Ortega did not acknowledge him but sat back, nodded, and left his fidgeting hands on the table.
'I'm sorry to have to tell you, Sebastián, that your father died at three o'clock this morning,' said Falcón. 'He took his own life.'
There was no reaction. More than a minute passed while the good-looking face remained unmoved.
'Did you hear the Inspector Jefe?' asked the psychologist.
A single nod and a lowering of the eyelids. The prison officials looked at each other.
'Do you have any questions for the Inspector Jefe?' asked the psychologist.