'Do you think the Americans could have been involved in killing Vega, or are you satisfied that he was either murdered by Marty Krugman or committed suicide?'
'Mark Flowers has given me an enormous amount of information. The only problem is that I don't know what's true and what isn't,' said Falcón. 'There's a part of me that believes that they weren't involved in his murder because this is what they wanted to find out – the contents of the safe-deposit box, which they never found. But I also think that Flowers might have decided to stop the uncertainty and been a party to taking Vega out.'
'Case closed?' said Elvira.
Falcón shrugged.
'What else?' said Lobo, eyeing the dossier on Falcón's lap.
He handed it over. As Lobo read each page he handed it to Elvira. Both men glanced up nervously as they worked through the catalogue of abuse. When they finished, Lobo was looking out across the park, as he used to do when he occupied this office. He talked to the glass.
'I can guess,' he said, 'but I'd like you to tell me what you want.'
'My minimum requirement from all the crimes that were committed in the Montes finca was that Ignacio Ortega should go down,' said Falcón. 'That was not possible. I don't agree with it, but I understand why. This is a separate case. Nothing that happened in the Montes finca will surface in this family abuse case. I want a Juez de Instruction to be appointed – not Juez Calderón, of course. I want to arrest Ignacio Ortega and I want him to face these charges and any others we might be able to bring after talking to those on the list of names supplied by Salvador Ortega.'
'We're going to have to discuss this and get back to you,' said Lobo.
'I don't want to put any undue pressure on your discussion, but I do want to remind you what you said to me in your office yesterday.'
'Remind me.'
'You said: "We need men like you and Inspector Ramírez, Javier. Don't be in any doubt about that."'
'I see.'
'Inspector Ramírez and I would like to make the arrest tonight,' said Falcón, and left.
He sat alone in his office, aware of Ramírez and Ferrera waiting for news. The phone rang, he heard them jump. It was Isabel Cano, asking if she could have a response to the letter she'd drafted to send to Manuela about the house on Calle Bailén. He said he hadn't read it, but it didn't matter because he'd decided that if Manuela wanted to live in the house she was going to have to pay the market value, less the agency commission, and there would be no discussion on the matter.
'What's happened to you?' she asked.
'I've hardened inside, Isabel. The blood now rifles down my cold, steel veins,' said Falcón. 'Did you ever hear about the Sebastián Ortega case?'
'He's Pablo Ortega's son, isn't he? The one who kidnapped the boy?'
'That's right,' said Falcón. 'How would you like to handle his appeal?'
'Any strong new evidence?'
'Yes,' said Falcón, 'but I should warn you that it might not make Esteban Calderón look very good.'
'It's about time he learnt a bit of humility,' she said. 'I'll take a look.'
Falcón hung up and sank back into the silence.
'You're confident,' said Ramírez, from the outer office.
'We are men of value, José Luis.'
The phone went in the outer office this time. Ramírez snatched it to his ear. Silence.
'Thank you,' said Ramírez.
He hung up. Falcón waited.
'José Luis?' he said.
There was no sound. He went to the door.
Ramírez looked up, his face was wet with tears, his mouth drawn back, tight across his teeth as he fought the emotion. He waved his hand at Falcón, he couldn't speak.
'His daughter,' said Ferrera.
The Sevillano nodded, thumbed the huge tears out of his eyes.
'She's all right,' he said, under his breath. 'They've done every test in the book and they can't find anything wrong with her. They think it's some kind of virus.'
He slumped in his chair, still squeezing fat tears out of his eyes.
'You know what?' said Falcón. 'I think it's time to go and have a beer.'
The three of them drove down to the bar La Jota and stood in the cavernous cool and drank beers and ate strips of salt cod. Other police officers came along and tried to strike up conversation but didn't get very far. They were too tense. The time clipped round to 8.30 p.m. and Falcón's mobile started vibrating against his thigh. He put it to his ear.
'You're all clear to arrest Ignacio Ortega on those charges,' said Elvira. 'Juan Romero has been appointed the Juez de Instruction. Good luck.'
They went back to the Jefatura because Falcón wanted to make the arrest in a patrol car with flashing lights, to let Ortega's neighbourhood know. Ferrera drove and they parked outside a large house in El Porvenir which, as Sebastián had described, had gate posts topped with concrete lions.
Ferrera stayed in the car. Ramírez rang the bell, which had the same electronic cathedral chime as Vega's. Ortega came to the door. They showed him their police IDs. He looked over their shoulders at the parked patrol car, lights flashing.
'We'd like to come in for a moment,' said Ramírez. 'Unless you'd rather do this in the street?'
They stepped into the house, which did not have the usual headache chill of fierce air conditioning but was completely comfortable.
'This air conditioning…' started Ramírez.
'This isn't air conditioning, Inspector,' said Ortega. 'You are now in a state-of-the-art climate-control system.'
'Then it should be raining in your study, Sr Ortega.'
'Can I offer you a drink, Inspector?' asked Ortega, mystified.
'I don't think so,' said Ramírez, 'we won't be staying long.'
'You, Inspector Jefe? A single malt? I even have Laphroaig.'
Falcón blinked at that. It was a whisky that Francisco Falcón had favoured. There was still a lot of it in his house, undrunk. His own tastes were not so eclectic. He shook his head.
'Do you mind if I drink alone?' asked Ortega.
'It's your house,' said Ramírez. 'You don't have to be polite for our sakes.'
Ortega poured himself a cheap whisky over ice. He raised his glass to the policemen. It was good to see him nervous. He picked up a fat remote with which he controlled his climate and started to explain the intricacies of the system to Ramírez, who butted in.
'We're bad losers, Sr Ortega,' he said.
'I'm sorry?' said Ortega.
'We're very bad losers,' said Ramírez. 'We don't like it when we see all our good work go to waste.'
'I can understand that,' said Ortega, covering his nervousness at Ramírez's looming, aggressive presence.
'What do you understand, Sr Ortega?' asked Falcón.
'Your work must be very frustrating at times.'
'Why would you think that?' asked Falcón.
Now that he'd caught their tone and found it unpleasant, Ortega turned ugly himself. He looked at them as if they were pathetic specimens of humanity – people to be pitied.
'The justice system is not in my hands,' he said. 'It's not up to me to decide which cases go to court and which don't.'
Ramírez snatched the remote from Ortega's hands, looked at the myriad buttons and tossed it on to the sofa.
'What about those two kids that we found buried up at the finca near Almonaster la Real?' said Ramírez. 'What about them?'
Falcón was appalled to see a little smile creep into Ortega's face. Now he knew what this was about. Now he knew that he was safe. Now he was going to enjoy himself.
'What about them?' asked Ortega mildly.
'How did they die, Sr Ortega?' said Ramírez. 'We know we can't touch you for any of that stuff, but, as I said, we're bad losers and we'd like you to tell us that one thing.'
'I don't know what you're talking about, Inspector.'
'We can guess what happened,' said Falcón. 'But we'd like to have it confirmed how and when they died and who buried them.'