The Silent and the Damned

  'I heard about that,' said Calderón, staring into his desk, hands clasped between his knees.

  'Our chances of finding the only witness, Sergei, grow slimmer by the day. Do we finish with it or carry on? If we carry on, which direction should we take?'

  'OK, you're annoyed. I can see you've done good work and found interesting information,' said Calderón, catching Falcón's tone and trying to get some enthusiasm into his voice. 'At the moment, in my mind, given the psychological profile of the victim - of which we have clear evidence from a doctor and Maddy Krugman's photographs - and even taking your new findings into consideration, I am still more inclined to believe that Vega killed his wife and then himself. If you can accept that, I will return a verdict of suicide. If you're still curious enough to carry on, I'll give you forty-eight hours.'

  'To go in which direction?' asked Ramírez.

  'Whichever you like,' said Calderón. 'Do you have any chance of talking to the Russians face to face?'

  'They're in Portugal,' said Falcón. 'It's possible they'll come over to look at their investments.'

  'Who would they contact?'

  'Probably Carlos Vázquez.'

  'There's a man with something to hide,' said Ramírez.

  'What about finding out who Vega really is?' said Falcón.

  'How?' asked Calderón, half turning back to the window.

  The American connection,' said Falcón. 'Let's say he was living there twenty years ago, and that he had escaped from something and rebuilt his life. I've just remembered that detail in the autopsy report about the old plastic surgery. It seems a likely scenario. Maybe he had a criminal record or was known in some way to the FBI.'

  'Do you have contact with the FBI?' asked Calderón.

  'Of course.'

  'So you're going to take my offer of forty-eight hours?'

  On the way down from Calderón's office Falcón took a call from Elvira, who had just spoken to his boss, Comisario Lobo, and between them they'd decided that Falcón should run the investigation into Montes's suicide. Falcón asked Elvira if he could supply a good and responsive FBI contact who would help with the identification of Rafael Vega, and reminded him about the prison director.

  In the car he called Carlos Vázquez and after being kept waiting for some minutes was told that he was out. The lawyer's offices were just up the road from the Edificio de los Juzgados. They decided to make an unscheduled visit.

  'What's up with Juez Calderón?' asked Ramírez as they got into the car. 'We're not going to see a search warrant with his mind in that state.'

  'I think he might have met his match,' said Falcón.

  'La Americana's fucked his brains out?' said Ramírez.

  'It might be a bit more serious than that.'

  'She's done that to him?' said Ramírez incredulous. 'I thought Juez Calderón was more experienced than that.'

  'Than what?'

  'To fall down on rule number one,' said Ramírez 'and to fall down on it before he's even got married.'

  'What's rule number one?'

  'Don't get involved,' said Ramírez. 'That's the way to fuck up your entire life.'

  'Well, he's involved and all we can do is…'

  'Sit and watch,' said Ramírez, clapping his hands as if he was about to watch his favourite soap opera.

  'Montes told me there were plenty of people who wanted to see Juez Calderón fall from grace.'

  'Who?' said Ramírez, face bland with innocence, fingers to his chest. 'Me?'

  They went up in the lift, Ramírez staring at the numbers of the floors as they lit up. His shoulders were humped up like the neck muscles of a wild bull.

  'This time, Javier, I lead, you follow,' he said, and they stormed out of the lift straight past the receptionist, who held up a single purple talon in an attempt to stop them.

  They did the same to Vázquez's secretary, who followed them into her boss's office. Vázquez was drinking water from a plastic cup and standing by the dispenser looking out of the window.

  'In a murder investigation,' said Ramírez, in a voice full of pent-up rage. 'You never refuse to talk to the Inspector Jefe unless you want all kinds of shit to come down on your head.'

  Vázquez looked pugnacious enough to square off against Ramírez, but even he could see that the Inspector was up for anything, including violence. He waved the secretary out.

  'What do you want?'

  'First question,' said Ramírez. 'Look into my eyes and tell me what you know about Emilio Cruz.'

  Vázquez looked blank. The name meant nothing to him. They sat down.

  'What provision did Sr Vega make for the running of his company in the event of his death?' asked Falcón.

  'As you know, each project had Sr Vega, a company representative and an investor on the board. In the event of his death the projects would be managed by the remaining company representative, with the proviso that all financial and legal decisions be referred to a temporary board in the holding company, consisting of myself, Sr Dourado and Sr Nieves, who is the senior architect.'

  'How long would this temporary state of affairs last?'

  'Until a suitable director for the company was found.'

  'Whose job is it to find such a person?'

  'The temporary board.'

  'Who do the clients refer to?'

  'The temporary board.'

  'And who would get the initial phone call?'

  'Me.'

  'So when did the Russians contact you?' asked Ramírez.

  'They haven't.'

  'Look, Sr Vázquez, it's been nearly a week since Sr Vega died,' said Ramírez, conspiratorial, friendly. 'There's a lot of money in those Russian projects, which are unmanaged. Do you really expect us to believe -'

  'They're not unmanaged. They've still got the company representative looking after them.'

  'Who is?'

  'Sr Krugman, the architect.'

  'That's a good choice,' said Falcón. 'The outsider.'

  'Who does Sr Krugman get his instructions from?'

  'He hasn't received any from me because I haven't heard from the client. He is just carrying on with the project.'

  'So, after Sr Vega's death who told the illegal labour not to show?' asked Ramírez.

  'What illegal labour?'

  'We can physically wring this stuff out of you, if you'd prefer,' said Ramírez. 'Or you could talk to us like a normal, law-abiding human being.'

  'Are you scared, Sr Vázquez?' asked Falcón.

  'Scared?' said Vázquez, asking himself, hands clasped, knuckles blanching, especially around the gold signet ring on his third finger. 'Why should I be scared?'

  'Have you been told not to talk to us on pain of something nasty happening to you or your family?'

  'No.'

  'All right, we'll go to the town hall and file a report on these two projects,' said Ramírez. 'The fact that illegal labour has been used should be enough.'

  'There's no illegal labour.'

  'That sounds as if you're in touch with these projects.'

  'I am,' said Vázquez. 'You told me about illegal labour being used last week. I made my inquiries. There is no illegal labour being used.'

  'And the two sets of books for each project that we saw in Vega Construcciones offices last week?'

  'There's only one set of books.'

  'Not according to Sr Dourado,' said Ramírez.

  'That's not what he told me,' said Vázquez.

  'The Russians have been busy.'

  On the way back to the Jefatura they stopped off in Vega Construcciones offices and asked Sr Dourado about the two sets of books. He had no recollection of the discovery of an alternative set of books in Vega's computer system. Even when Ramírez threatened him with a warrant his smile didn't waver. He welcomed the search.

  Falcón and Ramírez drifted down the office corridors in silence, all purpose gone from this aspect of their investigation.

  'We played this very badly,' said Falcón. 'We trusted t
hese people too much.'

  'Dourado was going to help us. I know it. I was there. I saw the printouts. He talked me through them. I should have taken a fucking copy.'

  'He didn't look scared to me,' said Falcón. 'Vázquez seemed scared, but Dourado looked cheerful.'

  'They know what they're doing, these Russians,' said Ramírez. 'Vázquez thinks he's in charge, so they get him by the balls and squeeze hard. With Golden Boy, they need his knowledge of the computer system, so they tickle his.'

  Falcón tried not to allow these images to infect his imagination. He said he'd go and talk to Krugman while Ramírez went back to the Jefatura and pushed Elvira to make FBI contact.

  Krugman was standing at his office window, looking out through a pair of binoculars. Falcón knocked. Krugman beckoned him in. The man seemed strangely energized, his eyes were bright, pupils dilated and sparkling.

  'You're still running your Russian projects,' said Falcón.

  'That's right.'

  'Have they contacted you by any chance?'

  'Of course they have. They've got a twenty million euro investment there, you don't let that sort of money run around on its own.'

  'That's interesting,' said Falcón. 'Were you aware of any financial irregularities…?'

  'That's business. I'm an architect.'

  'Were you aware of illegal labour on the sites?'

  'Yes. There's illegal labour on all building sites.'

  'Are you prepared to sign -?'

  'Don't be a crazy fool, Inspector Jefe. I'm trying to help.'

  'When did you speak to the Russians?'

  'Yesterday.'

  'What did you discuss?'

  'They told me to carry on running the projects, but said that I shouldn't talk to the police. I told them that I would have to speak to the police because they were coming to my house and office all the time. They said that I shouldn't talk about the projects.'

  'What language were you speaking?'

  'English. They don't speak Spanish.'

  'Do you know who you're dealing with, Sr Krugman?'

  'Not personally, but I used to work in New York City and I've come across the Russian mafia before in my own back yard. They're powerful people who, with a few exceptions, are quite reasonable as long as you see things their way. You could try taking them on if you thought it would serve a very important purpose. But in the end you're looking for Sr Vega's murderer, or the reason he committed suicide, and I doubt they're going to be able to help you, because I'm pretty sure that the very last thing they wanted was for Sr Vega to die.'

  Falcón nodded. Krugman sat back in his chair.

  'What were you looking at with the binoculars?'

  'Just keeping an eye on things, Inspector Jefe,' he said, very seriously, then he laughed. 'Only kidding. I bought them today. I'm just seeing what I can see.'

  Falcón stood up to leave. He was disturbed by Krugman's evangelical look.

  'Have you seen my wife recently?' asked Marty, as Falcón held out his hand.

  'I saw her in the street on Saturday,' said Falcón.

  'Where was that?'

  'In a tile shop in Calle Bailén, near my house.'

  'You know she's really very fascinated by you, Inspector Jefe.'

  'Only because she has some rather strange specialist interests,' said Falcón. 'Personally, I don't like her intrusions.'

  'I thought it was just a few snaps of you on the bridge,' said Krugman. 'Or was it more than that?'

  'That was enough,' said Falcón, 'to make me feel as if she was trying to take something from me.'

  'Well, that's Maddy's unique problem,' said Krugman. 'As your friend, the judge, will find out.'

  Krugman turned to the window and put the binoculars to his face.

  * * *

  Chapter 22

  Monday, 29th July 2002

  Back at the Jefatura Ramírez sat smoking in the outer office. He said that Cristina Ferrera was on her way back with Salvador Ortega, who'd been found in a 'shooting gallery' in the Poligono San Pablo. He also informed him that Virgilio Guzmán, the crime editor for the Diario de Sevilla, was being patient in his office. This was unnerving because Virgilio Guzmán did not do stories any more.

  Virgilio Guzmán was a few years younger than Falcón but his life and work had aged him considerably. Before coming down to Seville he had been in Bilbao and Madrid, covering ETA terrorist activity. His ambition and tenacity had cost him his marriage, the constant tension had left him with high blood pressure and heart arrhythmia and, he believed, not seeing his six-year-old son had given him colon cancer, from which he'd made a full recovery at the cost of a length of his guts. He'd had to leave the fear of his work to live in fear of his anatomy.

  It had changed him. His wife had left him before the cancer diagnosis because he was too hard a man.

  Now he had softened, not to mush just to flesh and blood but it had not dulled any of his journalistic sharpness. He had the vital journalist's tool: an infallible nose for when things were not right. And he knew that the first suicide by a senior officer in the Jefatura meant that something, somewhere, was rotten. He was polite. He asked if he could put the dictaphone on the desk between them. He clicked it on and sat back with his notebook.

  Falcón did not say a word. He made an instant decision about Guzmán - this was a man he could trust and not just by reputation alone. He also thought, and he sniffed at his own naivety on this matter, that with only forty-eight hours left to make a case for Vega's murder, Guzmán, with his extensive experience, might be able to bring different information to the game which could develop into different leads and directions. All this might cost him something from the Montes inquiry, but then the exposure of corruption, and its cutting out, should be a good thing - shouldn't it?

  'So, Inspector Jefe, I understand that you are conducting the investigation into the death of your colleague, Inspector Jefe Alberto Montes?'

  Falcón said nothing for two long minutes during which Guzmán looked up, blinking like a subterranean animal.

  'I'm sorry, Inspector Jefe,' he said, shrugging into the flak jacket of his journalistic hardness, 'but that's the easiest opening question I can think of.'

  Falcón leaned over and turned off the dictaphone.

  'You know with that machine on I can only tell you the facts of the case.'

  'Well, that's a start,' said Guzmán, 'and then it will be up to me to extract the rest. That's how it goes where I come from.'

  'You know the facts already,' said Falcón. 'They are the newsworthy event of a police officer's fall to his death. It's the why that contains the human story.'

  'And what makes you think I'm looking for a human story and not, say, "a catalogue of corruption that reaches to the heart of regional government" story?'

  'It's possible that you'll end up with that sort of story, but you have to start with the human story to get there. You have to understand the thoughts that led a respected officer, who'd never shown any suicidal tendency, to take such drastic action.'

  'Do I?' said Guzmán. 'Normally we journalists, or rather journalists of my reputation, deal in facts. We report facts, we build on facts, we create a greater fact from the smaller facts we discover.'

  'Then turn on your machine and I will give you the fully corroborated facts of the death of a fellow officer who was much admired by his squad and superiors.'

  Guzmán laid down his notebook and pen on the desk and sat back assessing Falcón. He sensed that there were possibilities for him here if he could find the right words, and that the possibilities might not be only work related. He had arrived in Seville alone, admired and, he thought, respected by his fellow journalists, but alone. He could use a friend, and that was the possibility he saw on the other side of the desk.

  'I've always worked alone,' he said, after a minute's thought. 'I've had to, because working with somebody and their unpredictability in threatening situations was too dangerous. I only ever wanted to be responsible for m
y own thoughts and actions and not the victim of others'. I've spent too long in the company of men of violence to be thoughtless.'

  'In a human story such as this, there's always tragedy,' said Falcón. 'People feel hurt and betrayed, while others suffer loss and grief.'

  'If you remember, Inspector Jefe, I worked on the story of the Guardia Civil death squads sent out by the government to remove ETA terrorist cells. I understand the tragedy of a betrayal of values on the large and the human scale. The repercussions were felt everywhere.'

  'Conjecture is something that police officers have to indulge in to find a direction for their investigation, but it is not something that's allowable in court,' said Falcón.

  'I told you about my belief in facts,' said Guzmán, 'but you didn't seem to like it so much then.'

  'Information is a two-way street,' said Falcón, smiling for the first time.

  'Agreed.'

  'If you discover something inflammatory you will always tell me before it appears in your newspaper.'

  'I'll tell you, but I won't change it.'

  'The facts: I didn't know Montes until I went to see him last week. I was and still am investigating the death of Rafael Vega.'

  'The suspicious suicide out at Santa Clara,' said Guzmán, picking up his notebook and pointing the pen at Falcón. 'Pablo Ortega's neighbour. Crisis in the Garden City - that's not a headline, by the way.'

  'I came across a couple of names in an address book, one of whom was Eduardo Carvajal,' said Falcón.

  'The paedophile ring leader who died in a car crash,' said Guzmán. 'I always remember things that stink. Is your inquiry going to crack open that cesspit as well?'

  Falcón held up a hand, already nervous that he'd made some pact with the devil.

  'I knew the name from a previous investigation so I went to see Montes and asked him about Carvajal. He was the investigating officer on the Carvajal paedophile ring.'

  'Right. I get it. Very interesting,' said Guzmán, terrifying Falcón with the rapacity of his brain.