The air conditioning blasted into his chest. He set off down the narrow cobbled streets and broke out into the Plaza del Museo de Bellas Artes with its high trees surrounded by white and ochre facades and the terracotta brick of the museum. He came out of the old city heading for the river and cut right on to Avenida del Torneo. The vague outlines of Calatrava's 'Harp' bridge were visible in the distance through the morning's haze. He swung away from it and into the new city, grinding through the streets and buildings around the Santa Justa station. He headed out past the endless high-rise blocks of the Avenida de Kansas City thinking about the exclusive barrio where he was heading.
The Garden City of Santa Clara had been planned by the Americans to quarter their officers after the Strategic Air Command base was established near Seville, following Franco's signing of the Defense Pact of 1953. Some of the bungalows retained their 1950s aspect, others had been Hispanicized and a few, owned by the wealthy, had been torn down and rebuilt from scratch into palatial mansions. As far as Falcón remembered none of these changes had quite managed to rid the area of a pervasive unreality. It was to do with the houses being on their individual plots of land, together but isolated, which was not a Spanish phenomenon but rather like a suburban American estate. It was also, unlike the rest of Seville, almost eerily quiet.
Falcón parked in the shade of some overhanging greenery outside the modern house on Calle Frey Francisco de Pareja. Despite the terracotta brick facade and some ornate touches, it had the solidity of a fortress. He forced his foot not to falter at the first man he saw as he walked through the gate: Juez de Guardia Esteban Calderón, the duty judge. He hadn't worked with Calderón for over a year but that history was still fresh. They shook hands, clapped each other on the shoulder. He was astonished to find that the woman standing next to the judge was Consuelo Jiménez, who was a part of that same history. She was different from the middle-class woman he'd met the year before when he'd investigated her husband's murder. Her hair was now loose and with a more modern cut and she wore less make-up and jewellery. He couldn't understand what she was doing here.
The paramedics went back to their ambulance and pulled out a stretcher on a trolley. Falcón shook hands with the Médico Forense and the judge's secretary while Calderón asked the patrolman if there was any evidence of breaking and entering. The patrolman gave his report.
Consuelo Jiménez was fascinated by the new Javier Falcón. The Inspector Jefe was not wearing his trademark suit. He wore chinos and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to just below the elbows. He looked younger with his grey hair cut very short, a uniform length all over. Perhaps it was his seasonal style but she didn't think so. Falcón was feeling the weight of her interest. He disguised his unease by introducing another of his officers, Sub-Inspector Perez. There was a moment of nervous confusion in which Perez moved off.
'You're wondering what I'm doing here,' she said. 'I live across the street. I discovered the… I was with the gardener when he discovered Sr Vega lying on the kitchen floor.'
'But I thought you bought a house in Heliopolis?'
'Well, technically, it was Raúl who bought the house in Heliopolis… before he died,' she said. 'He wanted to be near his beloved Bétis stadium and I have no interest in football.'
'And how long have you been living here?'
'Nearly a year.'
'And you discovered the body'
'The gardener did, and we don't know that he's dead yet.'
'Does anybody keep a spare set of keys?'
'I doubt it,' she said.
'I'd better take a look at the body,' said Falcón.
Sr Vega was lying on his back. His dressing gown and pyjamas had come off his shoulders and were constricting his arms. His chest was bare and there seemed to be abrasions on the pectorals and abdomen. He had scratch marks at his throat. The man's face was pale and looked hard, the lips were grey and yellowish.
Falcón went back to Juez Calderón and the Médico Forense.
'He looks dead to me, but perhaps you'd like to take a look before we break down one of the doors,' he said. 'Do we know where his wife is?'
Consuelo explained the situation again.
'I think we have to go in,' said Falcón.
'You might have a job on your hands,' said Sra Jiménez. 'Lucia had new windows put in before last winter. They're double glazed with bulletproof glass. And that front door, if it's properly locked, you'd be better off going through solid wall.'
'You know this house?'
A woman appeared in the driveway. She was difficult to miss because she had red hair, green eyes and skin so white it was painful to look at in the brutality of the sunlight.
'Hola, Consuelo,' she said, homing in on her amongst all the official faces.
'Hola, Maddy,' said Consuelo, who introduced her to everybody as Madeleine Krugman, Sra Vega's next- door neighbour.
'Is there something wrong with Lucia or Rafael? I saw the ambulance. Can I do anything?'
All eyes were on Madeleine Krugman, and not just because she spoke Spanish with an American accent. She was tall and slender with a full bust, an unstarved bottom and the innate ability to give dull men extravagant imaginations. Only Falcón and Calderón had sufficient testosterone control to be able to look her in the eye, and that required concentration. Consuelo's nostrils flared with irritation.
'We need to get into this house very urgently, Sra Krugman,' said Calderón. 'Do you have a set of keys?'
'I don't, but… what's the matter with Rafael and Lucia?'
'Rafael's lying on the kitchen floor not moving,' said Consuelo. 'We don't know about Lucia.'
Madeleine Krugman's short intake of breath revealed a straight line of white teeth broken only by two sharp incisors. For a fraction of a second the invisible plates in the lithosphere of her face seemed to spasm.
'I have the telephone number of his lawyer. He gave it to me in case there was a problem with the house while they were on holiday,' she said. 'I'll have to go back home…'
She backed away and then turned to the gate. All eyes fastened on to her rump, which shivered slightly under the white linen of her flared trousers. A thin red belt like a line of blood encircled her waist. She disappeared behind the wall. Male noises, which had been suspended under the bell jar of her glamour, resumed.
'She's very beautiful, isn't she?' said Consuelo Jiménez, annoyed at her own need to draw attention back to herself.
'Yes,' said Falcón, 'and quite different to the beauty we're accustomed to around here. White. Translucent.'
'Yes,' said Consuelo, 'she's
very
white.'
'Do we know where the gardener is?' he asked.
'He's disappeared.'
'What do we know about him?'
'His name is Sergei,' she said. 'He's Russian or Ukrainian. We share him. The Vegas, the Krugmans, Pablo Ortega and me.'
'Pablo Ortega… the actor?' asked Calderón.
'Yes, he's just moved here,' she said. 'He's not very happy.'
'That doesn't surprise me.'
'Of course, it was you, wasn't it, Juez Calderón, who put his son in jail for twelve years?' said Consuelo. 'Terrible case that, terrible. But I didn't mean that when
I said… although I'm sure that's a contributing factor. There's a problem with his house and he finds the area a bit… dead after living in the centre of town.'
'Why did he move?' asked Falcón.
'Nobody in the barrio would talk to him any more.'
'Because of what his son did?' said Falcón. 'I don't remember this case…'
'Ortega's son kidnapped an eight-year-old boy,' said Calderón. 'He tied him up and abused him over several days.'
'But didn't kill him?' asked Falcón.
'The boy escaped,' said Calderón.
'In fact it was stranger than that,' said Consuelo. 'Ortega's son released him and then sat on the bed in the soundproofed room he'd prepared for the kidnap and waited for the police to arrive. He was lucky they got to him first.'
'They say he's having a hard time of it in prison,' said Calderón.
'I can't find any pity for people who destroy the innocence of children,' said Consuelo, savagely. 'They deserve everything they get.'
Madeleine Krugman returned with the telephone number. She was now wearing sunglasses as if protecting herself from her own painful whiteness.
'No name?' said Falcón, punching the number into his mobile.
'My husband says his name is Carlos Vázquez.' '
'And where's your husband?'
'At home.'
'When did Sr Vega give you this number?'
'Before he went to join Lucia and Mario on holiday last summer.' 'Is Mario the child who slept at your house last night, Sra Jiménez?'
'Yes.'
'Do the Vegas have any family in the Seville area?'
'Lucia's parents.'
Falcón broke away from the group and asked to speak to the lawyer.
'I am Inspector Jefe Javier Falcón,' he said. 'Your client, Sr Rafael Vega, is lying on his kitchen floor incapacitated, possibly dead. We need to get into his house.'
A long silence while Vázquez digested this devastating news.
'I'll be there in ten minutes,' he said. 'I advise you not to try to break in, Inspector Jefe, because it will certainly take you much longer.'
Falcón looked up at the impregnable house. There were two security cameras on the corners. He found two more at the back of the building.
'It seems the Vegas were very security conscious,' he said, rejoining the group. 'Cameras. Bulletproof windows. Solid front door.'
'He's a wealthy man,' said Consuelo.
'And Lucia is… well, neurotic to say the least,' said Maddy Krugman.
'Did you know Sr Vega before you moved here, Sra Jiménez?' asked Falcón.
'Of course. He told me that the house I eventually bought was going to come up for sale before it appeared on the market.'
'Were you friends or business associates?'
'Both.'
'What's his business?'
'Construction,' said Madeleine. 'That's why the house is built like a fort.'
'He's a client of mine at the restaurant in El Porvenir, ' said Consuelo. 'But I also knew him through Raúl. They were in the same business, as you know. They joined forces once on some developments in Triana years ago.'
'Did you know him just as a neighbour, Sra Krugman?'
'My husband is an architect. He's working on some projects for Sr Vega.'
A large silver Mercedes pulled up outside the house. A short, stocky man in a white long-sleeve shirt, dark tie and grey trousers got out. He introduced himself as Carlos Vázquez and ran his fingers through his prematurely white hair. He handed the keys to Falcón, who opened the door with a single turn. It had not been double locked.
The house seemed bleak and freezing after the heat of the street. Falcón asked Juez Calderón if he and the forensics could take a quick look before the Médico Forense started his work. He took Felipe and Jorge to the edge of the tiled floor of the kitchen. They looked, nodded to each other and backed away. Calderón had to prevent Carlos Vázquez from entering the kitchen and contaminating the crime scene. The lawyer didn't look as if he was used to having a hand placed on his chest by anybody but his wife in bed. The Médico Forense, already gloved, was ushered in. While he checked for a pulse and took the temperature of the body Falcón went outside and asked Consuelo and Madeleine if they would be available for interviews later. He made a note that Consuelo was still taking care of Vega's son, Mario.
The Médico Forense murmured into his dictaphone as he checked the ears, nose, eyes and mouth of the victim. He took a pair of tweezers and turned over the plastic bottle which lay close to the body's outstretched hand. It was a litre of drain cleaner.
Falcón backed away down the corridor and checked the downstairs rooms. The dining room was ultra modern. The table was a thick single sheet of opaque green glass mounted on two stainless steel arches. It was fully laid for ten people. The chairs were white, the floor was white, the walls and light fixtures were also white. In the chill of the air conditioning the dining experience must have been like the inside of a fridge, without the clutter of butter trays and old food. It did not seem to Falcón that any entertaining had ever taken place in this room.
The living room by comparison was like the inside of a confused person's head. Every surface was covered in bric-a-brac – souvenirs from around the world. Falcón saw holidays in which Vega obsessively filmed with the latest technology while his wife devastated the tourist shops. On the mid section of the sofa was a cordless phone, a box of chocolates with half a tray uneaten and three remotes for satellite, DVD and video. On the floor was a pair of pink fluffy slippers. The lights were off, as was the television.
Each of the stairs up to the bedrooms was made out of a slab of absolute black granite. He checked the glass- smooth surfaces as he moved slowly upwards. Nothing. The floor at the top of the stairs was made of black granite inlaid with diamonds of white marble. He was drawn to the door of the master bedroom. The double bed was occupied. A pillow lay over the face of the occupant whose arms lay outside the light duvet on the bed. There was a slim band of a wristwatch on an arm flung out as if reaching for help. A single visible foot had bright-red toenails. He went to the bedside and checked for a pulse while looking down on the two depressions in the pillow. Lucia Vega was dead, too.
There were three other rooms upstairs, all with bathrooms. One was empty, another had a double bed and the last belonged to Mario. The ceiling of the boy's room was painted with a night sky. An old, one-armed teddy bear lay face up on the bed.
Falcón reported the second dead body to Juez Calderón. The Médico Forense was kneeling by Sr Vega's side and working at prising his fingers apart.