The Blind Man of Seville. Robert Thomas Wilson
is very weird,’ she said, pointing at the screen with her cigarette fingers.
‘Did you notice anything?’ asked Falcón.
‘I don’t know whether you’ve put things into my head, but I do remember something now,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘It was just a change of light, a shadow wobbling. In my business that’s what I’m frightened of … when the shadows move.’
‘When darkness has a life of its own,’ said Falcón, the words out unsupervised so that Ramírez and the girl checked him for oddness. ‘But you didn’t react … to these shadow moves?’
‘I thought it was something in my head and anyway I think he reached his moment about then and that distracted me.’
‘And afterwards?’
‘I cleaned up in his bathroom and left.’
‘Did he lock the door behind you?’
‘Yes. The same as when he locked it the first time. Five or six turns. I heard him take the keys out, too. Then the lift came.’
‘What time was it?’
‘I don’t think it was much after one o’clock. I was back in the Alameda with another client by half-past one.’
‘Fifty thousand,’ said Ramírez. ‘That’s a good hourly rate.’
‘It might take you a while before you could earn that amount,’ she said, and they both laughed.
‘What’s your mobile number?’ asked Falcón, and they both laughed again until they saw he was serious and Eloisa rattled it out for him.
‘So,’ said Ramírez, still good-humoured, ‘that seems to be everything … except I’m sure she’s left something out, aren’t you, Inspector Jefe?’
Falcón didn’t react to Ramírez’s brutal game. The girl looked away from him and back to where she’d suddenly felt the threat.
‘I’ve told you everything that happened,’ she said.
‘Except the most important thing,’ said Ramírez. ‘You didn’t tell us when you let him into the apartment.’
It took a few seconds for the implication of that mild statement to penetrate and then her face went as hard as a death mask.
‘I thought you were too good to be true,’ she said.
‘I’m not good,’ said Ramírez, ‘and nor are you. You know what the guy did — the one you let into the apartment? He tortured an old man to death. He put your Don Rafael through some of the worst suffering that we’ve ever come across in our police careers. No, it wasn’t just a shot to the head, not a knife in the heart, but slow, brutal … torture.’
‘I didn’t let anyone into that apartment.’
‘You said he left the keys in the door,’ said Falcón.
‘I didn’t let anyone into that apartment.’
‘You said you saw something,’ said Ramírez.
‘You made me think I saw something, but I didn’t.’
‘The light changed,’ said Ramírez.
‘The shadows moved,’ said Falcón.
‘I didn’t let anybody in,’ she said slowly. ‘It happened just as I told you.’
They terminated the interview just before 16.30. Falcón sent Ramírez off with the girl to find a policewoman to supervise a pubic hair match with the Policía Científica. As they left he heard Ramírez talking to her as if she were an old friend and they were heading for a cervecita except the words were different.
‘No, I tell you, Eloisa, if I was you I’d drop the guy, drop him like a hot rock. If he can kill a guy like that he can kill you. He can kill you without feeling a damn thing. So you watch yourself. You get any suspicions, any doubts, you give me a call.’
Falcón went to his office and called Baena and Serrano to see if they’d found any witnesses outside the Edificio Presidente. None. Few people around. Shops closed. Most of the locals in the centre of town for the processions.
He hung up, cracked his knuckles one after the other, a habit that Inés had loathed but it was an unconscious act, something he did to steady his brain. It had made her writhe.
Falcón called Comisario Lobo, who told him to make an appearance in his office. On the way to the lift he saw Ramírez and told him to get the paperwork ready for the meeting with Juez Calderón. He went up to the top floor. Lobo’s secretary, one of those minimalist Sevillanas who reserved all her extravagance for after office hours, sent him in with a flick of an eyelash.
Lobo was facing the window, hands behind his back, doing knee bends while he took in the greenery of the Parque de los Príncipes across the street. He was short and stocky with large, hairy agricultural hands. He had a bull neck and grey, industrial hair. He’d always worn heavy black-framed glasses from a lost era until last year when his wife had persuaded him into contact lenses. It was an attempt at image improvement which had failed because his eyes were the colour of mud and the lack of frames had made his nose look more hooked, revealing more of his brutal face than most wanted to see. He had thin lips, which were only two shades darker than his cumin complexion. He looked more criminal than most of the people in the holding cells, but he was a good manager and a direct talker, who always supported his officers.
‘You know what this is about?’ he said, over his shoulder.
‘Raúl Jiménez.’
‘No, Inspector Jefe, it’s about Comisario León.’
‘He was in the photographs in Jiménez’s study.’
‘Who was he in bed with?’
‘They weren’t those sort of …’
‘I’m joking, Inspector Jefe,’ said Lobo. ‘You probably saw a lot of other funcionarios in those photos.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘Did you see me?’
‘No, Comisario.’
‘Because I’m not in them, Inspector Jefe,’ he said, walking quickly to his desk.
They sat down; Lobo clasped his hands as if about to crush small heads.
‘You weren’t here at the time of the 1992 Expo?’ he said.
‘I was in Zaragoza by then.’
‘A very different situation existed here at Expo ‘92 than at the Barcelona Olympics. There, I’m sure you will recall, the Catalans made a profit. Whilst here, the Andalucians made a staggering loss.’
‘There was talk of corruption.’
‘Talk!’ roared Lobo savagely. ‘Not just talk, Inspector Jefe. There was corruption. There was so much corruption that if you weren’t making millions it was an embarrassment. Such an embarrassment that those who hadn’t managed to stuff their pockets went out and hired Mercedes and BMWs to make it look as if they had.’
‘I didn’t realize.’
‘And it wasn’t just the locals. The Madrileños were down here in force, too. They could see a certain attitude was prevailing. A slackness. A lack of attention to detail that could be financially exploited.’
‘How is this relevant ten years later?’
‘Do you remember how many people were brought to book over that?’
‘I don’t recall, Comisario.’
‘None!’ said Lobo, whacking the desk with his clasped hands. ‘Not one.’
‘Hermanos Lorenzo,’ said Falcón. ‘Construction.’