must have taken pills. Conventional drain cleaner would take some time, wouldn't it?'
'Strange way to do it, if you ask me,' said Jorge, from the foot of the kitchen units.
'Well, I think this points to what we all saw when we first took a look at the crime scene,' said Falcón.
'It didn't look right,' said Felipe.
'I thought it was "off", too,' said Jorge.
'Nothing you can put your finger on?' said Falcón.
'It's always the same with these scenes,' said Felipe. 'It's what's missing that matters. I took one look at the floor and thought: No, I'm getting nothing from that.'
'Did you hear about the note?'
'Weird,' said Jorge.'"… the thin air you breathe…" what's that?' 'Sounds pure,' said Falcón.
'And the 9/11 stuff?' asked Jorge. 'We're a long way from New York.'
'He was probably bankrolling al-Qaeda,' said Felipe.
'Don't joke about it,' said Jorge. 'Anything can happen these days.'
'All I know is that this is wrong,' said Felipe. 'Not so wrong that I'm totally convinced that he was murdered, but wrong enough to make me suspicious.'
'The position of the bottle?' asked Falcón.
'Had it been me, I'd have drunk it and flung it across the room,' said Jorge. 'There should be droplets everywhere.'
'And there aren't any, except at the point where the bottle lay just over a metre from the body.'
'But there
are
some drops?'
'Yes, they've dripped from the neck of the bottle.'
'Any between the body and the bottle?'
'No,' said Felipe, 'which again is odd, but not… impossible.'
'Just as he could have thrashed around on the floor wiping away any latents and droplets with his dressing gown?'
'Ye-e-es,' said Felipe, unconvinced.
'Give me some conjecture, Felipe. I know you hate it, but just give me some.'
'We only deal in facts here,' said Felipe, 'because facts are the only things that stand up in court. Right, Inspector Jefe?'
'Come on, Felipe.'
'I'll say it,' said Jorge, getting to his feet. 'We all know what's missing from this crime scene and that is… a person. We're not sure what they did, or whether they were involved even. We just know that somebody was here.'
'So we have a phantom,' said Falcón. 'Any of you believe in ghosts?'
'Now they really don't go down well in a court of law,' said Felipe.
Chapter 3
Wednesday, 24th July 2002
Consuelo Jiménez opened the door to Javier Falcón and led him down the corridor to her L-shaped sitting room overlooking a manicured lawn, whose greenness was lurid in the bleaching sunlight. The water in the blue pool, with its necklace of white tiles, trembled against its confinement pushing silky rhomboids towards the garden house, whose walls and roof were blasted by purple bougainvillea.
Falcón stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors with his hands clasped behind his back, feeling self-consciously official. Consuelo sat on the sofa dressed in a tight cream silk skirt and a matching blouse. They were tense but oddly comfortable with each other.
'Do you like bougainvillea?' she asked.
'Yes,' he said, without thinking, 'it gives me hope.'
'I'm beginning to find it trite.'
'Perhaps you see too much of it here in Santa Clara,' said Falcón. 'And framed by these windows it looks like a painting that says nothing.'
'I could have a man endlessly diving naked into the pool and call it my Hockney
vivant,'
she said. 'Can I get you anything? I've made some iced tea.'
He nodded and looked at her figure as she went to the kitchen. His blood stirred at the sight of the muscles in her calves. He glanced around the room. There was a single painting on the wall of a large cerise canvas with a dark blue widening stripe diagonally across it. The surfaces of tables and a sideboard contained photographs of her children – individuals and grouped. Apart from a dark blue sofa which turned a right angle with the L-shaped room and an armchair there was little else. He turned back to the facile garden thinking that she'd mentioned Hockney because this barrio, in the
'Strange way to do it, if you ask me,' said Jorge, from the foot of the kitchen units.
'Well, I think this points to what we all saw when we first took a look at the crime scene,' said Falcón.
'It didn't look right,' said Felipe.
'I thought it was "off", too,' said Jorge.
'Nothing you can put your finger on?' said Falcón.
'It's always the same with these scenes,' said Felipe. 'It's what's missing that matters. I took one look at the floor and thought: No, I'm getting nothing from that.'
'Did you hear about the note?'
'Weird,' said Jorge.'"… the thin air you breathe…" what's that?' 'Sounds pure,' said Falcón.
'And the 9/11 stuff?' asked Jorge. 'We're a long way from New York.'
'He was probably bankrolling al-Qaeda,' said Felipe.
'Don't joke about it,' said Jorge. 'Anything can happen these days.'
'All I know is that this is wrong,' said Felipe. 'Not so wrong that I'm totally convinced that he was murdered, but wrong enough to make me suspicious.'
'The position of the bottle?' asked Falcón.
'Had it been me, I'd have drunk it and flung it across the room,' said Jorge. 'There should be droplets everywhere.'
'And there aren't any, except at the point where the bottle lay just over a metre from the body.'
'But there
are
some drops?'
'Yes, they've dripped from the neck of the bottle.'
'Any between the body and the bottle?'
'No,' said Felipe, 'which again is odd, but not… impossible.'
'Just as he could have thrashed around on the floor wiping away any latents and droplets with his dressing gown?'
'Ye-e-es,' said Felipe, unconvinced.
'Give me some conjecture, Felipe. I know you hate it, but just give me some.'
'We only deal in facts here,' said Felipe, 'because facts are the only things that stand up in court. Right, Inspector Jefe?'
'Come on, Felipe.'
'I'll say it,' said Jorge, getting to his feet. 'We all know what's missing from this crime scene and that is… a person. We're not sure what they did, or whether they were involved even. We just know that somebody was here.'
'So we have a phantom,' said Falcón. 'Any of you believe in ghosts?'
'Now they really don't go down well in a court of law,' said Felipe.
Chapter 3
Wednesday, 24th July 2002
Consuelo Jiménez opened the door to Javier Falcón and led him down the corridor to her L-shaped sitting room overlooking a manicured lawn, whose greenness was lurid in the bleaching sunlight. The water in the blue pool, with its necklace of white tiles, trembled against its confinement pushing silky rhomboids towards the garden house, whose walls and roof were blasted by purple bougainvillea.
Falcón stood in front of the floor-to-ceiling sliding doors with his hands clasped behind his back, feeling self-consciously official. Consuelo sat on the sofa dressed in a tight cream silk skirt and a matching blouse. They were tense but oddly comfortable with each other.
'Do you like bougainvillea?' she asked.
'Yes,' he said, without thinking, 'it gives me hope.'
'I'm beginning to find it trite.'
'Perhaps you see too much of it here in Santa Clara,' said Falcón. 'And framed by these windows it looks like a painting that says nothing.'
'I could have a man endlessly diving naked into the pool and call it my Hockney
vivant,'
she said. 'Can I get you anything? I've made some iced tea.'
He nodded and looked at her figure as she went to the kitchen. His blood stirred at the sight of the muscles in her calves. He glanced around the room. There was a single painting on the wall of a large cerise canvas with a dark blue widening stripe diagonally across it. The surfaces of tables and a sideboard contained photographs of her children – individuals and grouped. Apart from a dark blue sofa which turned a right angle with the L-shaped room and an armchair there was little else. He turned back to the facile garden thinking that she'd mentioned Hockney because this barrio, in the
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