The Hidden Assassins Page 25

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m still a little tired. Can you repeat that?’

  ‘Last night, did you think about what I told you to?’

  ‘I’m not sure that I remember what I told…what you told me to think about.’

  ‘Something that made you happy.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I did that.’

  ‘Have you been taking drugs, Consuelo? You’re very slow this morning.’

  ‘I took a sleeping pill at three this morning.’

  ‘Why couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘I was too happy.’

  Aguado went to the kitchen and made a powerful café solo and gave it to Consuelo, who knocked it back.

  ‘You have to be sharp for our meetings, or there’s no point,’ said Aguado. ‘You have to be in touch with yourself.’

  Aguado stood in front of Consuelo, tilted her face up, as if she were positioning a small child for a kiss, and pressed her thumbs into her forehead. Consuelo’s vision brightened. Aguado sat back down.

  ‘Why couldn’t you sleep?’

  ‘I was thinking too much.’

  ‘About all those things that made you “too happy”?’

  ‘Happiness is not my normal condition. I needed a respite.’

  ‘What is your normal condition?’

  ‘I don’t know. I cover it too well.’

  ‘Are you listening to yourself?’

  ‘I can’t help it. I have no resistance.’

  ‘So you didn’t do what I told you to do last night.’

  ‘I told you. Happiness is not my normal condition.

  ‘I’m not drawn to it.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I watched my children sleeping.’

  ‘What does that tell you about the condition that you are drawn to?’

  ‘It’s uncomfortable.’

  ‘Do you drive yourself hard in your work?’

  ‘Of course, it’s the only way to be successful.’

  ‘Why is success important to you?’

  ‘It’s an easier measure…’

  ‘Than what?’

  Panic rose in Consuelo’s constricting throat.

  ‘It’s easier to measure one’s success in business than it is to measure, or rather to see…perceive…You know what I’m trying to say.’

  ‘I want you to say it.’

  Consuelo shifted in her half of the seat, took a deep breath.

  ‘I balance my failures as a person by showing the world my brilliance in business.’

  ‘So, what is your success to you?’

  ‘It’s my cover. People will admire me for that, whereas if they knew who I really was, what I had done, they would despise me.’

  ‘Do your three children sleep in separate bedrooms?’

  ‘Now they do, yes. The two older boys need their own space.’

  ‘When you watch them sleeping, who do you spend most time with?’

  ‘The youngest, Darío.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He is still very close to me.’

  ‘Is there an age gap?’

  ‘He’s four years younger than Matías.’

  ‘Do you love him more than the other two?’

  ‘I know I shouldn’t, but I do.’

  ‘Does he look more like you or your late husband?’

  ‘Like me.’

  ‘Have you always looked at your children sleeping?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, thinking about it. ‘But it’s only become…obsessive in the last five years, since my husband was murdered.’

  ‘Did you look at them any differently, compared to now?’

  ‘Before, I would look at them and think: these are my beautiful creations. Only after Raúl’s death did I begin to sit amongst them—I put them all in the same room for a while—and, yes, it was then that the pain started. But it’s not a bad pain.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘I don’t know. Not all pain is bad. In the same way that not all sadness is terrible and not all happiness that great.’

  ‘Talk me through that,’ said Aguado. ‘When is sadness not so terrible?’

  ‘Melancholy can be a desirable state. I’ve had affairs with men which have satisfied me while they lasted and when they finished I was sad, but with the knowledge that it was for the best.’

  ‘When can happiness not be so great?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Consuelo, twirling her free hand. ‘Maybe when a woman comes out of a courtroom saying that she’s “happy” her son’s killer was sentenced to life imprisonment. I wouldn’t call that…’

  ‘I’d like you to personalize that for me.’

  ‘My sister thinks I’m happy. She sees me as a healthy, wealthy and successful woman with three children. When I told her about our sessions she was stunned. She said: “If you’re nuts, what hope is there for the rest of us?”’

  ‘But when do you see your happiness as not being so great?’

  ‘That’s what I mean,’ said Consuelo. ‘I should be happy now, but I’m not. I have everything anybody could wish for.’

  ‘What about love?’

  ‘My children give me all the love I need.’

  ‘Do they?’ asked Aguado. ‘Don’t you think that children take a lot of loving? You are their guiding light in the nurturing process, you teach them and give them confidence to face the world. They reward you with unconditional love because they are conditioned to do that, but they don’t know what love is. Don’t you think that children are essentially selfish?’

  ‘You don’t have children, Alicia.’

  ‘We’re not here to talk about me. And not every point of view that comes from me is my own,’ said Aguado. ‘Do you think life can be complete without adult love?’

  ‘A lot of women have come to the conclusion that it can be,’ said Consuelo. ‘Ask all those battered wives we have in Spain. They’ll tell you that love can be the death of you.’

  ‘You don’t look like the battered type.’

  ‘Not physically.’

  ‘Have you suffered mental torment from a man?’

  A tremor shuddered through Consuelo and Aguado’s fingers jumped off her wrist. Consuelo thought that she’d kept the content of this session at a remove. What she’d been saying was in her head, of course, but it was confined there, fenced in. But now somehow it had broken out. It was as if the mad cows had realized the flimsiness of the barriers and crashed through to stampede around her body. She felt the wild terror of yesterday. The sense of coming apart—or was it the fear of something that had been contained getting loose?

  ‘Keep calm, Consuelo,’ said Aguado.

  ‘I don’t know where this fear comes from. I’m not even sure whether it’s associated with what I’ve been saying, or if it’s from some other source that’s suddenly leaked into the mainstream.’

  ‘Try to put it into words. That’s all you can do.’

  ‘I’ve become suspicious of myself. I’m beginning to think that a large chunk of my existence has been kept satisfied, or perhaps tied down, by some illusion that I’ve devised to keep myself going.’

  ‘Most people prefer the illusory state. It’s less complicated to live a life feeding off TV and magazines,’ said Aguado. ‘But it’s not for you, Consuelo.’

  ‘How do you know? Maybe it’s too late to start breaking things down and rebuilding them.’

  ‘I’m afraid it’s too late for you to stop,’ said Aguado. ‘That’s why you’ve ended up here. You’re like someone who’s walked down an alleyway and seen a naked foot sticking out of a rubbish bin. You want to forget about it. You don’t want to get involved. But unfortunately you’ve seen the foot too clearly and you’ll get no peace until the matter is resolved.’

  ‘The reason I came here was because of the man in the Plaza del Pumarejo—my bizarre…attraction to him and its danger to me. Now we’ve talked about other things, unrelated to that, and I have the feeling that I’ve got nowhere to go. Nowhere in my head is safe. Only
my work takes my mind elsewhere, and that’s only temporary. Even my children have become potentially dangerous.’

  ‘None of it is unrelated,’ said Aguado. ‘I’m teasing out the threads from the tangled knot. Eventually we’ll find the source and, once you’ve seen it and understood it, you’ll be able to move on to a happier life. This terror has its rewards.’

  Inés woke up in a convulsion of fear. She blinked, taking in the room a piece at a time. Esteban wasn’t there. His pillow was undented. She creaked up on an elbow and threw off the sheet. The pain made her whimper. She panted like a runner, summoning energy for the next lap, the next level of pain.

  There didn’t seem to be a pain-free position. She had to think her way around her body, trying to find new pathways to limbs and organs that didn’t hurt. She got up on to all fours and gasped, hanging her head, staring down the tunnel of her falling hair. Tears blurred her vision. There was a circle of diluted red on her pillow. She got a foot down on to the floor and slid off the bed. She shuffled to the mirror and pushed her hair back. She could not believe it was her head on top of that body.

  The contusions were gross. An abstract of purple, blue, black and yellow had spread out over her entire chest area and now joined the bruise on her torso, which reached down as far as her pubic hair. It was true, she did bruise easily. It wasn’t as bad as it looked. The pain was more from stiffness than actual damage. A warm shower would help.

  In the bathroom she caught sight of her back and buttocks. The welts looked angrier and uglier. She would have to disinfect the punctures left by the buckle. How easily this new regime came to her. She ran the water, held her hand—still puffy from where her finger had been bent back—underneath the flow. She stepped in and held on to the mixer tap, gasping at the pain of the water falling on her. She wouldn’t be able to wear a bra this morning.

  Tears came. She sank to the floor of the shower. The water seethed through her hair. What had happened to her? She couldn’t even think of herself in the first person singular any more, she was so distant from the woman she used to be. She slapped the shower off and crawled out like a beaten dog.

  She found reserves she didn’t know she had. She took painkillers. She was going to work. It was impossible to stay in the hell of this apartment. She dried herself off, got dressed and made up. Nothing showed. She went out and caught a cab.

  The driver talked about the bomb. He was angry. He hit his steering wheel. He called them bastards, without knowing who ‘they’ were. He said that the time had come to stop fucking about and teach these people a lesson. Inés didn’t engage. She sat in the back, gnawing at the inside of her cheek, thinking how much she needed somebody to talk to. She went through all her friends. They were hopeless. Not one could she describe as intimate. Her colleagues? All good people, but not right for this. Family? She couldn’t bear to reveal her failure. And it came to her out of the blue, a thought she’d never allowed herself before: her mother was a stupid person and her father a pompous ass who thought he was an intellectual.

  The office was empty. She was relieved. Her schedule told her she had two meetings and then nothing. She’d made sure there was nothing because she had to prepare for a court appearance the next day. She headed for the door and one of her male colleagues blundered in with an armful of files. The pain of their collision detonated in her head. Fainting seemed like the only option to wipe clean the pain circuit. She dropped and held on to her foot as a distraction. Her colleague was all over her, saying he was sorry. She left without a word.

  Meetings passed. Only at the end of the second one did the judge ask her if she was all right. She went to the lavatory and tried to ignore the trickle of blood she saw slowly dissipating in the water. Her period? She hadn’t had one. It wasn’t due. She didn’t care. She took more painkillers.

  She went across the avenue to the Murillo Gardens. She knew what she was after: she wanted to see the whore again. She wasn’t sure why. One part of her wanted to show the whore what he’d done to her, the other part…What did the other part want?

  The whore wasn’t there. It was hot. The street signs told her it was 39°C at 11.45. She walked through the Barrio Santa Cruz, amongst the ambling tourists. How was she going to find the whore? The painkillers were good. Her mind floated free of her body. Reality eased off a few notches. It hadn’t occurred to her that painkillers killed all manner of pain.

  Her lips tingled and did not feel like her own. Street sounds came to her muffled, her vision was soft focus. She was being drawn along by a great multitude of people who were crowding into the Avenida de la Constitución and heading for the Plaza Nueva. They carried banners, which she couldn’t read because they were turned away from her. In the square there were hundreds of placards held up in the air, which said simply: PAZ. Peace. Yes, she would like some of that.

  The clock struck midday and the crowd fell totally silent. She walked amongst them, wondering what had happened, looking into their faces for signs. They returned her gaze, stone-faced. The traffic noise had stopped, too. There was only the sound of birds. It was quite beautiful, she thought, that people should be gathering together to ask for peace. She wandered out of the square just as people returned to a state of animation and the murmur of humanity rose up behind her. She went down Calle Zaragoza thinking she would go to El Cairo for something to eat. They liked her in El Cairo. She thought they liked her in El Cairo. But everybody liked everybody else in bars in Seville.

  It was then that she saw the whore. Not the whore herself, but a photograph. She stepped back into the street, confused. Could whores do that now? Advertise themselves in shop windows? They pipe porn into your living room after midnight now, but do they let whores tout for business like this? She was surprised to find it was an art gallery.

  A car gave her a light toot. She stepped back up to the window. She read the card next to the photograph: Marisa. Just that—Marisa. How old was she? The card didn’t say. That’s what everybody wants to know these days. How old are you? They want to see your beauty. They need to know your age. And if you’re talented, that’s a bonus, but the first two are crucial for the marketing.

  Beyond the window display was a young woman at a desk. Inés went in. She heard her heels on the marble floor. She’d forgotten to look at the whore’s work, but she was committed now.

  ‘I love that Marisa,’ she heard herself say. ‘I just love her.’

  The young woman was pleased. Inés was well dressed and seemed harebrained enough to pay the ridiculous prices. They veered off together to admire Marisa’s work—two woodcarvings. Inés encouraged the woman to talk, and in a matter of minutes had found out where Marisa had her workshop.

  Inés had no idea what she should do with this information. She went to El Cairo and ordered a stuffed piquillo pepper and a glass of water. She toyed with the bright red pepper, which looked obscene, like a pointed, inquisitive tongue looking for a moist aperture. She hacked it up and forked it into her cottonwool mouth.

  She went home, turned on the air conditioning and lay on the bed. She slept and woke up in the chill of the apartment, having dreamt and been left with an overwhelming sense of loneliness. She had never been as lonely as in that dream. It occurred to her that she would only be as lonely as that in death.

  The painkillers had worn off and she was stiff with cold. She realized that she was talking to herself and was fascinated to know what she’d been saying.

  It was 4.30 in the afternoon. She should go to the office and work on the case, but there didn’t seem much point now. For some reason tomorrow had begun to seem unlikely.

  She heard herself say: ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ She went to the kitchen and drank water and swallowed more painkillers. She came out of the apartment and into the street, which was thick with heat after the thin, chilled air inside. She caught a cab and heard her voice ask the cab driver to take her to Calle Bustos Tavera. Why had she asked to be taken there? There was nothing to be gained…

&nb
sp; There was something jutting out of the gathered neck of her handbag, which she held on her lap. She didn’t recognize what it was. She pulled open the bag and saw a steel button set flush in a black handle and a straight steel blade next to her hairbrush. She looked up at the driver, their eyes connected via the rear-view mirror.

  ‘Have you seen that?’ said the driver.

  ‘What?’ said Inés, in shock at the sight of the knife. But he was pointing out of the window.

  ‘People hanging hams outside their front doors,’ he said. ‘If they can’t afford them, they’re hanging pictures of hams. A ham manufacturer in Andalucía is distributing them. This guy on the radio was saying it’s a passive form of protest. It goes back to the fifteenth century when the Moors were driven out of Andalucía and the Catholic Kings promoted the cooking and eating of pork to signify the end of Islamic domination. They’re calling today El Día de los Jamones. What do you think of that?’

  ‘I think…I don’t know what I think,’ said Inés, fingering the knife handle.

  The driver switched the radio to another station. Flamenco music filled the cab.

  ‘I can’t listen to too much talk about the bomb,’ he said. ‘It makes me wonder who I’ve got in the back of my cab.’

  22

  Seville—Wednesday, 7th June 2006, 16.00 hrs

  Yesterday’s emotionally charged workload, followed by the three evening meetings, an uneven night’s sleep, the flight and the tension caused by the uncertainty of his mission had left Falcón completely drained. He’d briefly told Pablo that Yacoub had agreed to act for them, but not without conditions, then he’d hit his seat in the Lear jet and passed out instantly.

  They landed at Seville airport just before 2.30 p.m. and split up agreeing to meet later that night. Back at home, Falcón showered and changed. His housekeeper had left him a fish stew, which he ate with a glass of cold red wine. He called Ramírez, who told him there was to be another big meeting at 4.30 p.m. and gave him a very thin update, of which the best news was that Lourdes, the girl they’d pulled out of the wreckage yesterday, had regained consciousness for a few minutes just after midday. She was going to be all right. There was no news on the electricians or the council inspectors, except that Elvira had arranged a press release and there’d been announcements on TV and radio. Nothing extraordinary had come out of the interviews with the Informáticalidad sales reps. The one remarkable element in Ramírez’s report was his praise for Juez Calderón, who had been handling a very aggressive media.