She shouldn’t be so hard on him. She held on to her side and squeezed her eyes shut at a jab of pain in her kidney.
The door swung open, the feet came back into the room. His presence made her shrink. He took fresh socks and pants from the drawer and put them on. Hestepped into a pair of trousers and took a crisp, white shirt, ironed by the laundry where he still sent his clothes. He shook it out and drove his arms into the sleeves, shot the cuffs. He whipped a crimson tie into a perfect knot. He was efficient, vigorous and precise. He rammed those brutal feet into a pair of shoes, threw on a jacket—his savagery now perfectly disguised.
‘I’m working late tonight,’ he said, his tone back to normal.
The apartment door clicked shut. Inés crawled out from under the bed and flopped against the wall. She sat with her legs splayed out, her hands helpless by her sides. The first sob jolted her away from the wall.
5
Seville—Tuesday, 6th June 2006, 06.30 hrs
Falcón came to in the profound darkness of his shuttered bedroom. He lay there in his private universe, contemplating last night’s events. After the disappointment at Consuelo’s restaurant the drink with Laura had gone better than expected. They’d agreed to see each other as friends. She was only a little offended that he was ending their affair with, as he’d told her, no other prospect in sight.
He showered and put on a dark suit and white shirt and folded a tie into his pocket. He had meetings planned all morning after he’d been to see the Médico Forense. It was a morning of shimmering brilliance, with not a cloud in the sky. The rain had cleansed the atmosphere of all that puzzling electricity.
A temperature gauge outside in the street told him it was 16°C while the radio warned that a great heat was about to descend on Seville and by evening they should expect temperatures in excess of 36°C.
The Forensic Institute was next to the Hospital de la Macarena behind the Andalucían Parliament, which itself looked across the road to the Basilica de laMacarena, just inside the old city walls. At 8.15 a.m. Falcón was early, but the Médico Forense had already arrived.
Dr Pintado had the file open on his desk and was reminding himself of the detail of the autopsy. They shook hands, sat down and he resumed his reading.
‘What I concentrated on in this case,’ he said, still scanning the pages, ‘apart from the cause of death, which was straightforward—he was poisoned with potassium cyanide—was giving you as much help as possible on the identification of the body.’
‘Potassium cyanide?’ said Falcón. ‘That’s not exactly in keeping with the ruthlessness of the post-mortem operations. Was it injected?’
‘No, ingested,’ said Pintado, other things on his mind. ‘The face…I might be able to help you with that, or rather I have a friend who is interested in helping. You remember I was telling you about a case I handled in Bilbao, where they made a facial model from a skull found in a shallow grave?’
‘It cost a fortune.’
‘That’s right, and you don’t get resources like that for any old murder.’
‘So how much does your friend cost?’
‘He’s free.’
‘And who is he?’
‘He’s a sort of sculptor, but he’s not that interested in the body, just faces.’
‘Would I have heard of him?’
‘No. He’s strictly amateur. His name is Miguel Covo. He’s seventy-four years old and retired,’ said Pintado. ‘But he’s been working with faces for nearly sixty years. He builds them out of clay, makes moulds for wax, andcarves them out of stone, although that’s quite a recent development.’
‘What’s he proposing and why is it free?’
‘Well, he’s never done this kind of thing before, but he wants to try,’ said Pintado. ‘I let him take a plaster cast of the head last night.’
‘OK, so there’s no decision,’ said Falcón.
‘He’ll make up a half-dozen models, do some sketches and then
The door swung open, the feet came back into the room. His presence made her shrink. He took fresh socks and pants from the drawer and put them on. Hestepped into a pair of trousers and took a crisp, white shirt, ironed by the laundry where he still sent his clothes. He shook it out and drove his arms into the sleeves, shot the cuffs. He whipped a crimson tie into a perfect knot. He was efficient, vigorous and precise. He rammed those brutal feet into a pair of shoes, threw on a jacket—his savagery now perfectly disguised.
‘I’m working late tonight,’ he said, his tone back to normal.
The apartment door clicked shut. Inés crawled out from under the bed and flopped against the wall. She sat with her legs splayed out, her hands helpless by her sides. The first sob jolted her away from the wall.
5
Seville—Tuesday, 6th June 2006, 06.30 hrs
Falcón came to in the profound darkness of his shuttered bedroom. He lay there in his private universe, contemplating last night’s events. After the disappointment at Consuelo’s restaurant the drink with Laura had gone better than expected. They’d agreed to see each other as friends. She was only a little offended that he was ending their affair with, as he’d told her, no other prospect in sight.
He showered and put on a dark suit and white shirt and folded a tie into his pocket. He had meetings planned all morning after he’d been to see the Médico Forense. It was a morning of shimmering brilliance, with not a cloud in the sky. The rain had cleansed the atmosphere of all that puzzling electricity.
A temperature gauge outside in the street told him it was 16°C while the radio warned that a great heat was about to descend on Seville and by evening they should expect temperatures in excess of 36°C.
The Forensic Institute was next to the Hospital de la Macarena behind the Andalucían Parliament, which itself looked across the road to the Basilica de laMacarena, just inside the old city walls. At 8.15 a.m. Falcón was early, but the Médico Forense had already arrived.
Dr Pintado had the file open on his desk and was reminding himself of the detail of the autopsy. They shook hands, sat down and he resumed his reading.
‘What I concentrated on in this case,’ he said, still scanning the pages, ‘apart from the cause of death, which was straightforward—he was poisoned with potassium cyanide—was giving you as much help as possible on the identification of the body.’
‘Potassium cyanide?’ said Falcón. ‘That’s not exactly in keeping with the ruthlessness of the post-mortem operations. Was it injected?’
‘No, ingested,’ said Pintado, other things on his mind. ‘The face…I might be able to help you with that, or rather I have a friend who is interested in helping. You remember I was telling you about a case I handled in Bilbao, where they made a facial model from a skull found in a shallow grave?’
‘It cost a fortune.’
‘That’s right, and you don’t get resources like that for any old murder.’
‘So how much does your friend cost?’
‘He’s free.’
‘And who is he?’
‘He’s a sort of sculptor, but he’s not that interested in the body, just faces.’
‘Would I have heard of him?’
‘No. He’s strictly amateur. His name is Miguel Covo. He’s seventy-four years old and retired,’ said Pintado. ‘But he’s been working with faces for nearly sixty years. He builds them out of clay, makes moulds for wax, andcarves them out of stone, although that’s quite a recent development.’
‘What’s he proposing and why is it free?’
‘Well, he’s never done this kind of thing before, but he wants to try,’ said Pintado. ‘I let him take a plaster cast of the head last night.’
‘OK, so there’s no decision,’ said Falcón.
‘He’ll make up a half-dozen models, do some sketches and then
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