heard from her … no.’
‘Are you worried about her?’
She shrugged and for some reason Falcón didn't think he was going to believe what he heard next.
‘We weren't very close, which was why she left the first time without telling me.’
‘Is that right?’ said Falcón, locking eyes with her across the studio. ‘So what did you do when she left the second time?’
‘I finished the course I was doing at the Bella Artes, rented out my mother's apartment, which my sister and I had inherited…’
‘Is that where you live now, in Calle Hiniesta?’
‘And I went to Africa,’ she said, nodding. ‘Mali, Niger, Nigeria, Cameroon, the Congo, until it got too dangerous and then I went to Mozambique.’
‘What about the Touaregs … didn't you spend some time with them?’
Silence, as she registered that he'd heard that from someone else.
‘If you know all this, Inspector Jefe, why are you asking me?’
‘I know it, but hearing it from you arranges the furniture.’
‘I let you in here to talk about my sister.’
‘Who you're not close to.’
‘You seem to have expanded your interests since you started using up my work time.’
‘And then there was New York …?’
She grunted. Puffed on the cigar to get it going again.
‘You've been talking to Esteban, haven't you?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I lied to him about New York,’ she said. ‘I saw a movie about an artist starring Nick Nolte, and I assumed the role of his assistant. I've never been to New York.’
‘Did you lie to him about anything else?’
‘Probably. I had an image to live up to.’
‘An image?’
‘That's how most of the men I've spent any time with see women.’
‘You described Esteban Calderón as your lover to Inspector Jefe Zorrita.’
‘He was then … still is, kind of, although prison doesn't help,’ she said. ‘I'm sorry he killed his wife. He was always so controlled, you know, still passionate in the way Sevillanos are, but a lawyer, too, and with a lawyer's mentality.’
‘So you think he did it?’
‘What I think doesn't matter. It's what Inspector Jefe Zorrita thinks that matters,’ she said, and something clicked in her mind. ‘That's it, I've got it now. It was your ex-wife that Esteban murdered. That's interesting.’
‘Is it?’
‘I don't know what you're doing here,’ she said, puffing on her cigar, appraising him anew.
‘Was your sister with a boyfriend when she left the second time?’
‘There was always a man involved with Margarita.’
‘Pretty girl?’
‘That … and the other thing.’
‘Sex?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Marisa, who went over to a small plans chest, opened a drawer and slapped a sheaf of photos down on the top. She was going to let him in, or rather let him think that she was opening up. ‘Take a look. I took these three weeks before her eighteenth birthday.’
Falcón flicked through the shots. A sadness lodged itself in his chest. It wasn't sex, despite the provocative nudity. Even when she was lying back, legs splayed, she had an innocence about her. An innocence that itched to be desecrated in the eyes of men. That was why Marisa had taken the shots and only Marisa could have taken them. Even in the most pornographic of poses Margarita never lost her childlike purity, whereas the viewer, or the voyeur, felt the beast rise up on its hind legs and dance on its furry hooves.
‘For a Sevillano, you don't say very much, Inspector Jefe.’
‘Nothing to add,’ he said, giving up on the shots halfway through, feeling the woman's intention and not flattered by it. ‘They do their work.’
‘You're the first person to see those.’
‘I'd like a shot of Margarita with some clothes on,’ he said, ‘so that we can begin to look for her.’
‘She's not lost any more,’ said Marisa. ‘She doesn't need to be found.’
‘I'm sure you'd like to hear from her, though, wouldn't you?’
Another shrug from Marisa, something very uneasy about her. She handed over a head-and-shoulders shot of her
‘Are you worried about her?’
She shrugged and for some reason Falcón didn't think he was going to believe what he heard next.
‘We weren't very close, which was why she left the first time without telling me.’
‘Is that right?’ said Falcón, locking eyes with her across the studio. ‘So what did you do when she left the second time?’
‘I finished the course I was doing at the Bella Artes, rented out my mother's apartment, which my sister and I had inherited…’
‘Is that where you live now, in Calle Hiniesta?’
‘And I went to Africa,’ she said, nodding. ‘Mali, Niger, Nigeria, Cameroon, the Congo, until it got too dangerous and then I went to Mozambique.’
‘What about the Touaregs … didn't you spend some time with them?’
Silence, as she registered that he'd heard that from someone else.
‘If you know all this, Inspector Jefe, why are you asking me?’
‘I know it, but hearing it from you arranges the furniture.’
‘I let you in here to talk about my sister.’
‘Who you're not close to.’
‘You seem to have expanded your interests since you started using up my work time.’
‘And then there was New York …?’
She grunted. Puffed on the cigar to get it going again.
‘You've been talking to Esteban, haven't you?’
‘How do you know?’
‘I lied to him about New York,’ she said. ‘I saw a movie about an artist starring Nick Nolte, and I assumed the role of his assistant. I've never been to New York.’
‘Did you lie to him about anything else?’
‘Probably. I had an image to live up to.’
‘An image?’
‘That's how most of the men I've spent any time with see women.’
‘You described Esteban Calderón as your lover to Inspector Jefe Zorrita.’
‘He was then … still is, kind of, although prison doesn't help,’ she said. ‘I'm sorry he killed his wife. He was always so controlled, you know, still passionate in the way Sevillanos are, but a lawyer, too, and with a lawyer's mentality.’
‘So you think he did it?’
‘What I think doesn't matter. It's what Inspector Jefe Zorrita thinks that matters,’ she said, and something clicked in her mind. ‘That's it, I've got it now. It was your ex-wife that Esteban murdered. That's interesting.’
‘Is it?’
‘I don't know what you're doing here,’ she said, puffing on her cigar, appraising him anew.
‘Was your sister with a boyfriend when she left the second time?’
‘There was always a man involved with Margarita.’
‘Pretty girl?’
‘That … and the other thing.’
‘Sex?’
‘Not exactly,’ said Marisa, who went over to a small plans chest, opened a drawer and slapped a sheaf of photos down on the top. She was going to let him in, or rather let him think that she was opening up. ‘Take a look. I took these three weeks before her eighteenth birthday.’
Falcón flicked through the shots. A sadness lodged itself in his chest. It wasn't sex, despite the provocative nudity. Even when she was lying back, legs splayed, she had an innocence about her. An innocence that itched to be desecrated in the eyes of men. That was why Marisa had taken the shots and only Marisa could have taken them. Even in the most pornographic of poses Margarita never lost her childlike purity, whereas the viewer, or the voyeur, felt the beast rise up on its hind legs and dance on its furry hooves.
‘For a Sevillano, you don't say very much, Inspector Jefe.’
‘Nothing to add,’ he said, giving up on the shots halfway through, feeling the woman's intention and not flattered by it. ‘They do their work.’
‘You're the first person to see those.’
‘I'd like a shot of Margarita with some clothes on,’ he said, ‘so that we can begin to look for her.’
‘She's not lost any more,’ said Marisa. ‘She doesn't need to be found.’
‘I'm sure you'd like to hear from her, though, wouldn't you?’
Another shrug from Marisa, something very uneasy about her. She handed over a head-and-shoulders shot of her
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