Comisario Elvira didn't keep him waiting. His secretary offered him coffee. This almost never happened.
‘I'm writing the press release,’ said Elvira.
‘What's that for?’
‘The final charges have been made relating to the planting of the Seville bomb.’
‘The final charges?’
‘All right, the people who planted the device have been apprehended and they're going to face justice.’
‘What about the chain of command from the suspects we've had in custody since June, through to Horizonte and I4IT?’
‘We can't make any announcements relating to that.’
‘Are you going to work on it?’
‘We'll have to take a view on that,’ said Elvira. ‘Anyway, this evening there's going to be a televised press conference. The mayor and Comisario Lobo want you to be there to read out the statement that I'm preparing for you.’
‘I'm suspended from duty pending a full inquiry,’ said Falcón.
‘You were reinstated last night when we determined Alejandro Spinola's involvement in leaking information about the Isla de la Cartuja development project.’
‘What about my unapproved improvisation in the Hotel La Berenjena?’
‘Look, Javier, I've really got to get down to these press releases and statements,’ said Elvira. ‘I'd like you to join me in my car in an hour's time to go to the state parliament.’
Falcón nodded, left the room. The secretary brought the coffee. He drank it standing in front of her. He went back down to the Homicide office.
‘There's going to be a press conference in the state parliament in about an hour and a half's time,’ said Falcón. ‘I'd like you all to listen to that.’
He went into his office and was about to close the door when he saw the wall chart. He lifted it off its hook and took it back into the outer office.
‘You can strip this down and file it,’ he said. ‘We're finished with it now.’
The phone rang. It was the scrambled line used by the CNI. He went into his office, closed the door, answered it.
‘I got a full report from my agents in Fès,’ said Pablo. ‘And Alfonso has briefed me on the aftermath. You got the boy.’
‘He's in good shape, considering. Doesn't remember a thing about it… for the moment,’ said Falcón. ‘How have the Moroccans taken it?’
‘They got a call from the Saudis as well, so … they're philosophical. Oil has a very loud voice,’ said Pablo. ‘Still, all is not lost. The Germans have uncovered a network related to Barakat's export business there. The Moroccans are pursuing two very strong leads into the GICM from other connections they've made to Barakat. There was also an Algerian link. And MI5 are working on that cell the French told them about, which, it seems, was connected to Barakat's carpet business in London. So, although we didn't get the man…’
‘What about you?’ asked Falcón. ‘Did you get anything out of it?’
‘Yacoub had left all the details of the GICM logistics cell he was using on the Costa del Sol with the Saudis,’ said Pablo. ‘And two more he'd heard about in Madrid and Barcelona. We're all happy.’
‘I'm glad.’
‘I wanted to ask you about Abdullah,’ said Pablo.
‘He had to have twelve stitches in his shoulder…’
‘Would he be interested in helping us?’
‘You? How could he help you? He's been exposed.’
‘Maybe and maybe not,’ said Pablo. ‘I just wanted to know how he'd feel about, you know, playing the game.’
‘That letter has left him a lot to think about,’ said Falcón.
‘And you, Javier?’
‘Me?’ said Falcón. ‘The amateur?’
‘Think about it,’ said Pablo, and hung up.
Falcón went to the window, looked out over the car park in the late evening light. House martins were ducking and diving, weaving in and out, scribbling the air with their antics. He felt empty and immensely lonely. Police work did this to him. When it was all over there was nothing left but disappointment. Mystery gone, quest terminated. All that remained was an overwhelming sense of loss and pointlessness.
As he stared into the inane ranks of cars, each within their neat lines of demarcation, he found himself searching for a reason. And what came to him was an image that had first come to him as he'd driven back from Fès: Yacoub in the middle of the ocean on a small boat in complete darkness, with the power of sacrifice in his hands to rescue his son from fanatics and, in doing so, restore some nobility to the human race.
He sat and let the world grow dark around him until Ferrera knocked, leaned in and told him that Elvira's car was ready. He went down, got into the back seat with the Comisario, who handed him the press release and his statement. He read them and looked out at the lights of the city and the faceless people going about their business.
The press conference was packed. It hadn't heaved like this since the day Comisario Lobo had announced that Calderón had been found trying to dispose of his wife's body in the Guadalquivir river and was being replaced as the instructing judge in the Seville bombing.
The long tedious process started. Everybody had to have their say and bask a little in the afterglow of success: Lobo, Elvira, the mayor. Normally, the Juez Decano Spinola would have been there, but, given the circumstances, that did not seem appropriate. Falcón tuned out of the proceedings, looked back at the avid faces staring up at him, blinked at the flash photography. His turn came. It was the last word, but in this case, the least important. He read Elvira's prepared statement and then added his own:
‘Nobody in this room should forget that everything that has been said here today could only come about as a result of some extraordinary and, in many cases, unpaid dedication, from people who are unknown, never seen and rarely heard. They work tirelessly, under dangerous circumstances, to keep the people of Seville safe, removing murderers and gangsters from the streets so that men, women and children can live in this city without fear. For once, I think, their names should be heard. They are: Inspector José Luis Ramírez, Sub-Inspector Emilio Pérez, Detective Julio Baena, Detective Carlos Serrano and Detective Cristina Ferrera. And I'd like to thank them all.’
He sat down. Comisario Elvira was annoyed at the departure from the script. A couple of journalists clapped, four more joined in and then the room rose as one and applauded the unseen and the unheard. Elvira smiled and basked in some partially deserved adulation.
As they filed into the mayor's private rooms where drinks were being served, Falcón asked for a quick word with Comisario Elvira. It lasted a matter of two minutes, they parted and rejoined the gathering. A dinner had been planned afterwards and Falcón was duly invited, but he politely declined. The powers that be were quite glad about that. The presence of the taciturn Inspector Jefe seemed to imply some unspoken criticism.
Falcón went home. He showered and changed. Abdullah declined Consuelo's dinner invitation. It would be a celebration and he was still in mourning. Falcón drove out to Santa Clara, where they had a family dinner. Consuelo's sister's family were there as well. It was a welcome home for Darío. Consuelo had baked him a cake. It felt like his birthday. They ate and drank. People left. Others went to bed.
At a little after one in the morning Consuelo and Falcón lay naked in each other's arms, their contours smoothed out by a light sheet.
‘I want you to come and live with me, Javier,’ said Consuelo.
‘I will,’ said Falcón. ‘But it might have to be somewhere different.’
‘What's wrong with here?’
‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘It's just that tonight I resigned as Inspector Jefe del Grupo de Homocidios de Sevilla.’
‘Did you jump or were you pushed?’
‘I jumped,’ he said.
‘That's a big jump. When did you decide?’
‘It first occurred to me when we drove back after that night with the Russians. Then, when I went out to kill Mustafa Barakat, I reali
zed how much I'd changed and that I couldn't do the work any more,’ he said. ‘You should be happy. I know you never liked it.’
‘I can't pretend I'm sad,’ she said. ‘What are you going to do with yourself?’
‘I haven't got that far.’
‘Sell your house. Live on the proceeds. Paint?’
‘Maybe I'll learn how to sail a yacht,’ he said, squeezing her shoulder, ‘… so you'll still have me.’
‘We could live by the sea in Valencia,’ she said. ‘The estate agent called again today.’
‘I can already smell the paella on the beach.’
And, rather than thoughts of the future, he remembered what he'd done before coming out that night. He'd found that dried husk of a plant skulking in its dark corner under the gallery, taken it by the scruff of the neck and marched it to the bin.
Acknowledgments
This is the last book in the Javier Falcón Seville quartet and I would like to take the opportunity to thank the people of Seville for being so understanding at having all this fictional mayhem created in the streets of their beautiful and, comparatively, tranquil city.
My friends in Seville, Mick Lawson and José Manuel Blanco, have, as always, been great sources of information, tremendous support and brilliant hosts. They have now been relieved of duty for the former, but I hope not the latter. As for the middle, writers always need support.
Thanks to Nick Ricketts for giving me much needed remunerative work when I was a struggling writer and his advice on the marine section of this story.
My thanks to the brilliant Mr Ravi Pillai and his assistant, Dr Hassan Katash, whose surgical skills have kept the Robert Wilson show on the road. Also thanks to my friend and fellow crime writer, Paul Johnston, for all his support.
Finally, it seems ridiculous to say thank you to Jane because my gratitude is now so long, wide and profound as to make those two little words seem paltry. She has been a tower of strength in my hours of need, a pillar of wisdom when my brain has failed, and a beacon of light to give me hope for the future. What more could a writer ask for? Just that I wish she'd write the books as well.
By the Same Author
The Hidden Assassins
The Silent and the Damned
The Blind Man of Seville
The Company of Strangers
A Small Death in Lisbon
A Darkening Stain
Blood is Dirt
The Big Killing
Instruments of Darkness
Copyright
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2009
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Copyright © Robert Wilson 2009
Robert Wilson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work
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Robert Wilson, The Ignorance of Blood
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