LITMIR.BIZ

       7

       Thursday, 12th April 2001, Edificio de los Juzgados, Seville

      ‘I think Eloisa Gómez let him in,’ said Ramírez as they crossed the river.

      ‘Baena and Serrano haven’t got anybody outside the Edificio Presidente,’ said Falcón. ‘And I prefer that scenario to the killer climbing up the lifting gear and hiding in the apartment for half a day, even though it was empty apart from a short visit from Sra Jiménez. Was the girl scared?’

      ‘Didn’t say a word to me after we finished the interrogation.’

      ‘Does she believe us?’

      ‘Who knows?’

      The Edificio de los Juzgados was next to the Palacio de Justicia, just opposite the Jardines de Murillo. It was well past five o’clock when Falcón and Ramírez parked up at the back of the court building. Falcón, who hated to be late, wanted to break the comb that Ramírez was putting through his black, brilliantined hair into ten little pieces. His murderous glare had no effect on the Inspector, who considered that they were early and his coiffure a priority — there could be secretaries about.

      The two men in their dark suits, white shirts and sunglasses went to the front of the dull grey building — the monochrome of justice in the garden city. They put their briefcases through the X-ray machine and showed their ID. The place was quiet; almost everything happened in the morning. They went upstairs to Juez Calderón’s office on the first floor. The building was dark, even grim, on the inside. Nothing pretty about justice even when it was good and true.

      Ramírez asked about Lobo and Falcón told him that pressure was already coming down from Comisario León and mentioned the corruption angle. Ramírez looked bored.

      Calderón was not in his office. Ramírez slumped in a chair and played with a gold ring he had on his middle finger which was set with three diamonds. The ring had always bothered Falcón, too feminine for the mahogany muscularity of Ramírez.

      ‘We’re going to have to make something of that time-wasting maricón, Lucena,’ said Ramírez brutally, ‘or we’re going to look like incompetents in our first meeting with the new boy.’

      Falcón let his eyes ripple over the book-lined room. Ramírez stretched out.

      ‘You know, I think even if you fuck both women and men, that deep down you’re a maricón,’ he said.

      ‘Even if it was just a one-off?’ said Falcón.

      ‘It’s not something you can experiment with, Inspector Jefe. It’s in your genes. If you can even think about it … you’re a maricón.’

      ‘Let’s not get into this with Juez Calderón.’

      The young judge arrived at a quarter to six, sat at his desk and got straight down to business. He was now in the role of the Juez de Instrucción, which meant that he had ultimate responsibility for the direction of the case and bringing the necessary evidence for a conviction successfully to court.

      ‘What have we got?’ he asked.

      Ramírez yawned. Calderón lit a cigarette, chucked the pack at Ramírez, who took one. They smoked while Falcón wondered how these two men had got to know each other … until he remembered the football. Betis losing 4–0 on the day the killer shot his movie of Raúl and his sons. Where did that ease come from? He tried to remember if he’d ever had it. He must have done and lost it somewhere in his youth when his work had become too serious, or perhaps he’d become too serious about his work?

      ‘Who’s going to begin?’ asked Calderón.

      ‘Let’s start with the body,’ said Falcón, and gave a resumé of the autopsy.

      ‘How did he think the eyelids were removed?’ asked Calderón.

      ‘Initial incision by scalpel, and the cutting done by scissors. He thought it was a good job.’

      ‘And we think this was done to force him to watch something on the television?’

      ‘The severity of the self-inflicted wounds would suggest that the man was horrified by what had been done to him as well as what he was being forced to watch,’ said Falcón.

      ‘I’d go along with that,’ said Calderón, unconsciously fingering his eyelids. ‘Any thoughts on what the killer showed him?’

      Ramírez shook his head. No room for that sort of conjecture in his hard cranium.

      ‘I think we only know our own worst nightmares, not those of others,’ said Falcón, trying not to be patronizing.

      ‘Yes, I hate rats,’ said Calderón cheerfully.

      ‘My wife can’t be in the same room as a spider,’ said Ramírez, ‘ … even if it’s on television.’

      The two men laughed.

      ‘This is something a little stronger than a phobia,’ said Falcón, stuck in the schoolmaster role. ‘And conjecture isn’t going to help us right now, we need to concentrate more on motive.’

      ‘Motive,’ said Calderón, nodding the task into himself. ‘You’ve spoken to Sra Jiménez?’

      ‘She gave me her motive for killing her husband or having him killed,’ said Falcón. ‘Their marriage was not successful, she had a lover, and she and the children would inherit everything.’

      ‘The lover,’ said Calderón, ‘did you speak to him?’

      ‘We did, because he was recorded as entering the Edificio Presidente about half an hour before Raúl Jiménez was murdered. He’s also a lecturer in biochemistry at

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