The Silent and the Damned (41 page)

'We only come into people's lives at the crisis points,' said Falcón. 'Sometimes we have to simplify, cut out the grey. I try not to do it, that's all. I'm going to ring the doorbell now and I'd like you to let me in.'

'OK, Inspector Jefe, you can come in. I need a fair man to listen to me. But you have to know something first,' he said. 'By coming in you only endanger yourself. You will not affect the outcome. That is already written. Fate dictated it some time ago.'

'I understand,' said Falcón, and rang the bell to keep the pressure on.

Calderón opened the door. He was sweating heavily and shivering in the chill of the apartment. He had the sunken, pleading eyes of a street beggar. Maddy Krugman stood behind him looking fierce and behind her Marty held the gun to the back of Calderón's head.

'In you come, Inspector Jefe. Close the door, double lock it and put the chain on.'

Krugman was calm. While Falcón dealt with the door, he got the other two to lie down in the hall, hands behind their heads. Krugman frisked Falcón's upper body and thighs and asked to see his ankles. They all went into the sitting room. Calderón and

Maddy resumed their seats. She was quite languid in her movements, as if none of this was her concern and it was just a tiresome family reunion she'd been forced to attend.

'I'll sit here,' said Falcón, choosing an armchair near the sliding doors so that Garcia had a clear view of him.

'Why not join us in the front row?' said Maddy.

'You're fine there,' said Marty.

'How did you get in to the apartment, Marty?' asked Falcón.

'Lovers like to go out to dinner.'

'We're
not
lovers,' said Maddy, irritated.

'I was waiting outside for them.'

'He thinks we're lovers,' said Maddy, trying to explain the absurdity of the notion to Falcón.

'If you're not, then what the fuck are you?' said Marty in English. 'What the fuck are you doing in this apartment, dressed like that, going out to fucking dinner – if you're not lovers?'

'Your wife is going to answer your questions, Marty,' said Falcón, 'but people get nervous when you wave a gun in their faces. They get defensive, angry -'

'Or totally fucking silent,' said Marty, twitching the barrel of the gun in Calderón's direction.

'You're accusing him of being your wife's lover. Maybe he thinks it's best to keep his mouth shut.'

'I can smell his fear.'

'That's a loaded gun.'

'If you're doing what he's doing, you have to be prepared for that.'

'I don't know what your problem is, Marty. You knew from day one when Esteban came round to our house that, like all the other guys, he wanted to get me into bed. You also knew that I wasn't interested. He's not my type.'

'I know you, Maddy. I know how your mind works – remember that. In here your public relations don't make any difference, because these two guys are not going to be able to help you… even if they do believe what you're saying.'

'What happened to you, Marty?' she asked, her face suddenly a mask of profound concern.

'I met you,' he said, his eyes wide and fierce.

'Now you see my problem,' she said, turning to Falcón. 'How is anybody supposed to live with this? I live with it all the time and I need some relief from it. It's too intense. So I go out with Esteban. He's charming. He flatters me

'Flatters you,' said Marty. 'Flattery! You're telling me you're doing this for a bit of flattery? Are you fucking crazy?'

'Keep calm, Marty,' said Falcón.

'Now the bitch wants a bit of flattery,' said Marty. 'She'll chuck nearly twelve years of marriage out of the window for a bit of flattery. I can do flattery. Flattery is a piece of cake. You make Man Ray look like a fucking amateur, honey. How's that? Your name will be spoken in the same breath as Lee fucking Miller. Any better?'

'Marty,' said Falcón, and Krugman's head whipped round. 'You deserve answers, and you'll get them, but this is a domestic situation. It does not merit the use of a gun. Give me the gun and let's…'

'Where I come from, everything merits the use of a gun. That's how we're brought up. It's in our constitution.'

'Leave it out, Marty,' said Maddy, bored stupid.

'You don't understand what this is about, Inspector Jefe,' said Marty, adjusting his grip on the gun. 'You don't know what I've done for
her.'

'What, Marty? What?' said Maddy. 'What have
you
done for
me?'

Marty faltered. All the logic seemed to break down in him. All his wiring, so carefully laid down, short- circuited. Part of him knew why he was there; there was a great breaking wave of certainty inside him. But there was another part of him which found it all a complete mystery. It was the usual thing. He wanted out but couldn't leave. He didn't want to be with her but could not resist her orbit.

'I'm here because of what I did for you,' he said. 'We are eternally joined by that act.'

'What did you do for her, Marty?' asked Falcón.

'It's a long story.'

'We've got time.'

'Be careful,' said Maddy. 'You've got no idea how much talk this guy has in him. You give him license and this could be the State of the Union address to the power of ten.'

'Let him speak,' said Calderón, through tight, white lips.

Silence. Marty blinked at the sweat in his eyes. Seconds passed, feeling like minutes.

'We were living in Connecticut,' he said, as if this was history. 'I was working in Manhattan. Maddy worked part time in the city. I worked long hours. I'd get home at the weekend and feel as if I'd been away on a trip, I'd seen so little of the house in daylight. One morning at work I fainted and hit my head on the desk. They sent me home. Maddy was supposed to be there, but when I arrived she was out. I went to bed, slept. I woke up and thought about how I'd allowed my life to get out of control. I decided it was time for a change. I'd take some time off. We'd go away, live in Europe. I was standing at the bedroom window, full of these possibilities, when I saw her coming back to the house. She was walking in a way that I'd never seen her walk before. It was more like skipping… like a girl skipping. And I realized that I was looking at a very happy person.

'I went down to meet her. As she came through the door, I was standing there and I saw her face fall. All her happiness and gaiety disappeared. The lead went back into her feet. She smiled at me as if I was a mentally ill relation. And I realized that somebody else was making her happy.

'I didn't tell her of my plans, I just told her about my accident. And I started watching her and I noticed all the things I hadn't seen before. There's nothing like suspicion to refresh your sight and tune up your hearing. I started delegating my work to juniors. I found time wherever I could. I spied on her and I discovered Reza Sangari.'

Marty used his gun arm to wipe his forehead. Just saying that name cost him something. He licked his lips.

'I'm a good spy, you know,' he said. 'Not such a good spy that the woman I was living with wouldn't ever find out, but good enough to pin Reza Sangari to the board. I got to know about the other women he was seeing pretty fast. He had them all operating to a timetable. Françoise on these days, Maddy on those, Helena on the others and a whole lot more in between. It was easy.'

'What was easy?' asked Maddy, no longer affecting boredom.

'To call you into the city on a day that was not supposed to be yours. We had lunch, remember? And in the afternoon I knew you wouldn't be able to resist. It was a Tuesday, which was Helena's turn. I was there when she came out of the door and you took it like a slap in the face. You were standing in a doorway across the street. I could have offered you a cigarette and a light and you wouldn't have seen me, you were looking at his door so hard. I was there when you crossed the street to go up and scratch his eyes out and you ran into another one. I didn't know her name. She wasn't one of the regulars -'

'You were
there?'
said Maddy.

'I went back with you on the train. I saw you crawl into the house. I was with you all the way.'

'You're a sick fuck, Marty Krugman,' she said.

'You got your own back,' said Marty. 'I kept watching her, you see. Inspector Jefe. I got addicted to it. I found myself doing what she did in her photographs. Watching her in her unconscious moments. Hearing her when she thought she was alone.

'The crying. You've never heard anybody cry like that. She cried like a sick dog vomiting. She cried with her face to the bathroom floor, gagging against her lungs in her throat. Anybody ever cry for you like that, Inspector Jefe?'

Falcón shook his head.

'Have you ever seen someone you love cry for someone else like that? Cry themselves senseless, until their organs seized up?'

Falcón shook his head again.

'She didn't go back to him,' said Marty. 'You can't measure the pride that sits in that woman. It's fatter than a Buddah. And that's what she drew on next. Her pride turned to fury. She used to go up into the attic and scream. Scream until her larynx shredded.'

'Did you ever talk about any of this?' asked Falcón.

Marty shook his head.

'Then the writing started – and Maddy doesn't write,' said Marty. 'She's never kept a diary in her life. Her photographs are her diary. But a few weeks after she realized what sort of a man she'd fallen in love with, she started writing. And why do you think she started writing, Inspector Jefe?'

Falcón shrugged.

'Because she knew I was watching. She knew I'd be burning to see it. And I was. I had to see it. I had to know it. I'd put money into her pain and I wanted my dividend.

'She locked the notebooks away, but I got in there. I know you're interested in psychology, Inspector Jefe. And I'm sorry that those papers don't exist any more, because I doubt you've ever seen anything quite as horrific as the scribblings of Maddy Krugman. She didn't just want him dead, Inspector Jefe. She wanted him to die under prolonged, medically assisted torture. You know, I'm sure sex and torture are connected somewhere in the human brain. Maddy thought so – didn't you, honey?'

'I don't know what you're talking about, Marty,' she said. 'This is definitely your trip and it's a solo one.'

'You don't remember "the lover's tongue like an electrode on the nipple"? The touch of his penis "like a cattle prod in the vagina"? You wrote those things.'

'What did you do about it, Marty?' asked Falcón.

'I did what she wanted me to do. I planned it all out for a Saturday afternoon. It was autumn, the light was failing early and, at the weekend, Reza Sangari's part of town was almost silent. I went to see him. I introduced myself. He let me into his apartment and I listened to his apologies. He had a soft voice. It was as seductive as a torturer who doesn't need to find out anything but just wants to cause you pain. I stood amongst the expensive silk carpets where he'd fucked my wife and I was filled with rage by the ease with which he made his excuses. It was surprisingly easy to beat him to death. Did you hear that, Inspector Jefe? I, Marty Krugman, sophisticate, intellectual, aesthete, the man who finds the whole idea of a bullfight loathsome, I found it surprisingly easy to bludgeon a man to death. Something else I learnt: the violence that flowed through my veins at that moment – I haven't felt power like that, ever.

'I came home in the dark, the caveman with his club, and she was there to meet me in her apron. She cooked a special dinner and we ate it by candlelight. It was another of our wordless dinners, except that this one was different because at the end she took off her clothes and asked me to fuck her. And I, with this new blood in my veins, obliged. Now that, Inspector Jefe, was a fuck to remember. I'd finally found the thing that thrilled Maddy Krugman.'

'Don't flatter yourself, Marty,' she said, full of contempt.

'Anyway, the madness ceased in the house. We started living like human beings again. A few days later the news carried the story of Reza Sangari's murder and she was totally impassive. We smoked pot, ate marvellous food and drank expensive wine, and we had a lot of very violent sex.

'The FBI came during the next week sometime. They asked to speak to Maddy in private. I left them to talk. Then they wanted to interview me. She asked if she could talk to me first. We slipped into our roles without a word. She came into the kitchen and told me straight about Reza Sangari for the first time. My performance was flawless. I behaved as if I was stunned by the news, when, in fact, I was just stunned by the brilliance of our act.

'The cops went away, but they kept coming back. I had no alibi. I had a motive. I'd been seen going into the city on the Saturday, although I was pretty sure I hadn't been seen coming back. They came to see me at work. They built up the pressure on me.'

'And the only time you and Maddy spoke about Reza Sangari was when the FBI agents were in the house that first time?' asked Falcón.

'And we never spoke about it again,' said Marty. 'The murder inquiry was suddenly terminated. They found Sangari was heavily in debt due to a cocaine habit. They put it down to a drug killing. We came to Europe. My blood slowed down.'

Maddy Krugman was grunting with incredulity

'This is all in your head, Marty,' she said. 'Pure fantasy.'

'And now she's doing the same again with our friend the judge,' said Marty, swivelling the gun towards

Calderón. 'She wants me to kill you, Sr Calderón. Do you know why?'

Calderón's head wobbled on his shaky neck.

'Because she hates you. She hates what you represent – the roving, predatory male who sows his seed wherever he can. I know her now, like I've never known anybody in my life. That's how deep it goes when you do someone's killing for them. I'm telling you, Juez Calderón, she gets a sexual thrill from the idea of you dead. You lying there with your unseeing eyes open and a hole in your stony heart. It will make her feel brilliant.'