Free The Blind Man of Seville by Robert Wilson

in, the man definitely crowded out in his own living room with the pressure of three pairs of eyes on him. Falcón positioned himself next to the television set, which had a video camera connected to it. Ramírez stood by the door. Lucena sat down on the edge of an armchair. Sra Jiménez occupied the sofa opposite, looked at him out of the corner of her eye, crossed her legs and set her foot nodding.
    ‘We’ve already established from Sra Jiménez that you were with her last night,’ said Falcón. ‘Can you remember when you left?’
    ‘It was about two o’clock,’ he said, running his hand through his thin, brown hair.
    ‘Where did you go after leaving the Hotel Colón?’
    The foot stopped nodding.
    ‘I came back here.’
    ‘Did you leave your house again that night?’
    ‘No. I went to work this morning.’
    ‘How did you get to work?’
    He faltered, stumbled over the beginner’s question.
    ‘By bus.’
    Ramírez took over and tied him in knots about bus routes. Lucena clung to his lie until Falcón quietly put the print-out from the CCTV tapes into his hands.
    ‘Is that you, Sr Lucena?’ he asked.
    He jiggled his head in nervous affirmation.
    ‘What subject do you lecture in at the university?’
    ‘Biochemistry.’
    ‘So you’d probably be working from one of those buildings on Avenida de la Reina Mercedes?’
    He nodded.
    ‘Very close to Heliopolis, where Sra Jiménez is moving to?’
    He shrugged.
    ‘In your faculty would it be easy to get hold of such a chemical as chloroform?’
    ‘Very easy.’
    ‘And saline solution and scalpels and cutting scissors?’
    ‘Of course, there’s a laboratory.’
    ‘You see those figures in the bottom right-hand corner of the picture … what do they say?’
    ‘02.36. 12.04.01.’
    ‘Who were you going to see in the Edificio Presidente at that time?’
    He pinched the bridge of his nose, squeezed his eyes shut.
    ‘Can we talk about this in private?’ he asked.
    ‘We’re all interested parties here,’ said Ramírez.
    ‘Twenty-five minutes after you entered that building Raúl Jiménez was murdered,’ said Falcón, who saw now that Lucena, rather than considering him as a persecutor wanted him as a friend. It was the woman he feared.
    ‘I went to the eighth floor,’ said Lucena, throwing his hands up.
    An unexpected answer, which had Ramírez reaching for his notebook.
    ‘The eighth floor?’ said Sra Jiménez.
    ‘Orfilia Trinidad Muñoz Delgado,’ said Ramírez.
    ‘She must be ninety years old,’ said Sra Jiménez.
    ‘Seventy-four,’ said Ramírez. ‘And there’s Marciano Joaquín Ruíz Pizarro.’
    ‘Marciano Ruiz, he’s the theatre director,’ said Falcón.
    Lucena nodded up at him.
    ‘I know him,’ said Falcón. ‘He’s been to see my father, but he’s …’
    ‘Un maricón; said Sra Jiménez, deep-voiced, brutal.
    Ramírez, like some mugging comic actor, took a quick step back, stared down at Lucena. Falcón used his mobile to call Fernández, who told him that there’d been no reply from the Ruíz apartment when he’d called that afternoon.
    ‘He’s not in today,’ said Lucena. ‘He dropped me off at work and went to Huelva. He’s rehearsing Lorca’s Bodas de Sangre.’
    The air thermals changed in the room. Sra Jiménez charged out of her chair before there was any chance of intervention. Her hand swung back and made nasty contact with the corner of Lucena’s head. It wasn’t a slap, more of a thud. All those rings, thought Falcón.
    ‘Hijo de puta,’ she roared from the door.
    Blood trickled down the side of Lucena’s face. The front door slammed. Heels split the paving stones.
    ‘I don’t get it,’ said Ramírez, more relaxed now that the woman was out of the room. ‘Why were you fucking her if you’re a …’
    Lucena took a packet of tissues out, dabbed his forehead.
    ‘Can you just explain that to me?’ said Ramírez. ‘I mean, you’re one or the other, aren’t you?’
    ‘Do I have to put up with