Letters to a Stranger

by Mercedes Pinto Maldonado

  Another interesting fact had emerged in that letter – it was likely that Bodo knew about his wife’s affair with the gardener. I admit I wasn’t at all surprised. My sister’s husband, my father, loved neither himself nor anyone else. Making money was his only true and enduring passion, and hardly sustained by the most honourable means. I don’t think the knowledge that his wife was sleeping with Saúl would have caused him any real upset, just as I don’t think it would have made him leave either. So why would her lover have needed to kill him? It was all so absurd . . . What I couldn’t know was whether this detail would help Saúl or hurt him, in case he ever had to prove his innocence.

  I wrote this down in my notebook and kept on reading, knowing I’d need to head off soon to meet Alfonso.

  The last letter I read before setting off was dated 23 March. It was similar in tone: between words of love, confidences and pleas for her to reply, the news was still fairly positive. He was kept hopeful by the possibility of showing his art and the arrival of spring, which would soon let him start painting in oils again.

  He’d continued seeing the group of people he’d met on New Year’s Eve and spoke especially fondly of Nadia, a girl who had tried to seduce him. According to him, they had a lot in common – they were of similar age and both lonely, she loved art and often visited exhibitions when she had the funds, sometimes travelling interstate to see them. She was finishing her fine arts degree in Seattle, although she wasn’t a painter herself; she wanted to study the history of American art. The best thing of all, Saúl said, was that she was passionate about her work.

  I felt a little jealous, although also relieved to learn that Saúl’s heart was at least a bit freer. I wanted to believe that, because there was honestly not a single letter so far where he didn’t declare his undying love for Yolanda.

  Before I left, the phone rang. It was the solicitor’s secretary. ‘Señor Soler wants you to know that everything is going well, but it might be a few weeks until we have all the paperwork ready for you to sign.’ The firm obviously cared about its clients and took pains to keep them informed. I guess that was included in their fees.

  When I finally left, I was running a little late. Driving down the street, I passed Teresa holding the keys to the house. She was beginning to get on my nerves. Why had she come back? Was she waiting for me to leave so she could snoop about? Was it just me, or did my sensible housekeeper really have something to hide?

  Either way, I’d been suspicious enough to take the letters I hadn’t read yet out of the basket and hide them in my wardrobe. I’d left a little scrap of paper between two of the bundles, and another in the doorframe to my room. If Teresa came in and touched the letters, I would know. As soon as I signed all the legal documents and put the house up for sale, I would ask her for the keys. It was amazing that I could have gone from love to utter rejection in a mere matter of days. I might be wrong, but deep down I felt that Teresa knew so much more than she was telling me, spending so much time coming to the house every day . . .

  I made it to the restaurant at five past one, out of breath, but not too late thanks to my familiarity with the nearby car parks and the fact that there wasn’t much traffic.

  Alfonso was waiting for me, at the same table as before.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m a bit late,’ I told him, taking a seat.

  ‘Me too,’ he answered. Clearly he didn’t like to wait around, as he looked a little annoyed. He pulled his chair in closer and leaned towards me, appearing absorbed in showing me something on the tablet that lay on the table between us.

  ‘Don’t move, don’t turn around. Act like I’m showing you something,’ he whispered. ‘Someone behind you seems very interested in listening in on our conversation. I think the man to our right is watching us.’

  I couldn’t help trying to snatch a glance.

  ‘Don’t look.’

  ‘Sorry,’ I apologised, staring hard down at the screen.

  ‘Listen, order a beer and stay for twenty minutes or so. Act like we’ve known each other all our lives, smile once in a while and make small talk, loud enough so he can hear you. Then call the car rental place where you hired the vehicle and tell them where it’s parked so they can come and pick it up. If that man finds out what car you’re driving, he’ll follow you.’

  ‘How do you know . . . ?’

  ‘Shh . . . talk more quietly and look at the screen like you’re interested.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I just feel so ridiculous . . .’

  ‘Look, after you’ve made that call, take a taxi. I’ll wait for you on the terrace of another restaurant, Loft 39. It’s on Velásquez Street, on the corner of Hermosilla, just fifteen minutes away. Don’t try walking – it would be too easy for him to follow you. One last thing: don’t take the letters out of your bag while you’re here.’

  A chill ran down my spine. This sounded dangerous – we were being watched! I was sitting with a spy who was being spied on. But who was following us and why? I was starting to feel scared.

  Alfonso turned off the device, leaned back in his seat, ordered me a beer and started a trivial conversation, a little more loudly than his normal tone. ‘I think this is the perfect spot – my sister will love it! She’s going to get such a surprise.’

  I was amazed at his imagination and what a natural he was. It was up to me now to continue the conversation. He’d made it easy for me. ‘You said it – she’s going to be totally lost for words. Did you buy the present yet?’ I was even surprised by my own performance – I’d never thought I was that good an actor.

  And so we went on, playing the part of a couple organising a surprise birthday party for his sister. Twenty minutes had passed when, bang on schedule, my phone rang. It was Brandon, wanting to go over a few questions and to ask when I was coming back. It was great timing, although the poor dear didn’t understand a thing I said, much less my Spanish.

  ‘Hey, Susana! I’ve been waiting for you to call,’ I screeched into the phone, waiting a few moments, while Brandon asked over and over what I was talking about. ‘OK, great – I’m on my way!’

  Alfonso stared at me, not bothering to conceal his own amazement at my performance; if it had been possible, I reckon he’d have clapped. When I was safely in the back of a cab, I’d call my chef back and explain the situation, though I had no idea quite what I’d say.

  ‘I have to go,’ I announced to Alfonso after hanging up. ‘I’ll call you later.’

  ‘See you later then,’ he said in return.

  He got up to say goodbye and we kissed on both cheeks, as though we knew each other well. Turning around to leave, I glanced in passing at the man Alfonso thought was watching us. He must have been under thirty-five, reasonably tall, of medium build and well dressed. He seemed very focused on the book he was reading. I didn’t have time to notice many details, and couldn’t really even see his face. My legs were trembling as I walked past. What kind of unholy mess had I got myself into? Well, whatever, if this man really was spying on us then my suspicions were justified, though of course I’d never have known if Alfonso hadn’t warned me.

  I called the car rental place and did as instructed, though I’d need to stop by later to hand in the keys.

  Shortly after I got to the terrace of Loft 39, Alfonso himself arrived.

  ‘What a morning!’ he exclaimed, pulling out his chair. ‘These last-minute setbacks get to me increasingly. Did you make that call?’

  ‘Yes, it’s all arranged.’

  ‘Marvellous. It’s not a good idea for you to be seen in your car – it would be way too easy to follow you.’

  The waiter came over right away, and my companion ordered a couple of beers and a few different tapas.

  ‘I have the letters in my bag. Is now a good time?’ I asked before I forgot, still thinking about the man who’d made us move to a different restaurant.

  ‘Perfect. If you’d be so kind as to pass them over.’

  ‘Here you go, and your money’s in this
envelope. Tell me what your expenses come to . . .’

  ‘Not much, just one hundred and eight euros.’

  I gave him the money. ‘Right, well, tell me what you’ve found out.’

  ‘I’ve got access to the legal proceedings and it’s one big load of nonsense. The evidence against Saúl Guillén doesn’t hold up in the slightest, the witness statements are problematic to say the least, and, worst of all, the judge in charge of the case retired three weeks ago and the police commissioner has moved on to another job.’

  ‘Of course, and how very convenient. It seems like everyone involved has disappeared – Bodo, my sister, the people handling the case . . . even Saúl. Doesn’t it all just seem a bit too tidy to you?’

  ‘It looks like it. We don’t even have your mother.’

  ‘You wouldn’t have got anything out of her, I can promise you that. So what evidence do they hold against Saúl?’

  ‘Three witnesses, that’s all. Two of them stated that they saw him leaving the Marbella house, and that he’d been pushing a large bundle in a wheelbarrow towards a rented van. The third witness swore that he saw Saúl arrive at the dock in the same vehicle, get out the bundle wrapped in a big black bag, and take it in the wheelbarrow over to the yacht belonging to Bodo and your sister. Then he set sail and was gone for over an hour. Supposedly that’s all the time he needed to get away, throw the body in the sea and come back.’

  ‘But how could they know it was Saúl? Did the witnesses know him?’

  ‘Two of the witnesses identified him in the line-up.’

  ‘Of course, I should have known . . .’

  ‘What I don’t know is how they managed to get him out of the police station after the witnesses had identified him. He must have had a really clever lawyer who knew he’d have to get him out of the country on a fake passport right away, naturally against a hefty bail – just one more corrupt official to add to the list. But it’s too soon to . . . Take all this with a pinch of salt, Berta. I still don’t have enough to prove any of this, and it’s all only conjecture. By the way, the lawyer is also on the missing list: he moved to Venezuela soon after the trial.’

  ‘I can tell this won’t be an easy case,’ I remarked, seeing how hard it would be to find information without any informants.

  ‘The funny thing is that before the line-up, all three witnesses stated that it was too dark to see his face, and moreover that he’d pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt.’

  ‘Yes, suspicious, isn’t it, that they were able to recognise him quite so easily after that . . .’

  ‘Remember, all three gave matching physical descriptions of Saúl as tall, young, thin . . .’

  ‘I don’t know, it all seems so rehearsed . . .’

  ‘This, along with the fact that the accused couldn’t prove he was at the cinema when this all took place, made him the prime suspect. The trial notes only say that he claimed to be at the cinema and that he didn’t have his ticket stubs – basically saying he didn’t have an alibi.’

  ‘He only found those ticket stubs once he was in Washington State, in the pocket of the coat he was wearing that day. He thought he’d thrown them out, so he’d never bothered looking for them – that’s what he told Yolanda in one of his letters.’

  ‘I bet you don’t know who gave him the tickets?’ Alfonso asked me.

  ‘My sister,’ I answered confidently.

  ‘It’s all very strange . . . I can’t explain how they could have botched the investigation so badly. Then there’s the statement of the girl from the van rental company . . .’

  ‘What statement?’

  ‘She describes him perfectly, just like someone told her exactly what to say. We need to find her – I reckon they paid her off.’

  ‘I can’t believe this. I knew there was something fishy about it all, but I had no idea just quite how fishy it was. I’m getting more and more confused.’

  ‘Did you know that Bodo Kraser was in the middle of some serious financial trouble when he disappeared? He was a sly old bugger, I tell you. Or, should I say, he is a sly old bugger, because I’m beginning to doubt he was ever killed at all.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  He must have noticed the change in my face, because he asked immediately, ‘Do you know something about Bodo you’re not telling me?’

  ‘He was my father, although he never acknowledged paternity. I found out when I was nine . . . How did you know?’

  ‘In this line of work you have to be a bit of a psychologist. To a large extent, the success of any investigation depends on how you interpret the information beyond what you’re told at face value. You should have mentioned this right at the start – that’s very significant.’

  ‘I moved to London after learning that my sister was going to marry him. As you can see, our family was exactly the same as anyone else’s . . .’

  ‘So you say . . . but I’m actually thinking twice now about carrying on working for you. Do you realise that all the men who get involved with the women in your family disappear into thin air?’ he said, exhaling a cloud of smoke.

  From his hint of a smile, I suspected that he’d only said this to lighten the mood, seeing me so troubled and taken aback, but I wasn’t entirely sure.

  ‘Are you going to leave me now?’

  ‘I’m only joking. It’s just that you looked sad and . . . well, I’m not too good with my little stabs at humour.’

  ‘That’s all right then. I’ve never really thought too much about it, but it’s true: none of the men in my family have lasted very long.’

  ‘Fabián de Castro, Bodo Kraser, Saúl Guillén . . . It can’t just be a coincidence.’

  ‘Have you found out anything about Fabián?’

  ‘Nothing – it seems he was literally swallowed up by the earth. Everything else aside, I think his is the strangest disappearance of all.’

  ‘What’s the next step?’

  ‘Give me a few days. I want to talk to a few contacts who might be able to track down the name of the person who made the fake passport for Saúl. That would be a good place to start unravelling this mystery. Apart from that, I need to read the letters – they may contain more information.’

  ‘I’ve read them and they just show that he’s innocent. He did send a couple of photos . . .’

  ‘You weren’t going to show them to me?’

  ‘Well, I didn’t think—’

  ‘Berta, let me do the thinking. I need to see them.’

  I took them out of my bag and handed them over.

  ‘He’s a really good artist,’ he said, looking at the photo of the pastel sketch.

  He examined it for quite a while, including the reverse, then picked up the one of the lake scene and spent another few minutes over it, smoking while he thought. When he was finished with his perusal and had taken pictures of the photos with his phone, he handed them back.

  ‘No, keep them,’ I said. ‘You can return them to me along with the letters when you’re done. You need them more than I do.’

  ‘That won’t be necessary. If there’s one thing we detectives specialise in, it’s a photographic memory. The pictures I’ve taken will be enough for me.’

  ‘If you like,’ I answered, relieved.

  ‘You like this guy, right?’

  His question knocked me off balance and it took a few seconds for me to respond.

  ‘Don’t be silly! I don’t even know him. I just . . . well . . .’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Tell me something. How are you so sure that man was watching us?’ I asked, changing the subject completely.

  ‘I’m not sure, but nobody arrives at a restaurant straight after you do, chooses the empty table closest to yours, and doesn’t turn the page of his book for half an hour. He’s an amateur, but he did manage to find us – though I don’t know how he found out about our meeting. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?’

  ‘No, I didn’t tell a soul I was meeting you. Except . . .’ I remembered then
that I’d told Teresa I had an appointment at El Espejo. Alfonso guessed who I’d told; he seemed to be reading my mind.

  ‘Tell me about the woman who’s been working in your house all these years.’ He clearly had not brought her up out of the blue.

  ‘There’s not much to say. She started working for my mother and Fabián when they got married; she’s always been very loyal and sensible; she practically raised my sister and me to the point that I think of her as my real mother. She lived with us when we were little, before she bought her house in Leganés. She told me she still lives there with a cousin once removed – the son of her cousin – who came to Madrid for his education about twelve years ago.’

  ‘And?’ he asked. He was waiting for more.

  ‘And that’s it. When I left she was the one person I missed – you can’t even imagine how much.’

  ‘Go on,’ he insisted. He wanted to know what I was feeling right now, what lay behind my words, and I don’t know if it was simply in his role as an investigator. He was a very smart man.

  ‘Over the past few days, ever since I came back – I don’t know . . . she just doesn’t seem the same to me. I can’t put my finger on what it is. I think she knows more than she’s saying, maybe even hiding information from me. She has the keys to my house, she’s always had them, and she comes and goes at will, which is suddenly starting to bother me. I don’t know – maybe I’m the one who’s changed in the last fifteen years.’

  ‘I see. Would you like another beer?’

  ‘I’d rather have a coffee.’

  ‘Waiter, two coffees, please,’ he said to the lad serving the table next to ours. ‘What can you tell me about your sister?’

  ‘We’re five years apart, and she’s the older one . . . I don’t really know what else to tell you. We’ve never got along. Ever since I can remember, I felt that she and my mother were part of a world that I just didn’t fit into. At home I was the odd one out, the fool, the only one never in the picture. I think I really isolated myself as a way of surviving around so much treachery. I was the Cinderella of the story.’