Letters to a Stranger

by Mercedes Pinto Maldonado

  Inside the room – spotless, quiet and classy – I found extensive information about the hotel facilities. I was tempted by the pool. It was a beautiful day outside, even starting to get hot, but I didn’t have a swimsuit. Besides, it seemed sensible to keep a low profile until I could talk to Alfonso.

  Before continuing with my reading, I logged on to the internet to check my email and Facebook messages. There was an email from Brandon, who greeted me tersely, attaching an Excel document of the expenses and earnings of the restaurant for the first two weeks of the month. I thanked him and asked him to be patient with me, promising that I’d let him know in a few days’ time when I was coming back. Next I read the vast number of messages left by Mary on my Facebook page. She was hopeless and really did seem more Latin than English in character: passionate and impulsive to a fault, in addition to having a bombproof sense of humour. I really should call her. When I did, she confessed that she’d slept with Harry. Oh, Mary . . .

  Once I was done with work and friends, and after checking that Dylan’s contact hadn’t looked at the email account he’d created for Saúl, I made myself comfortable and returned to my reading. The first letter was written only seven days after the last one, as though the young painter was impatient to be in touch with Yolanda again.

  It was a letter brimming with excitement. Martin had offered him five thousand dollars for his last piece of work. He was thrilled with the financial freedom that the sale of his paintings gave him, and the summer that invigorated him so much. ‘I needed to tell you that – you or whoever is reading my letters, if indeed anyone is opening them,’ he said. How could he have imagined then that Yolanda’s sister would end up reading them? He also said that Nadia was insisting they move in together to formalise their relationship, but that he had refused. He admitted that he felt bad, that he was tormented by the idea that he might still be going out with her just so she would drive him to the places he wanted to paint, ease his loneliness and satisfy his urges as a man.

  Infected by his enthusiasm, I wanted again to answer him, to tell him to go ahead, that a woman he didn’t know was making sure the false charges against him would be dropped, and was doing her best to discover the identity of the real culprits of the crime. However, I knew that the smarter thing to do was to wait until I heard from him – if that ever happened. On the other hand, knowing his sensitivity and the incredible attachment he had to the love he had shared with Yolanda, I wondered what it would mean to him to know that ‘his beloved’ was at the very least directly involved in Bodo’s disappearance. Now that he was so excited with his work and had recovered his will to live . . . No, he deserved to enjoy the happiness he had found after suffering for so long. Reflecting on his euphoric state, I realised that many years had gone past since the time of his writing, that this was no longer the moment in which he had felt so moved. It was so hard for me to separate his time from mine.

  I kept reading until my phone pinged loudly with a message from Alfonso: ‘I left Marbella two hours ago. I’ll meet you tonight at eight o’clock in the hotel restaurant. Important: delete all my messages.’

  I followed his warning, a chill running down my spine. If Alfonso was afraid someone might read the messages on my phone, he could hardly be feeling certain that I was a hundred per cent safe at the Hilton.

  I was surprised he’d left for Marbella so early. I’d almost decided to go with him for the weekend, even though I was hoping to go to the coast independently of our mission. In any case, the important thing right now was whether he’d found the information he was looking for and if this would all be over soon, because I sensed the danger drawing ever closer, growing ever more active.

  I kept reading for a while, although it was hard to concentrate. I felt like someone being held hostage, and was dying for more coffee but didn’t dare set foot outside my room, at least not until I’d talked to Alfonso.

  In the last letter I read, Saúl was back to feeling depressed again.

  I felt his gloominess as if it were my own, and when I reached the last word it was as though my splendid afternoon had been plunged into the melancholy mists of Lake Crescent, the mists that Saúl was unable to capture from behind his window. Winter had arrived in Olympic Park and the cold weather was forcing him to work inside the cabin. The smell of the turpentine from his paints was giving him bad headaches. I shared his helplessness when he tried to capture the colours and lines between all the greys of the landscape. I wanted to close the curtains and dream that my head was nestled on his chest. I also wanted to wait with him for the winter to pass and for the light to return. And so I did. Until another intrusive sound from my phone alerted me to a new message: ‘I’m at the hotel. Meet you in the restaurant in one hour.’

  It was after seven so I got moving, put together an outfit from the suitcase I hadn’t unpacked yet and took a shower.

  Facing the mirror while putting on my make-up, I found myself looking at a stranger. In the space of a few short weeks my fresh and defiant face with its slightly confrontational expression had vanished. My eyelids now drooped listlessly over my dull gaze, as though far too exhausted to take the world in fully, and in spite of the sunny climate my skin was pale and wan. My face was a true reflection of the melancholy that had seized me, and also of his. ‘Berta,’ I said to the mirror, ‘forget everything that happened almost nine years ago. You’re losing track of time and space. Right now it’s time to go and have dinner with your detective.’

  I tried to return to the present and to revive myself, without much success. Right now what mattered was finding the real culprits in Bodo’s disappearance and giving Saúl his liberty back, along with discovering the truth.

  On entering the restaurant atrium, I found Alfonso at the exact same table I’d sat at for lunch a few hours earlier. Maybe I had potential as a detective myself, I thought, smiling at the irony.

  Alfonso had been so busy handling my affairs with such painstaking care that I felt an immense rush of tenderness for him, because in spite of everything he looked tired – as tired of it all as I was. He stood up as soon as he saw me.

  ‘How are you, Berta?’ he said in greeting, forcing an energy that he couldn’t possibly still be feeling after his long, hard day. ‘Are you comfortable enough in this hotel?’

  ‘I don’t think I’ve felt comfortable anywhere since this all started, but, yes, the hotel is wonderful, thank you. And how are you? How was the trip? I can’t wait to hear all about it.’

  ‘Exhausting. But first things first, let’s order something to eat. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and can’t think straight.’

  ‘I’ll have a salad. I had a feast fit for a queen at this very table at lunchtime, but I think I ate way too fast. Eating here was like showering in the middle of a football stadium with everyone looking on.’

  ‘That’s true,’ he said, glancing around us, ‘but don’t you think that’s an advantage at the moment? Who on earth would dare attack you here?’

  He called over a waiter and ordered without thinking, without even looking at the menu – pork chops for him and a salad for me. I had the feeling this wasn’t the first time he’d dined here. He then took out his phone and started typing on it.

  ‘Well? Aren’t you going to tell me what happened in Marbella?’

  ‘Sorry, I just had to answer this message,’ he replied, looking up from the screen. ‘I’ve been talking to the eyewitness who identified Saúl in the line-up . . .’

  ‘And?’ I asked impatiently as he went back to his small screen.

  ‘Just a minute, I have to send something. I’m almost there.’

  ‘Thanks,’ I said sarcastically.

  I waited. Two minutes later he was ready. ‘OK, I’m all yours,’ he said, putting his phone back in his pocket. ‘When I showed him the photos, the guy tried to justify his hesitation and bad memory, citing the passage of years, blah blah, but finally he made up his mind that, yes, Teresa’s cousin could definitely be the man he saw on the
dock loading that bundle on to Bodo’s yacht that night. I think they pressured him somehow, but I couldn’t get him to say who. Getting the case reopened is not going to be easy, and the time that’s passed is not exactly in our favour.’

  ‘Yes, I do realise.’

  ‘Look, even if they did call this witness back to testify, we can’t be sure he wouldn’t stand by his previous statement in court.’

  ‘I can’t believe it was so easy to change facts that would be so obvious to anyone . . .’

  ‘I recorded the conversation . . . Berta . . .’

  ‘What?’ I said, urging him to continue because he’d stopped, looking as though he were considering his next words.

  ‘I told you already when we first started working together that as a personal investigator I’m not allowed to testify. Any information I find can only help you shed light on your past; any evidence I collect over the course of my investigation is something separate. Am I making sense?’

  ‘Sort of. So what about the recording?’

  ‘It all depends on the judge. I’ll send you the audio file later. Once you’ve saved it to your computer, erase it from your phone.’

  The waitress brought our food over and we fell silent. Meanwhile, Alfonso used the opportunity to cast an eye around the dining room.

  ‘Are you finally going to tell me why I had to pack my bags at a moment’s notice and come to the Hilton?’ I asked when the girl had left.

  ‘Last night when I left your house, I saw his car parked down the street.’

  ‘The car belonging to Teresa’s cousin?’

  ‘Yeah. I think he was watching us from somewhere in the garden . . .’

  ‘What? You should have told me!’

  ‘Take it easy. I waited outside until he left. It didn’t take long and I was sure he wouldn’t come back the same night, because everything else goes out of his head when he goes off to his blessed bars and brothels. The guy’s desperate and I don’t know what he’s capable of. What I do know is that he works alone and that he’s a total loser. Most probably he was paid a lot of money that night to pass himself off as Saúl.’

  ‘So what’s the next step? What do we do now?’ I asked him, feeling like we’d reached a dead end.

  ‘We talk to Teresa – she has to know more about all this, besides having kept quiet about being the guardian of your sister’s daughter.’

  ‘Not to mention the daughter of my father . . .’ I said, thinking hard as I forked in my salad. ‘And how are we going to talk to Teresa?’

  ‘Easy – by going to her home, of course. We’ll visit tomorrow. She’s normally alone after nine or so. That cousin of hers, besides being a crook, is also a total freeloader.’

  ‘OK. Well, let’s hope it’s worth it . . . I admit I’m really nervous about meeting my sister – or my niece, I guess. What a family!’

  ‘You may not believe it, but I have seen worse.’

  Alfonso looked genuinely troubled when he said this. I was certain he was thinking of his own family and wanted to know more about this man who was still such a stranger to me.

  ‘Am I allowed to ask a personal question of a detective?’

  ‘Yes, of course, although you can never trust the answer.’

  ‘Where are you from? Your accent is familiar, but it’s not precisely Castilian Spanish either.’

  ‘I was born in Barcelona, but I’ve lived all over the world.’

  ‘Because of work?’

  ‘Among other reasons,’ he answered, looking down at his plate, as if implying he wasn’t interested in the conversation.

  ‘Are you married? Any kids?’

  ‘You’re very inquisitive all of a sudden,’ he said, looking at me again. ‘I was married, I don’t even remember when. Are you really interested in my life? If I go on any further, you’ll probably dispense with my services.’

  ‘I’m sorry, it’s just that . . . Well, I don’t know if you’ve realised but for the last few days you’re the only company I’ve had, and I mean company that knows how to talk, so Aris and Neca don’t count. It’s not even curiosity as such. I’ve never been someone to probe into other people’s lives – I just like to observe . . . I guess I just don’t know anything about your life, but you know everything about mine and I feel a little at a disadvantage.’

  ‘That’s not true. There’s a lot I don’t know about your life. Why did you only live with Harry Lee for a few months, for example?’

  I was stunned. He’d been looking into my life in London! ‘Excuse me? What do you know about Harry?’

  ‘Don’t worry,’ he said with a slight smile, ‘I only know his name and about the period when you lived in the flat on Trebovir Road.’

  ‘You investigated me?’ I felt that he’d violated my privacy and I didn’t like it.

  ‘What kind of detective doesn’t start his job by checking out his client to begin with? Do you have any idea how many people hire a detective so they can manipulate him and lead him to false evidence? You can’t trust a single person in this world. But, go on, you haven’t answered my question.’

  His words were terribly reassuring. Somehow, he seemed even more professional, given that he’d been so meticulous.

  ‘Oh, he’s a bit of a layabout really. He’s a far better friend than a boyfriend.’

  ‘That’s so often the case. Do you fancy dessert?’ he asked, changing the subject completely. Apparently, he was starting to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘I could do with some tea – I’m a little nervous. Not even knowing where you live is hard to get used to.’

  ‘Make that two teas. I’m also a little on edge. I’m like a child: the more tired I am, the harder it is for me to fall asleep. I might get a real drink later – that helps too.’

  ‘I think I’ll join you.’

  We drank our tea and talked of insignificant things, such as how modern and impressive the hotel was, or how hot it was in Madrid in summer, which put us both at ease and gave us more of a break from our worries than the tea did. With our drinks in front of us, however, we returned to the subject that had brought us together.

  ‘I can’t stop wondering whether Teresa will tell us the whole truth when she finds out we know about the girl. I guess it won’t make sense for her to stay quiet any longer, because I’m sure the only thing holding her back is that girl. I can imagine how much she loves her – she adored us. I keep picturing the look on her face when she sees us on the doorstep . . .’

  ‘The most important thing is to get the lowdown on Pedro Vidal. The girl is irrelevant for now, although I understand the emotional connection you have with the subject and I know it’s hard for you to keep your personal feelings out of the investigation. We have to find out to what extent Teresa’s cousin was involved with Bodo Kraser’s disappearance, and get Teresa onside so that when the time is right she’ll be ready to testify. A witness like her would be extremely valuable in getting the case reopened. It’s possible of course that she’s been threatened, and it may not be that easy to get her to talk. It may even be that they’ve told her they’d take away your . . . niece.’

  ‘Yes, and I can just imagine who’d be responsible for that. Have you found out anything about my sister Yolanda? Do you know where she is now?’

  ‘The message I got just as you arrived was from my contact with information on her. According to him, it’s true that she’s been travelling back and forth to Australia for seven years, popping in and out like someone going off to the shops, but actually she spends most of her time here. She has a house in Aranjuez and although she’s not registered as a resident in the town, that is where she’s living. That’s all I know for now, but I wouldn’t rule out any more surprises. She sounds like a very slippery customer.’

  ‘Are you sure? But . . . that doesn’t make any sense,’ I responded, incredulous. It seemed impossible that, finding her just a few kilometres from Madrid, she wasn’t involved in all this somehow.

  ‘Well, that’s what my contac
t told me and he’s not generally wrong. I don’t know all the ins and outs, only the ones I’ve told you, but that’s basically it: she splits her time between two continents that couldn’t be any further apart.’

  ‘It’s ridiculous that she hired a proxy to deal with all the legal matters of the inheritance if she’s living so near by. How did your contact find out that Yolanda’s living in Aranjuez?’

  ‘He has his sources. People leave traces via credit cards, buying properties, calling home insurance to fix a leak . . .’

  ‘She has a house in her name?’

  ‘No, it appears to be in someone else’s name – someone with whom she has a joint bank account, and it’s not Bodo, of course. A fairly inept arrangement for someone wanting to hide – superficially it works well enough, but it all quickly comes to light with a little digging. I have the address and plan to drop by there tomorrow. I’d invite you along, but for now I think it’s best she doesn’t suspect you know where she lives. I’m guessing she’ll be in touch with Teresa and this cousin, and she’ll be aware that you’ve hired a detective, but she doesn’t need to know anything more than that. In fact, as far as we’re concerned, the less she knows the better.’