They sit down at the desk again and I click on the next icon. Diary
I read:
My true nature. When did I discover it?
perhaps I always knew
everything I have done leading me back to it
now I understand...
We read further. Then go to another file. Apocalypse. Abdon Pascua wrote at the end:
He came surrounded by clouds
Twice dead
I am the one who fathoms kidneys and hearts
Men will seek death, but they shall not find it
Angel Abbadon, Angel of the Abyss
The world entire following the Beast, rapt
He who has ears, let him listen
He who by the sword must perish, let him perish by the sword
- 'He's completely mental!' says Lopez.
But I hear relief in his voice. He's relieved that only a madman could do this, someone not in their right mind. A total nutjob.
Maybe he's right. Maybe it would have been much worse to catch the man Whiskey Moran wrote about: a sane man with the hatred of a madman inside.
Maybe this way we can find peace and look at ourselves in the eye in the mirror again.
In the beginning, there was a God
But then he did the cruelest thing:
he left us alone and afraid
Like beasts in a laboratory
We couldn't be happy anywhere, not even Paradise
No punishment is enough
29
The sun comes up.
Nothing left for me to do.
I wave goodbye to my men.
I have the flat feeling something's over. And there's nothing we can do about it now.
I cross the room where a few officers are still doing paperwork, writing reports, happy, maybe even delighted. The Madrid team is holed up in the office at the back, going through Pascua's computer files, still on a high. They'll get all the praise, though it wasn't their work.
I go down the stairs and the officer at the front desk says good morning.
- 'It'll be a good morning once I've had a snooze,' I say.
Through the glass doors I spy the first vans driving up to the wholesale market: butchers, greengrocers, fisherman all in motion, setting up their stalls for the day. They turn to glance at the journos hunched under the arches, drinking coffee and rubbing their hands together to keep warm in the morning cold.
- 'Boss, I nearly forgot. Someone left this for you.'
The receptionist jogs up and hands me a folded piece of paper.
- 'From the Caravan hotel.'
The list I requested. Dejé al joven recepcionista con la palabra en la boca. I give him a long look, then slip the sheet into my pocket, though it won't be much use now.
I go down to the basement and out to the garage.
The dawn takes on a red hue on the horizon. Everything else is still shrouded in ashy darkness.
When I unlock the front door my mind plays tricks on me and for a second I see the Ripper standing in my front room. But I blink and he disappears. Immediately, the weight of the silence in the house settles heavily on my shoulders. People say I work too hard, but that's not true. I'm never home because I can't stand the lonely silence of this house. That was her revenge, against me and the world. Maybe I'm responsible for her death. What was it Mike said? We're men of violence. She couldn't stand it. My wife wasn't prepared for all the hatred I carried inside.
I undress slowly. I'm scared to slip between the cold sheets. When insomnia keeps me from the arms of sleep my thoughts are as dark and icy as a mausoleum. I put my phone on silent, stretch out in bed and light up.
Thinking nothing. Feeling nothing. Not even some satisfaction at Pascua's arrest. I know the killer won't strike again. But I also know the lives we couldn't save from him will never be lived out as they should.
How could we not investigate the people in our community we knew to be unwell? I'm the only person I can blame for that omission. Blindly, stubbornly believing the murderer wasn't like that. Unable of looking beyond my own profile, like Galan with hers. All we are is animals, doing our jobs day in, day in, numbly, unthinkingly. We don't know how to think on our feet. When a criminal defies our expectations we can't get to them. As if evil were quicker, cleverer than our silly goodness.
The Hotel Caravan list pokes out of my jacket pocket. A double-printed sheet, Times New Roman, 12-point. I'll be needing glasses to read that soon. But as I scan the list I can still see enough to pause at one name. A name I know very well.
It doesn't mean anything. The killer has been arrested and the evidence is overwhelmingly clear.. The name on that list could have been sneaking away for a evening with a lover, as so many people do there, wanting it to remain secret. No prostitution. Baria residents or people from the surrounding towns, driving out to the hotel, far from prying eyes.
The man on the list could have a thousand lovers.
Still, I text Malasana asking him for the list Agustin Gomez sent him. He asks why, but I ignore his text. I can't explain it to myself, let alone him.
I keep reading and see another name I recognise. Another coincidence. The first name was there in April, the second in March. What the hell was he doing here in March? When I'm almost at the bottom of the list, another name leaps out at me. I laugh out loud. Of course, why not go there? Maybe he had a mistress too. Power and money pay off.
I throw the list on the floor, stub out my cigarette
and screw my eyes shut.
Two hours later, I wake up no happier or more rested than when I fell asleep. I don't remember what I dreamt. But one ghostly vision stays with me. A dark figure stretching out a hand towards me. I hear nothing, but the figure moves its lips (a gaping gash in its dark face) and mouths silently: 'Can't you see me?' I don't know whether the outstretched hand is an invitation or a trick, but I can't stop feeling that shadowy, ominous presence all around me. When its face finally comes back to me, it's Abdon Pascua. And the disappointment of realising there's no mystery is ridiculously stupid.
I go out to the car, the harsh morning light as bright as springtime, despite the fact that it's autumn. That's life in the south. Still taking some getting used to for an old northerner who misses the cold.
I put on my sunglasses and drive along peacefully, elbow hanging out like a tourist, all the way to the station.
At the market, the people bustling around the stalls talk to the journos, boredly standing around waiting for some new drama to erupt.
I park the car in the garage and see three forensics officers working on a white Hyundai. They wave cheerfully, since they know it's just a formality. The tension of the recent crimes, where even the tiniest detail could completely change the inquiry's course, has left their faces.
- 'Found anything?' I ask, just to be polite.
One points to a table with numbered evidence bags.
- 'Women's hair,' says one.
- 'Won't be from pulling,' I say.
They laugh. I stop, suddenly aware of my desire to know who Abdon Pascua really is. I look over the objects on the table carefully: a few stray hairs; a nail clipping; a torch; a few cough sweets (like the kind Naima Medari was holding, check cough sweet); sunglasses; a key for the spare tyre.
- 'Is this blood?'
- 'Yes,' says the one going over the boot.
There's also a pair of binoculars and a folder containing the vehicle documents.
- 'May I?'
They look taken aback, but spring to action.
- 'Here - gloves.'
I pull out the vehicle registration. It's in Pascua's name. A Hyundai i40. Purchased in 2011. A copy of the insurance policy and the payment receipt. I wonder who'd insure a madman like him. There are a few blank accident report sheets, the kind you get sent with the insurance papers. And a dirty sheet of squared paper, scrawled in uneven handwriting, the tone pompous: I h
ereby acknowledge receipt of the sum of 1000 euros paid by Mr Adon Pascual Avella for damage to my car. The signature reads Rosendo Cervilla Perez.
I walk around the car and see a considerable dent and scrape on the back left mudguard.
- 'Do you know when this dent was made?'
- 'No. No idea,' says one of the officers.
- 'But it can't be old old because the scrape hasn't rusted over.'
I let that one be. None of this is giving me any insight into who Pascua really is inside. I go up to my office and am met with bustling activity. From the looks of things, every police officer in the world is here to celebrate the arrest of the Ripper. I see the Madrid team, all buried in their phones. Not one of them looks like they've had a good night's sleep. Smiles all round, congratulations, pats on the back. The police force, like any other organisation, is a practitioner of corporate masturbation.
Diaz waves at me and I wave back quickly to get rid of him.
Sometimes the best part of being in charge is getting to wonder what the hell you should be doing next. I can dig out a couple of cases that fell by the wayside when the crimes began. One on stolen luxury cars and one on a new drug trafficker trying to set up operations in the area. He's just focusing on weed for now, so we can sit back and wait what he tries next.
I don't think about it, just do it. I Google Rosendo Cervilla Perez before I can forget the name. A Facebook profile is the first hit, with a profile picture of a Latin lover from the 70s. But with the face of a chav. In the picture he's posing on a yacht - no doubt not his own - shirt unbuttoned to his belly button, sandwiched between two girls with about as much class as a street dog. He wears a tight pair of Speedos and mirror sunglasses that hide his eyes, but not his gappy smile. Drink in one hand and cigarette in the other, of course. Behind him, the sea glitters, but the trashy scene takes away from its peaceful quiet.
I go back to the browser and see another hit just below, a garage. El Aguilucho Garage . Fitting.
Maybe I should ask Inspector Galan for a profile.
Lopez bursts in.
- 'Boss. This is the list from Rita Oehlen's office. Malasana told me to give it to you.'
He plonks it anxiously on my desk.
- 'What are you doing?' he asks. 'Car break down?'
- 'Just in case it breaks down. Better safe than sorry.'
- 'But you don't own a car.'
- 'Really. Not even the one downstairs?'
- 'But that's not yours.'
Malasana said there were a hundred names. I scan the list.
- 'Malasana says why do you want the list.'
I stop, almost at the bottom of the names. I take so long to answer that Lopez starts to fidget.
- 'To prove we took action,' I lie.
My eyes are still fixed on the name near the bottom.
- 'Everything all right, boss?'
- 'No.'
It's not surprising that they met at some point. It doesn't mean anything. What's going through my mind is so vague, so unformed, that I feel silly at once.
- 'Where are you going, boss?'
- 'For a walk, Lopez. You stay and enjoy the party.'
- 'Should I go with you?'
- 'No. I'm going to tell Martin to leave off Macias.'
- 'Why don't you just phone him?'
- 'Because it's a lovely day.'
I cross the city centre so it'll take longer. I don't want to miss the radio shows discussing the Ripper's arrest. The journos, almost all of them politically correct to a fault, thank the security forces for ending the reign of terror started by a madman. Not one mentions that the madman bested us and turned himself in when he felt like it. So everyone would know who the new Ripper is. Or, as Pascua said, so he would have a platform from which to share his message, whatever his crazy brain can come up with.
My superiors and the minister are as happy as pigs in shit, but I can't get away from a nibbling feeling of frustration. I wonder if it's because I was the chosen one, the player sitting opposite the killer at the chessboard. I wonder if my ego is so huge I can't bear the disappointment of not catching him myself. I didn't even get close to him. I didn't even suspect. Even though he was right there in front of me that day, asking El Dandy all those strange questions.
Just then I decide to phone Sebastian Rodriguez, who organised the New Destiny conference.
He answers with a cautious tremor in his voice, the tremor of an old man who doesn't quite trust such a tiny device to work. I explain that I know he discussed Pascua with the inspector, but I'd like to speak to him personally about a few matters. Then I fire away with my first question.
- 'Do you believe it is possible that Abdon is the killer?'
He takes his time, but finally says,
- 'Is there any doubt about that?'
I say there isn't, but it isn't the profile we were expecting. It's obvious we took a massive wrong turn. He thinks for a while.
- 'Abdon really has had a hard time with women. All his life. Especially because his mother was not affectionate at all, she was very distant, detached, you know? As if she was ashamed of having a son who was... different.'
- 'But didn't he live with his mother until she passed away?'
- 'Yes.' 'But she was always having him sectioned so she could get rid of him. And whenever he was back home because he'd been deemed fit for discharge or fine to go home, she always had a nurse to give him his medication and look after him. They spent whole days without seeing each other, even though they lived in the same house. She had money, she could afford a live-in nurse.'
- 'Do you remember the question he asked El Dandy after the conference?'
- 'Who?'
- 'Sorry. The lawyer, Gonzalo Santana.'
- 'Ah! Well... No, I don't. I'm sorry. I can't remember what he asked him.'
- 'Inspector Malasana informed me that after his mother passed away, New Destiny, your association, found a psychiatrist and lawyer for him. Why?'
- 'Commissioner, Abdon had no one. New Destiny was his only refuge. He'd spend hours hours here, reading, studying, and also, if I may, asking us questions at every hour of the day and night. And we could see that his mental health, his... grip on reality, was worsening, steadily worsening, after his mother's death, until he was raving, there was no connection to reality at all.'
- 'When would you say this was?'
- 'I'd say April or May, Commissioner.'
- 'Please go on.'
I brake sharply so as not to hit someone crossing the road at a run. Any other time, I'd have got out and shouted at them, but I let it go for now. Sebastian Rodriguez goes on.
- 'We all decided the best course of action would be to convince him to see a psychiatrist.'
- 'Can you give me their name?'
- 'Of course. A Mr Rafael Cristobal Atienza. He's got an office in the city.'
To avoid any anger on my part, he adds:
- 'Honestly, Commissioner, we believed he needed help. Who could imagine something like this would happen? My God!'
- 'If you remember the question he asked that day, please call me.'
He says goodbye, promising me he will.
I park next to the car Martin is sitting in, a sensible distance from Javier Macias's industrial unit, under a cluster of plane trees with yellowing leaves.
- 'What's up, boss?'
- 'This is over. Let's say goodbye.'
- 'Are you alone?'
- 'Why?'
- 'The boss is never alone,' he jokes.
Javier Macias sees us approaching through the glass door to his office and his look of consternation is so great it's comical. He looks like a comedian in a sticky situation. He looks around, but there's no escaping us.
- 'Did you know he's shagging your wife?' I say by way of greeting, pointing at Martin.
Macias's expression doesn't change. He probably couldn't look any worse if
he was diagnosed with cancer. Martin sits down next to me. The secretary, in the corner, far from her boss, gets up discreetly and makes an escape. She closes the door quietly and firmly, probably to make sure no one will hear the screaming.
- 'This is no way to come in here, Commissioner,' says Macias, firmly on his high horse. 'You shouldn't say those things to me.'
- 'There are a few things you should have told us that you didn't, playing at the same game as your cousin.' 'And look how he ended up.'
Surprisingly, Macias's face softens. He almost looks relieved. Maybe he was expecting a beating with no preamble.
- 'I told you everything I know.'
- 'Like fuck you did. But business has gone down the drain, hasn't it?'
He shrugs.
- 'You know what they say in business. You win some, you lose some.'
- 'Look at that. Very sporting of you. Nobly accepting defeat!'
- 'What can I do,' he says, sighing and shrugging, palms upturned.
- 'So you knew who it was and you didn't tell me.'
Fear blooms on his face again as he realises his mistake. Half stupid, half regretful. Instinctively, he leans back. His eyes are like saucers.
- 'Come on, Commissioner. I didn't know anything... I really didn't!'
We stare at him silently.
- 'Commissioner,' he leans forward now, tenting his fingers. 'Really. I did not know. They were just rumours. I wondered whether it might be Damian. But he didn't tell me a thing. I swear. On my honour.'
- 'Your honour's worth shit to me.'
He takes a deep breath. He's leaning so far forward in his attempt to persuade us that the edge of his perspex desk is cutting into his belly.
The Ripper Page 44