The Whispering City

by Sara Moliner

‘How do they expect me to solve this case if all they do is give me deadlines and conditions?’

  ‘Isidro…’

  ‘We still have to talk to several of Sobrerroca’s little lady friends, but we have to treat them like delicate crystal figurines; Goyanes, Acedo and Grau have got us fixed in their sights, ready to leap on my jugular as soon as any of her pals have their feathers ruffled.’

  ‘Isidro…’

  ‘And all for a routine job, because Goyanes knows full well that none of these people is a suspect, and no matter how much he says we can’t leave any loose ends, that we might turn something up, I don’t know who he thinks he’s fooling. Mostly we’re talking to them so they can see that the police are bending over backwards to solve this case. I mean, this is just…’

  He was about to say ‘fucking brilliant’.

  ‘Isidro…’

  ‘What the hell do you want, Sevilla?’

  ‘The girl from the newspaper is here again. I sent her to your office.’

  ‘The society news lady. Just what I need to complete my collection.’

  ‘What collection?’

  He didn’t answer. He had hit on a possible solution to the problem he was having with ‘those people’.

  Which was why he never got round to saying ‘fucking brilliant’, as Sevilla was expecting him to. Although he was trying not to show it, he was glad to have the journalist there, and not just because of her magnificent skull.

  16

  Castro stepped into his office. Ana noticed that he was enveloped in a surly black cloud. As at their previous meeting, he didn’t greet her. Unless you considered accusatorially grumbling ‘You are very punctual’ a greeting.

  ‘It’s important in my profession.’

  ‘Of course, I almost forgot that you call yourself a journalist.’

  She had prepared herself before coming, by putting together a short speech with arguments about her suitability to shadow his investigation. She decided to postpone it for a little while.

  The inspector sat down and shot her a sullen look.

  ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘I came for the next article, as agreed.’

  ‘We agreed, did we?’

  ‘Yes.’

  She didn’t allow herself to be intimidated by the pause that followed; she avoided filling the space, out of fear of silence, with unnecessary words that were dangerous around someone like Castro.

  He stared at her blankly. Suddenly he started rummaging around on his desk. He found what he was looking for – several copies of ¡Hola! magazine with little pieces of paper sticking out of them. He opened one at a marked page and, still holding onto it, placed it before her eyes.

  ‘Here,’ he said, and pointed to an article.

  It was a piece about a reception at the Tennis Club. The photo showed Mariona Sobrerroca dressed in a tennis outfit, among other members of the exclusive club. That would be Mariona Sobrerroca’s final appearance in the society pages. Perhaps the penultimate, Ana corrected herself: there was still the funeral. The rest would be material for the crime pages, her material.

  The article praised the elegance and sportsmanship of the participants in a charity tournament whose donations would go to a hospice. Those that weren’t counts or marquises were their spouses, and they posed willingly for the photograph that would immortalise them.

  The society news page reported on two debutante parties, a baptism and a charity ball. Castro’s bony finger pointed to the photo illustrating the last of these.

  ‘Do you recognise her?’

  Even though her head was covered by the inspector’s not very clean fingernail, she knew who he was talking about. It was Conchita Comamala Abad, the wife of Narciso Rocafort, owner of the Hilaturas del Segre textile mill.

  ‘I wrote that article. It says so right there, you see?’

  As she pointed to her byline, she realised that Castro had already seen it. What was he playing at?

  ‘I suppose she was pleased with it.’

  ‘I suppose so,’ she said before he could read her the string of adjectives that decorated her text. Without them, there were only a couple of lines without much content. It was the moment to give him the persuasive speech she’d developed and practised in her head on the way over.

  ‘I wanted to tell you that —’

  ‘It’s good that she was pleased, because I have to go and see her today and you are coming with me.’

  Castro didn’t allow for many questions, but he knew how to pre-empt answers.

  ‘I’m sure that Señora Comamala and a couple of other women we have to talk to will be more willing to give us information on the late Mariona Sobrerroca if you are the one asking the questions, since they already know you. And you are a woman.’

  He didn’t end the sentence with a ‘Don’t you think?’ or ‘What’s your opinion?’ Not even a ‘Right?’ that would have given her a chance to object (which, of course, she wasn’t planning on doing) or at least to give an opinion, which she kept to herself.

  According to what Castro had said, at this point they were treating it as a break-in.

  Did they suspect that someone like Conchita Comamala could have something to do with the case? Hard to imagine, if it were a break-in. The other two people Castro wanted to visit that day were just as hard to fit into the policeman’s investigation. Neither the industrialist Anselmo Doménech and his wife, nor Isabel Mira, one of the city’s music patrons, seemed likely candidates for roughing up Mariona Sobrerroca and tearing off part of her earlobe.

  As if, once again, he had read her mind, Castro explained what he was trying to find out: Mariona Sobrerroca’s habits, both mentionable and unmentionable; who was in her circle of friends; who counted themselves among her enemies; her financial situation.

  ‘That’s the content. You can give it whatever shape is fashionable among those people.’

  Hearing his disdain, which began with the first ‘th’ of the demonstrative, ran through the ‘o’ and closed with the ‘se’ in a sneer of displeasure, she understood that he needed a mediator. She reproached herself for not having had the courage to take the initiative a little earlier. Then Castro would have owed her a favour and not the other way round. The inspector put an end to her train of thought, ‘Get used to the idea that it’ll be just like your receptions and premieres, except dirty and ugly.’

  They went out to the car.

  Ana climbed into the vehicle apprehensively. It wasn’t a patrol car, but it was a police car and it was impregnated with human odours, mostly tobacco and sweat. Her imagination put on its sadistic little clown hat and played a dirty trick on her as she closed the door and the window handle touching her arm made her aware of the car’s narrowness; then she thought of how many people had made their last trip sitting on that back seat, on their way to prison. She was unable to reign in her impulse to look back at them.

  ‘Are you comfortable?’

  At the sound of Castro’s voice she turned and faced forward again, but she couldn’t shake off the feeling of claustrophobia.

  ‘May I roll down the window a little?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She tried to turn the handle, but it wouldn’t budge.

  ‘Wait,’ said Castro. ‘There’s a trick.’

  The policeman extended an arm. She pressed herself back into her seat with all her strength but she couldn’t avoid some slight contact and, above all, breathing in his scent of aftershave lotion and tobacco.

  Castro didn’t notice her unease.

  ‘Is this all right?’ he asked, opening it a few centimetres.

  ‘Yes. That’s fine.’

  They set off, heading into town. In less than fifteen minutes they reached a stately building on Provenza Street.

  Conchita Comamala lived in a grand first-floor apartment whose palatial dimensions were indicated by the number of steps it took the maid to cross the front hall to put away her jacket and Castro’s mackintosh in a cupboard hidden behi
nd a dark wood door.

  They had arrived punctually, but Conchita Comamala, in a little show of power, kept them waiting for fifteen minutes. Castro suffered through the wait. Ana, seated on an art nouveau sofa to the left of the inspector, noted how his tension grew with each minute of a delay that he too knew was intentional. Castro wore a darker suit than when they’d first met, but with exactly the same cut, as if he had inherited the suits from the same person, who was clearly taller and wider than him. The inspector tried to adjust it to a body it hadn’t been tailored for. A slight pull on the right leg, a shift of the lapel, a movement of the collar, another tug of his left hand, each of the gestures demonstrated his growing impatience. Despite being a good friend of Prosecutor Grau, the lady of the house was still toying with the authorities.

  Which was why Ana sighed with relief when the double doors finally opened and Conchita Comamala appeared, stiff and haughty. She remained for a few seconds with her hands gripping the doors, and then she placed them on her waist. In that defiant pose she approached them with the small steps permitted by her knee-length black pencil skirt. Conchita Comamala had always known how to turn even the most prudish piece of clothing into something provocative.

  The policeman’s unexpected female companion threw her off guard, causing her to utter an ‘Oh!’ which she clumsily linked to a greeting, ‘Oh! Aneta Martí. What a surprise! I haven’t seen you since Turandot.’

  Conchita Comamala’s familiar tone was masterful. Anyone would have realised that they hadn’t watched the opera together, and it was clear which of the two women had been sitting in a box and which in the gods. But the only one listening was Castro, and he couldn’t have cared less. He stood up when she came in, but he punished her lateness by refusing to take a single step towards her. She had to approach him to hold out her hand.

  The greetings over, she invited them to sit down in the drawing room. As if she had been waiting outside the door, listening for the creak of sofa and armchair, at that precise moment a maid in uniform and cap entered the room.

  ‘Coffee or tea?’ asked Conchita Comamala.

  Castro, impatient, was about to refuse, but Ana spoke first.

  ‘Coffee, please.’

  ‘I’ll have the same,’ he said, as if he were in a coffee bar.

  The maid left.

  ‘This is about poor Mariona, isn’t it?’

  ‘It is. You saw her the day prior to the murder, didn’t you?’ asked Castro.

  ‘Yes.’

  Conchita Comamala responded to the policeman, but then glanced at Ana.

  ‘Did you know her well?’

  ‘She was a good friend.’

  Her eyes turned back to Ana.

  You didn’t have to be particularly well versed in the language of the upper echelons of society to know that this meant she was an acquaintance. A close acquaintance.

  ‘How long had you known each other?’ Castro went on.

  ‘We were at school together with the Theresian nuns, although she was a little older than me.’

  She shot a knowing look at Ana. Castro’s silence was her sign to intervene.

  ‘The night before her death, ma’am, you were with Mariona Sobrerroca at the premiere of Tannhäuser at the Liceo.’

  ‘Please, Aneta, no need to be formal with me. Just speak to me as you normally would. And yes, we saw each other there.’

  ‘I heard that Victoria de los Ángeles was fabulous.’

  ‘Well, fabulous would be overstating it. She was good, but she’s had better nights. That’s what I said to Ramiro Sagunto and his wife Alicia during the intermission. And we ran into Doris Dorée, who’d been feeling rather poorly.’

  ‘And Mariona?’

  ‘Mariona was a little strange, to be frank.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘In that she thought everything was fine, better than fine, everything was marvellous. And she was wearing make-up! And those clothes!’

  ‘What was she wearing?’

  Conchita Comamala lowered her voice and brought her face close to Ana’s. ‘As if she were twenty years younger.’

  She knew that tone. She was speaking with the same haughtiness and scorn that women who consider themselves decent use when referring to whores or the floozies their husbands used to let off steam.

  Isidro Castro’s voice inserted itself between the two women’s heads and they drew apart.

  ‘The person who killed her was looking for something at her home. Do you know if Señora Sobrerroca kept valuables in her flat? Money? Jewels?’

  Didn’t he realise that Comamala had just begun to confide in her? Ana told herself that Castro was used to getting information the hard way, with his fists. She looked at her hands to avoid fantasising about seeing him leap up and slap Conchita Comamala like he had Mariona’s maid in his office. She responded sharply, ‘How would I know? I suppose she had a safe at home. Or she kept them at the bank. Why are you asking me such nonsense?’

  She crossed her arms when she’d finished her sentence. Ana intervened before all conversation was closed off to them.

  ‘I remember her having some very pretty pieces,’ she said in an evocative tone.

  ‘Pfft,’ was Conchita Comamala’s first reaction.

  ‘The tiara like Greta Garbo’s in Mata-Hari…’ she tossed out as bait.

  ‘Ah! Yes! Divine! I’m sure she kept that at the bank, and had someone collect it when she wanted to wear it. I have to admit that it was the only piece of hers I envied. That doesn’t make me a suspect, does it?’ she said in a frivolous tone.

  She had Comamala on side again, but Ana heard the inspector beside her take in a breath to say something. Before he could she tapped his foot with hers and turned towards him with an angelic smile, ‘Of course not, isn’t that right? Aren’t you drinking your coffee, Inspector?’

  To her surprise, the inspector obeyed her, picking up the cup that the maid had left on a little low table beside the sofa and taking a couple of sips. Meanwhile, Ana kept talking to the woman. ‘Do you remember what she wore to the Liceo that night?’

  ‘I do, diamond earrings that her husband had given her for their silver wedding anniversary. Someone told me, though I don’t remember who, that she had had to pawn them when Jerónimo died. He was surely a great doctor, but it seems he was a real disaster when it came to finances, and he left Mariona in quite a fix.’

  She didn’t know Mariona’s financial situation, but she knew she’d had a brother who, as is traditional in Catalonia, had inherited most of the family wealth. Still, Mariona should have received a good income.

  ‘Did he speculate?’ she asked.

  ‘I don’t really know, but I heard talk of his getting burned over something in Germany. Besides, he was a gambler.’

  Half an hour later, when it became clear that the conversation had run its course, they bid Conchita Comamala farewell.

  Castro waited, starting the car and drawing away from the house before thanking her.

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For making conversation with that old windbag so she’d tell us things. What a waste of time!’

  ‘You think so?’

  ‘What did we find out? That the woman had bad taste in clothes and jewellery, even though it was expensive.’

  ‘But it’s interesting to know that she had showy pieces. Perhaps one of them was what the thief was looking for.’

  ‘We didn’t have to suffer the woman’s gossiping to find that out.’

  ‘Then why did we have to talk to her? She’s not a burglary suspect, is she?’

  ‘Being that you’re so well read, you should know that a police investigation isn’t a one-way street, it’s a network of paths. We have to try them all before deciding that they don’t take us where we want to go.’

  ‘Can I use that image for my article? It’s very evocative.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I was pulling your leg.’

  Ana looke
d at him in surprise; Castro sounded genuinely amused, as he did when he added, ‘Don’t you dare quote me saying evocative things or any other queer stuff.’

  ‘Fine,’ she answered, offended.

  ‘Don’t be like that. Now, seriously. Look, we do it because we have to do it. Because even though they pull a disgusted face when they see us, if we didn’t make these visits they’d complain that we weren’t doing our job. It’s that simple. And it’s still a waste of time.’

  ‘Well, I thought it was interesting.’

  ‘What could have seemed interesting to you in that string of gossip?’

  ‘Just that, the gossip. Remember what Mariona’s maid said?’

  Castro shot her a quizzical look. Ana continued.

  ‘That she hadn’t been sleeping at her employer’s house for some time.’

  ‘Yeah. So?’

  ‘And Conchita Comamala said that she was euphoric, rejuvenated. Do you know what that could mean?’

  The inspector stared straight ahead as he drove. He didn’t answer, merely shrugged. His lips curved down in a scornful grimace.

  ‘That maybe Mariona had a new love.’

  ‘Señorita Martí! A new love! How twee!’

  With those words, he turned the steering wheel abruptly and parked. They got out without saying another word.

  The Doménechs lived in another grand first-floor flat beside the Hotel Majestic. As they passed the hotel, Ana looked at the facade. Perhaps Carmiña was behind one of those windows, making beds with one eye on a towel set, or slipping into her uniform pocket a used bar of soap that had been brought from Paris and left behind in Barcelona.

  They reached the entrance. Once the policeman had flashed his ID, the doorman hastened to open the main door for them and only Castro’s curtness got him to stop insisting they take the lift.

  ‘We aren’t handicapped,’ said the inspector, starting up the stairs.

  Ana gave a look of silent apology to the doorman, who was: he wore a prosthetic leg.

  She went up behind Castro.

  ‘Let me speak first,’ she told the inspector when they reached the door to the flat.

  A uniformed maid opened the door and took them to a small room where Claudia Pons, the lady of the house, was already waiting for them. The wife of textile industrialist Anselmo Doménech was about forty years old and, unlike Conchita Comamala, she received them immediately in a parlour where she waited, wrapped in a grey knitted jacket. She seemed as timid as Joan Fontaine in Rebecca, the film that gave cardigans their name in Spanish: ‘rebecas’.