The Whispering City

by Sara Moliner

  ‘It’s just that Social have asked me for it as well.’

  ‘Social? What do they want it for? I’ll talk to them. Can I send my men right away?’

  ‘Yes, fine… But what is it you want?’

  ‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, mostly to be able to write a documented recommendation. I would also like to inspect the material found in Señora Sobrerroca’s home. Not all of it, only what’s there that has to do with her relationship with Mendoza.’

  ‘Of course; I will leave it ready for your men.’

  ‘One last thing. I suppose that Mariona Sobrerroca’s house is still sealed?’

  ‘Yes, of course, until the order comes…’

  ‘Well, I am going to inspect it this afternoon.’

  ‘But, is there a problem? Is something missing?’

  ‘No, there’s nothing. But you do realise that it’s a case with many facets, one of which has caused a stir in the higher echelons of Barcelona society, and we have to be careful. Even more so with the impending Eucharistic Congress. Do you understand?’

  The truth was, he didn’t, but he didn’t want to answer back. Politics. His motto was, don’t get mixed up in politics.

  ‘You can have your men come and pick up the keys any time.’

  ‘Thank you, Castro. First-class Inspector Don Isidro Castro.’

  But half an hour later, Isidro was knocking on Commissioner Goyanes’s door, not to tell him about his imminent promotion, but to give him the reason as to why it might not happen.

  46

  ‘There’s material missing from the Sobrerroca files!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Grau asked me to give him the documents, and when I went to look for them I saw that some things were missing.’

  Goyanes stood up and went over to him. Even so, they couldn’t help practically shouting at each other.

  ‘Grau? What does he want them for?’

  ‘For his final report.’ Isidro didn’t dare mention his promotion, not under these circumstances.

  Goyanes shot him a strange look. Isidro chose not to pursue that line of discussion.

  ‘But that’s not what’s important now; evidence has disappeared.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘I checked carefully.’

  ‘What’s missing?’

  ‘The letters Mendoza wrote to Mariona Sobrerroca.’

  ‘Just those?’

  ‘No, mostly those, but also two packets of postcards and a bundle of family letters. I checked the inventory list.’

  ‘Where was the material?’

  ‘In my office the whole time.’

  Goyanes looked increasingly worried.

  ‘Nasty business, someone stealing important papers out from under our noses. Best if this doesn’t get out. Not a word, not even to your trusted men, understand? We have to clear this up discreetly.’

  ‘And what do I say to Grau?’

  ‘I’ll take care of that.’ He paused before telling him, with a grin, ‘Don’t worry about your promotion.’

  ‘You knew about it?’

  ‘Of course. I’m not the Commissioner for nothing.’

  With a hand on his back, he steered Castro towards the door.

  ‘Watch your men carefully. I will pull some strings, too. This looks like an inside job. Who would dare to come and burgle police headquarters?’

  But as he walked down the stairs, Isidro remembered that there was someone who had had an opportunity to stay in his office, alone, and steal the papers: Ana Martí, while she was writing her articles.

  He sent Sevilla to find her. ‘Go to her house, to the newspaper, wherever you have to, but bring her to me as soon as possible.’

  ‘Can I take a motorbike?’

  ‘Whatever you want, but get on with it.’

  Sevilla rushed out of the door.

  47

  Blue sparks flew as the tramcar screeched to a halt on Balmes Street. First an elderly woman emerged, carrying a parcel from the Quilez grocery, one of the best in the city. She was followed by a young woman who looked like a maid and carried a shopping basket. Then the doorway was clear and Ana could get on. As she bought her ticket from the conductor, she spotted a seat free by the window and reserved it with a glance. Ticket in hand, she sprang over to it before some of the standing passengers noticed it. She sat down and smoothed her skirt. The tram got under way with a jolt. She looked out of the window, over the hats of the pedestrians walking by on the other side of the glass. Most of them went at a swift pace, as if they were trying to reach a better, safer, cleaner place.

  She went over in her head what she wanted to say to Castro. It wouldn’t be easy to convince the policeman. And, if he did believe her, he most probably wouldn’t do anything about it. The case was solved, and they all seemed satisfied.

  But Beatriz was right, what other option did she have besides talking to Castro?

  At Plaza Cataluña, the tram braked abruptly. Ana had to hold onto the seat in front of her. Through the window she saw a boy running across the street with a pile of newspapers under his arm; that was what had made them stop short. The driver shouted at him angrily and the boy shot him a contemptuous look.

  The tram took off again. Ana couldn’t help imagining Abel Mendoza putting a jacket on his dead brother before tossing his body into the river. ‘Cold is worse than hunger. Hunger makes us savages; the cold dehumanises us.’ Her father had told her that on one of the few occasions when he’d talked about being jailed on Montjuïc, knowing both hunger and cold. That was the root of his obsession with bundling the family up in warm clothes.

  She alighted at Plaza Urquinaona and continued on foot to the police headquarters. Would she ever get used to that building? She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

  She went up to the first floor where Isidro Castro’s office was. On the stairs she passed two men loaded with cardboard boxes that they held steady with their chins as they felt for the steps with the tips of their shoes.

  She reached Castro’s office. The door was closed. Before knocking, she took in a deep breath, filling her lungs with smoke from Celtas cigarettes. She went in as soon as she heard the inspector’s voice. She was greeted by a look of fury.

  ‘Where were you? Sevilla is looking for you.’

  ‘I went to run some errands… Why is he looking for me?’

  ‘Close the door and sit down here.’ Castro pointed to the chair in front of his desk. She obeyed, somewhat frightened.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Where are the letters?’

  ‘What letters?’

  ‘Mariona Sobrerroca’s letters. What other letters could I be referring to?’

  ‘In my house. What did you expect?’

  Castro’s right hand began to quiver threateningly.

  ‘What are they doing there?’

  The wrong reply in the wrong tone would surely earn her a slap, but Ana didn’t know which reply would be the correct one.

  ‘I have them carefully put away.’

  Wrong answer, although the desk took the blow, a hard, heavy punch that preceded the inspector’s words: ‘How can you answer me with such impudence? Don’t you realise the situation you are in?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Castro looked at the ceiling impatiently.

  ‘I’m talking about the fact that you removed material from my office, evidence in a murder case, Mendoza’s letters to Mariona Sobrerroca, which, as you just confessed, you have in your house.’

  A terrific sensation of déjà vu came over her as she replied, ‘I didn’t confess anything, I only said it.’

  Hadn’t those been the words that had earned Carmen Alonso, Mariona’s maid, her first slap? Her gaze went from the inspector’s eyes to his right hand, but more than any possible blow it was the look in his eyes that was beginning to frighten her.

  Castro struck the desk again.

  ‘Señorita Martí, you are trying my patience! Why did you take t
he letters?’

  ‘You gave me permission!’ The policeman looked at her with such surprise that she added, ‘Yes, you told me I could copy them. I asked permission, through your officer, Sevilla, and you said that I could copy them. Did you forget?’

  ‘You only took the copies?’ Castro shook his head.

  ‘Why would I take the originals?’ added Ana.

  ‘I shouldn’t have let you touch that material.’

  ‘You’re being unfair. Following that lead, we went to Martorell and discovered the relationship between Mendoza and Mariona Sobrerroca.’

  ‘And do you think we wouldn’t have worked it out for ourselves, sooner or later?’

  The scorn in Castro’s reply was meant to derail her, but she wasn’t going to give in. Not with what she knew, what she had come to tell him. She wanted to launch into her explanations, but Castro’s attention had seized on another detail.

  ‘Did you say we went?’

  A single oversight, a slight slip of the tongue and Castro was all over her like a hawk swooping on a mouse in a wheat field.

  ‘Er, yes, I didn’t go alone. I showed them to Beatriz Noguer, a renowned linguist, who —’

  ‘What! You showed confidential material to another person? Who is this Beatriz Noguer? A relative?’

  ‘Something like a second cousin, but I consulted her, as I said, because she is a language expert, to ask her for her opinion, you know? To find out things about the author of the letters and —’

  ‘This is unheard of! Who do you think you are?’

  Ana knew that she had to keep talking, that she shouldn’t allow herself to be intimidated.

  ‘But Beatriz Noguer found something very important. She found out that there is at least a third person implicated in the letters, because the last letter, supposedly written by Abel Mendoza, was actually written by someone else.’

  An expression of disbelief was frozen onto Castro’s face.

  ‘What is this madness?’

  ‘It’s not madness. The two authors theory was confirmed when I spoke with Abel Mendoza, the real Abel Mendoza.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘That last Friday I spoke with the real Abel Mendoza.’

  She waited for her words to have their effect on the policeman. It came quickly: his fist clenched again, his lips tensed into a thin line.

  ‘What are you getting at?’

  Ana explained her meeting with Mendoza, from the letter that arrived at the newspaper to the plan he said he had. She didn’t tell him about the bar La Cruz de Malta. The cold stare with which Castro met her story threw her off course.

  ‘Do you know what this means?’ she asked him in the face of his silence.

  ‘Yes. That once again you have been snooping where you don’t belong.’

  ‘And, as I did last time, I’ve brought you important information. Abel Mendoza is alive and he didn’t kill Mariona Sobrerroca. The killer must still be on the loose. Do you see?’

  ‘What do I need to see?’

  ‘That the case isn’t solved.’

  ‘Why? Because some guy who claims to be Abel Mendoza says so? I’m afraid, miss, that you’ve fallen for the oldest trick in the book. Wait.’

  He got up, headed to the door and shouted, ‘Is Sevilla back yet?’

  He waited in the doorway. As always, Sevilla appeared instantly. He looked at his boss with a questioning gaze, then saw Ana.

  ‘But, she’s here! I’ve been hunting for her all over Barcelona!’

  Castro interrupted him.

  ‘And when were you planning on telling me that you hadn’t found her? Or were you going to take another spin on the motorbike?’

  ‘It’s just that —’

  ‘Forget it. Listen, Sevilla, when did the last of Calvo Sotelo’s murderers turn himself in?’

  ‘About a month back.’

  ‘How old would you say he was?’

  ‘Twenty-five, at the most.’

  Castro let her work it out. Former finance minister Calvo Sotelo had been assassinated in July 1936.

  ‘You can go, Sevilla.’

  The officer left. Castro stood, leaning on a filing cabinet. Ana understood that he considered the conversation almost over.

  ‘Look, there are always people who do these strange things. Some because they aren’t right in the head, others because they want to spend a few days eating and sleeping indoors at the government’s expense,’ he grinned. ‘You don’t know how many confessions we get for petty crimes when it gets cold.’

  She gazed at him incredulously. ‘Now it’s you who’s trying to pull my leg.’

  Castro shot a look towards the door, but she got there first. ‘You don’t need to call Sevilla again.’

  Castro accepted that the conversation wasn’t over, and he sat down.

  ‘The man I spoke to knew a lot about the case. He knew things that didn’t appear in my articles.’

  ‘Criminals talk about crimes with each other, too; they brag about their accomplishments and their feats, especially when they’ve been drinking. They don’t need the newspapers – in their world, information circulates along different channels.’

  ‘And what about the letters?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The last one wasn’t written by the same person.’

  ‘Yeah, sure. Your little partner put that story in your head.’

  ‘It’s not a story. It’s a fact, linguistically proven.’

  ‘I think it’s wonderful, and I hope you two have had fun playing detective, but that’s enough nonsense. Let’s get serious now.’

  ‘I’ve been serious the whole time.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but no. And since I’m not in the mood for any more nonsense, I’m going to spell it out for you, and for the last time. If you want, take notes: the Sobrerroca case is closed. The killer, Abel Mendoza, is dead and soon to be buried.’

  ‘But —’

  ‘The bloke you talked to is a fraud. Are you following me? All right, on to the next thing.’

  Castro hadn’t raised his voice, but with each point he enumerated, his tone grew slightly darker. He was speaking very slowly, as if he were actually dictating.

  ‘Finally, I strictly forbid you to take any sort of action in this matter. You can thank the fact that I attribute all this to naivety, and not bad intentions, for my not calling the paper to complain. But this is the last time I will tolerate something like this. One more misstep and I will arrest you for obstruction of justice and contempt. Are we finished?’

  He picked up a piece of paper and a pencil.

  ‘Give me Beatriz Noguer’s full name and address.’

  Ana gave it to him.

  ‘Is something going to…’ she couldn’t find the right word, ‘happen to her?’

  ‘Not if you two stay nice and quiet. And tomorrow I want the copies of the letters here,’ he pointed to his desk. ‘All the copies you have. Understood?’

  Ana fought back tears of rage. She nodded her head, but said, ‘She has the carbon copies from the Martorell files.’

  Castro glanced at the table that held the material, then turned towards her. ‘Are we finished or not?’

  ‘Yes. May I go?’

  ‘No one’s stopping you.’

  She left. He didn’t say goodbye; she wouldn’t have been able to reply anyway.

  She left the police headquarters in tears. No one paid much attention; it was all too common a sight.

  48

  On Wednesday morning Carlos Belda visited the morgue at Montjuïc. No sooner had he parked outside the mortuary grounds than he lit a cigarette to cover up the odour.

  Now that the Sobrerroca case was closed, he had got Sanvisens to agree that the next interesting case would be his and, in a macabre kind of droit de seigneur, he had first dibs on the investigation, which in this instance meant finding himself at the morgue with Inspector Manzaneque of the CIB.

  Manzaneque was waiting for him at the entrance
to the morgue. They greeted each other with a firm handshake. The policeman was a hale man of about fifty. The only button on his jacket that was done up was heroically resisting the pressure from his prominent belly. His hat covered a dense head of hair, white like his moustache. He was smoking too, but rolling tobacco. He pulled out a paper from the little packet, put just enough tobacco on it to make a reedy cylinder and closed it with a swipe of his tongue.

  ‘Hey, Belda, you ready?’

  They had known each other for years, and Manzaneque knew that morgue visits weren’t the journalist’s favourite thing.

  ‘Depends. What have we got?’

  He pointed into the morgue with his cigarette.

  ‘Bloke in his twenties. They found him in the slums, all done up in make-up and women’s clothes.’

  ‘How was he killed?’

  ‘Strangled.’

  ‘When did they turn him up?’

  ‘Yesterday. Better give me your handkerchief,’ said the policeman, jabbing a finger in the direction of Belda’s jacket pocket. ‘According to the forensic doctor he’s been dead since Sunday.’

  Carlos pulled out a white monogrammed handkerchief and held it out to Manzaneque so that the policeman could put a few drops of menthol on it.

  ‘Shall we go in?’ said the policeman.

  ‘Let’s go.’

  They went in. They walked down a long corridor and then down to the basement.

  ‘Did you hear about Castro?’ Manzaneque asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘They’re going to promote him. For the Sobrerroca thing. They’re making him a First-class Inspector.’

  Carlos thought he should call to congratulate him.

  They went into the morgue room. They were received by an employee dressed in a grey lab coat that was too long and too narrow on him.

  ‘The one from Somorrostro,’ the policeman said.

  They followed the employee. He had one of his sleeves rolled up, the right one, and Carlos wondered while they were walking if there was something hidden under the left sleeve, which swayed with the employee’s every step. That distracted him from the first wave of smells: damp mould and ammonia.

  He hoped it was a case worth writing about, since he had to go through the unpleasantness of seeing the body.