The Whispering City

by Sara Moliner

  ‘My hands are tied. Believe me, if I could do something for you, I would.’

  Castro stood and made for the hallway.

  ‘Then why did you come here?’ asked Ana.

  ‘Partly out of curiosity, partly out of… call it selfishness if you want to, I don’t mind. For my own survival on the force, I need to know which way the wind blows. Now I know. And finally, because I really thought that maybe I could help you all out of this unharmed, but given the dimensions it’s taken on, I don’t see how. I think it’s best I stay out of it.’

  ‘And your duty?’

  ‘My duty, Señorita Martí, would be to arrest you for obstruction of justice. So, as you can see, I’m turning a blind eye to everyone today. A word of advice: if you can, get out of the city, or better yet, the country, as soon as possible.’

  Ana clutched the policeman’s sleeve.

  ‘You’re abandoning us to our fate?’

  ‘Don’t be melodramatic.’

  Castro roughly brushed her off, reached the end of the hallway in two strides, opened the door and left the flat.

  They were alone.

  65

  Alone; and facing an enemy so powerful that even Castro feared having to deal with him. The tough guy at the CIB had almost run out of the house when he understood that it had to do with Sánchez-Herranz. How had Mariona Sobrerroca been so foolhardy as to blackmail that man!

  Again, Beatriz felt as if rage was getting the better of her. However, this time it didn’t blind her, but instead gave her a feeling of clear-sightedness.

  A powerful enemy; a giant against whom they could do nothing. No, they weren’t David. None of them was, not even the three of them together. No; it wasn’t David against Goliath. Someone else would have to throw the stone.

  ‘Do you remember what you said before, Ana? The master and the disciple, father and son. Joaquín Grau and Fernando Sánchez-Herranz, both in the hands of the widow of Dr Garmendia. Remember?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘You said, didn’t you, that they had distanced themselves from each other some time ago?’

  ‘Yes, Sánchez-Herranz has been trying to undermine Grau’s position for some time, despite all he’s done for him.’

  It was true. Sánchez-Herranz had arrived in the city under Grau’s wing, but they represented increasingly remote positions. They were both in favour of the hard line. Grau in particular showed as much in his implacable police pursuit of ‘common’ crime. Many saw him as destined to become a minister in Madrid, based on what he’d achieved in Barcelona. Sánchez-Herranz, despite being younger, or perhaps because of it, belonged to the hard core of the Falange. He had got close to the Civil Governor, Acedo Colunga; his field was the pursuit of ‘political’ crime and, as Ana knew well from her work at the newspaper, he strictly controlled the press. Especially the newspapers edited in Barcelona: La Vanguardia, El Noticiero Universal, even the highly conservative El Correo Catalán were prey to all manner of suspicions, which were expressed in angry letters of caution that threatened severe punishment if whatever had earned his reproof were to be repeated. He was a crafty guy who had adapted himself to Grau, his protector, until he felt he was in a position that allowed him to reveal his true intentions. The tensions between him and Grau weren’t public, but they were known.

  ‘The son turns against the father, but he knows it and defends himself, like an old lion when a young rival tries to snatch his territory from him. The hatred provoked by the betrayal of someone he loved like a son knows no bounds.’

  ‘How would you like to unleash that hatred?’

  ‘With letters. It’s a fitting end. This whole story began with a letter, and we can end it with another.’

  ‘Tieta Beatriz, this isn’t a novel.’

  Pablo’s tone was one of paternal indulgence, as if he were explaining to a little girl that it was her parents who bought and wrapped her Christmas gifts.

  ‘Pablito, I’m not that unworldly. I wasn’t born yesterday.’

  ‘No. I don’t want to offend you, but it’s just that in real life stories aren’t usually so neat and tidy.’

  ‘But that’s not what you were saying either, was it, Beatriz?’ interjected Ana.

  ‘Not exactly. What’s clear to me is that we have a means to take the reins of this story and stop being its characters. I don’t know if it will work, but…’

  ‘We can at least give it a try,’ Ana finished her sentence for her.

  Anything’s better than just sitting around waiting for the storm to pass, thought Beatriz, like those Republicans who had spent years hidden in secret rooms of their houses until they dared to come out, only to discover that the storm still hadn’t subsided. Like Mario Mendoza, in whose way of life she saw a distorted reflection of her own.

  ‘With letters?’ asked Pablo.

  ‘With one letter.’

  ‘Ah! One letter. Easy as pie.’ Pablo couldn’t hide his disbelief.

  ‘It won’t be easy. But it is a strategy that has worked in other cases. When the threat is two giants versus someone without even the shadow of a chance, the solution can lie in pitting the two giants against each other.’

  ‘And where did you say this has worked, Tieta? Because I haven’t read it, but I know the giants in Don Quixote were windmills.’

  ‘No, it’s not from Don Quixote. It’s the story of the brave little tailor.’

  The smirk that had accompanied Pablo’s sarcastic comments froze for a few seconds before melting away completely.

  ‘Tieta, you’re delirious.’

  ‘Not in the slightest. I am, as you lawyers say, in full possession of my mental faculties.’

  Pablo was about to say something, but Ana gestured to Beatriz to continue speaking.

  ‘Do you remember the tale of the brave little tailor? It’s by the Brothers Grimm. It tells the story of a tailor who one day killed seven flies with one blow.’

  ‘Flies? That’s more our speed.’

  ‘Pablo!’ reprimanded Ana.

  Beatriz continued, ‘He was so proud of his feat that he made a belt that read “Seven at One Blow”, and since people thought it referred to men, they respected him but, all the same, they were constantly testing him.’

  She saw that Ana was growing impatient, so she left out the tests and got to the relevant part: ‘One day he arrived in a kingdom that was under the yoke of two giants. The people there asked him to free them, and in exchange…’

  ‘They gave him at least half the kingdom and a princess, as usual. What are you getting at, Tieta?’

  ‘At how he did it. What the little tailor did was pit them against each other. As they slept, he threw a rock at each of them so they both thought it had been the other. They ended up fighting and killing each other.’

  ‘Very lovely and edifying,’ said Pablo. ‘I guess one of the rocks is the letter you were talking about, is it?’

  ‘Yes. A letter from Fernando Sánchez-Herranz to Joaquín Grau.’

  ‘And how do you plan on convincing him to write it?’

  ‘I’m not. I’ll write it myself.’

  ‘And say what?’

  ‘That I have the documents, and that I know he was involved in the adulterating of penicillin. I will make him think that I have him in my power, and that I am going to make use of my information.’

  ‘And the other rock?’ Ana asked then. ‘Another letter?’

  ‘No. Too symmetrical. In order for it to work, it’s important that when the first giant asks the other, “Did you throw this rock at me?”, he answers no, but that the first one still thinks he did. Which is to say, that when Grau alludes to the documents, he will sense that Sánchez-Herranz knows what he’s talking about. So it is fundamental that Sánchez-Herranz has the documents in his possession. But they have to fall into his hands in such a way that he doesn’t realise a trap is being set for him.’

  Pablo shook his head, making clear how absurd he found the plan, but Ana was following her. She was
thinking, racking her brains for a solution.

  ‘Which is to say, that the Garmendia documents have to reach Sánchez-Herranz’s hands via normal, official means. Or almost.’

  ‘That’s right. What are you thinking, Ana?’

  ‘Castro.’

  No. That wouldn’t work. Her plan was precarious enough – not to say complicated. Counting on Castro, who had just minutes earlier washed his hands of the whole thing and abandoned them to their fate, didn’t make sense. Ana read as much in Beatriz’s expression, but didn’t give up: ‘I’m already imagining what you two are thinking, but let me try. What do we have to lose? Nothing.’

  ‘Well, we could lose one of the rocks,’ said Pablo.

  ‘Pablito, this is not the moment for more sarcasm, or defeatism. Do you have a better idea? If you don’t, help us to keep thinking.’

  Pablo got up, went over to her and gave her a kiss on the cheek.

  ‘You’re absolutely right, Tieta. And, as a lawyer, I suppose it’s my job to look for cons. The first one. For the letter from Sánchez-Herranz to Grau. The handwriting?’

  ‘We’ll type it. Do you have a typewriter?’

  ‘Yes, but what about the signature? Even if there is a typewritten name below it, we need a handwritten signature.’

  ‘That is a problem,’ said Beatriz.

  Then she saw that Ana was staring at copies of La Vanguardia that Pablo had on a little table.

  ‘Sanvisens.’

  She and Pablo looked at each other, confused.

  ‘I have to make a call.’

  Ana made for the telephone in the hallway. They followed her.

  ‘Mateo, there is something you can do for me.’

  They couldn’t hear Sanvisens’s reply, but he seemed willing.

  ‘You once told me that you received letters from Sánchez-Herranz complaining about articles he didn’t like.’

  At her boss’s response, Ana grinned.

  ‘I can imagine he complained about the article on the Sobrerroca case too. Thanks for not telling me that at the time. Yes, I would have been quite upset. Do you still have it? Can you lend it to me? Please, don’t ask why. One moment.’

  She turned away from the phone and said, ‘The problem is how to get it as soon as possible.’

  ‘I can go,’ offered Pablo.

  ‘But not to the newspaper offices. They must be watching. Wait, I know how.’

  Ana spoke into the phone again.

  ‘I have an idea: send an errand boy to fetch coffees at the Zúrich café and give him the letter. Tell him that he should deliver it to a man who’ll have…’

  ‘A double carnation in his lapel?’ joked Pablo.

  Beatriz admonished him with a look.

  ‘… a copy of the Noticiero Universal,’ replied Ana, ‘and he’ll be at the bar, drinking a white coffee.’

  ‘El Noticiero?’ was heard through the receiver.

  Beatriz signalled to Ana that she wanted to speak with her.

  ‘One second, Mateo.’

  She put her hand over the receiver. Beatriz whispered into her ear, ‘Tell him to bring several letters; that way I’ll have more samples of the text so I can imitate his style.’

  Ana gave him the message. Then she said, ‘When you go to get the letters, Pablo, you can take a note to my father. I imagine the police have been to the house and my family must be worried. My father works in a grocery shop on Valencia Street. If you could swing by there…’

  ‘No problem.’

  ‘I’ll call Castro later. Beatriz, I’d rather you didn’t listen to the conversation, in case I really need to humiliate myself.’

  ‘Of course. But maybe it will go well. We’re like the mouse in the fable that appears in The Book of Good Love. Like the lion, he has spared our life, because we aren’t even enough for an appetiser. “Sir, don’t kill me, I won’t fill your belly,” says the mouse, but when the lion falls into a hunter’s net, his claws are of no use to him. The mouse is able to gnaw on the net to free him and he says, “Thanks to my little teeth, you are alive today.”’

  It was irrational, it was absurd, but those verses filled her with optimism.

  Unfortunately, it was only her they touched. Ana and Pablo couldn’t hide their apprehension, but at least they had a plan.

  66

  She didn’t know whether the call would end up being humiliating or not, but it would certainly be testing.

  She took a deep breath and dialled the number. It rang three times before Castro answered. ‘Criminal Investigation Brigade. First Class Inspector Castro.’

  ‘It’s Ana Martí.’

  Castro seemed surprised.

  ‘What do you want?’

  ‘Your help.’

  ‘I’ve already told you that for me the matter is closed.’

  ‘And you can live with that?’

  ‘I’ve lived with worse things, Señorita Martí.’

  She had to land him before he took refuge in his cynicism.

  ‘Then are you willing to work with someone, no, for someone who deceives his own men the way Goyanes did you? To work for someone capable of letting his men kill a young woman like Encarni, who’s only ever known drudgery in order to support her family?’

  ‘Look, Señorita —’

  No, he wasn’t going to interrupt her.

  ‘Do you think that someone like that deserves to be in the CIB? And maybe, someday, thanks to his friends and his lack of scruples, to be heading up the CIB?’

  ‘Don’t try to manipulate me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think of it. You said that you wanted to know what direction things were moving in; well, now you see. The CIB, passing into the hands of one of Sánchez-Herranz’s lackeys. And you think that Goyanes is going to leave you in peace? Sooner or later he’ll realise what you know, because he’ll keep pulling on the thread, a thread that, unfortunately, also leads to us. Do you think that when he knows about everything you are keeping quiet he’ll leave you in peace?’

  ‘And you want to offer me something to, let’s just say, improve my situation?’

  Ana thought that here Beatriz would have told him the fable of the mouse and the lion, but she lacked her cousin’s imperviousness to the impatience of others. On the other hand, she was sharp enough to know that it was the moment to speak more clearly.

  ‘Why else would I have called you? But I sense that you’re still refusing to give me even a glimmer of hope. If I remember rightly, you claimed that if there was anything you could do for us, you would. Well, I’m calling because there is something you can do.’

  There was silence at the other end of the line. Then, instead of Castro’s voice, she heard footsteps and a door closing. She pressed the receiver against her ear. When Castro spoke again, the words sounded so clear in her head that she feared he could read her thoughts.

  ‘Fine. Go on. But if at any point what you’re saying isn’t convincing, I’ll just hang up. And then don’t even think about calling me back, because in half an hour I’ll have a patrol car in front of your door. Are we clear?’

  Ana started to explain her plan to him. With each sentence she uttered, it seemed flimsier, and after each pause she expected to hear a click and the dialling tone. But Castro was still there. In absolute silence, without giving a single sign of acceptance, doubt or rejection. Nothing, as if there were a machine at the other end, a tape recorder. Ana got to the most delicate part: ‘What you could do would be to put the papers that incriminate Grau in Sánchez-Herranz’s reach, saying, for example, that you found them in one of Mendoza’s filing cabinets in Martorell and that, given their sensitive nature, you chose to give them to him, since you know that Joaquín Grau is his mentor and that he will know what to do to avoid a scandal, one that would taint such a valuable institution as the public prosecutor’s office…’

  There was a sigh at the other end of the line. Had she gone too far? Was he going to hang up? Only the former: ‘Señorita Martí, you don’t need to write me a
script, as if this was a radio serial.’

  ‘Does that mean you’ll do it?’ she asked hopefully.

  ‘But you do realise how crazy this is, what you’re suggesting?’ Castro burst out laughing.

  ‘Then why did you listen to the end? To have a good laugh at my expense? Is that it? I amuse you?’

  She was hurt, and she saw no reason to hide it. ‘I see that I was completely wrong about you, Inspector. Oh! Pardon me, First Class Inspector. They told me not to get my hopes up about you, that you had only said you wanted to help us to ease your conscience, that you weren’t going to lift a finger to solve the case or to help us, despite knowing that it leaves us in Goyanes’s hands. I misjudged you. That’s fine. It’s a lesson I’ll never forget for the rest of my life. Which doesn’t look as if it’ll be that long.’

  ‘Jesus! More cheap drama. Fucking brilliant!’

  They were both quiet.

  Ana’s heart was racing. Her pulse beat even faster when Castro said, ‘I’ll collect the papers tomorrow.’

  He hung up without another word. He didn’t even tell her when he would be dropping by. Why would he? He knew they wouldn’t be leaving the house.

  She remained sitting in the hallway beside the telephone for a few minutes. Then she went to look for Beatriz. Ana found her sitting on the sofa with her gaze fixed on the door, waiting for her.

  ‘One of the rocks is in the air.’

  67

  ‘El Noticiero? Sold out.’

  Before Pablo had time to curse Ana for saying he would be carrying that particular newspaper, the kiosk vendor knelt down and disappeared for a moment behind the little counter.

  ‘Wait! I’ve got one left. If you don’t mind it being a bit wrinkled… Do you have any coins? I’m almost out of change.’

  Twenty minutes after leaving the house, Pablo was at the bar of the Zúrich café with the newspaper. Soon the errand boy arrived with a copy of La Vanguardia. The letters were hidden in its pages.

  ‘In the sports section,’ he said, taking a sip of coffee.

  Pablo didn’t know what was appropriate in these situations, but for starters he paid for the boy’s coffee and gave him a tip.