Water-Blue Eyes

by Villar, Domingo

  The car had not reappeared.

  The report also contained the lophoscopic analysis and the results of the first inspection of the flat. Forensics ruled out the possibility that Reigosa might have been tied up and gagged after being killed, and marked the time of death at around eleven p.m. on 11 May. On the whole, it wasn’t the most exhaustive report Caldas had read, and it barely contributed anything new, but it was still better than nothing. Clara Barcia’s conclusions were still pending; she would take another couple of days. Caldas was confident that her metic ulousness at combing the scene would open new avenues of investigation, but for the moment he couldn’t find a clear way forward. In his mind, he went over what he had: the small part of a fingerprint that was impossible to match with any prints stored in the police files; a commonly used chemical product as a weapon; and the certainty that the murderer must have had quite an advanced degree of medical knowledge. It was also quite likely that the murderer was a man. A homosexual man.

  Caldas took the portrait he’d commandeered at Reigosa’s flat out of the pocket of his jacket. Once again he had the impression he was missing something. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but a little voice inside him told him a piece didn’t quite fit in that puzzle. He knew that feeling, and trusted his instinct. He was sure that, no matter how small it was, whatever was hiding at the back of his mind now would suddenly come to light at a later stage.

  He tilted his head back, returned the picture to his pocket and closed his eyes.

  The small village of Porriño was in the valley of the Louro river, where it flowed towards the Miño. It was some ten kilometres away from Vigo. The southbound motorway, to Portugal, and the eastbound, to Madrid, went past near the village, which was growing at the same speed as the granite mountains around it were being quarried.

  A few years back, as a consequence of the quarrying boom, a large industrial park had been built in the region. Reasonable land prices, good road links and tax exemptions had attracted many companies to Vigo.

  The policemen left a few ships behind and got off the motorway. They went on along the main road until they reached a high fence that protected several hectares of land. A name was written in sober lettering over the gate at the entrance: ‘Riofarma’.

  The building housing the laboratory had retained the flavour of old companies: a certain air of mystery. The stone it was made of gave it a look of nobility and strength which was lacking in the new structures of the industrial area. After several decades, the company was still owned by the family of the founder, Lisardo Ríos.

  ‘Good morning,’ said a security guard as he approached the car.

  Estévez sought help in the seat next to him.

  ‘Ramón Ríos is expecting us. I’m Inspector Leo Caldas from the Vigo police station.’

  ‘Inspector Leo Caldas?’

  ‘Yes,’ he confirmed.

  ‘Are you really Leo Caldas, from Patrol on the Air?’

  ‘The very same one,’ confirmed Estévez, nodding appreciatively.

  ‘Leo Caldas… I can’t believe it, I never miss your show. Here in my box I always tune in to Radio Vigo.’ The man stuck half his body out of the window and offered his hand. ‘It’s a misleading medium, radio, isn’t it? I would have thought you were an older man.’

  ‘I’m sorry to disappoint,’ replied Caldas as he shook his hand. He still couldn’t figure out how anyone could like the programme.

  ‘I’m not disappointed at all,’ said the security guard without letting go of his hand. ‘It’s a pleasure to meet you, inspector.’

  ‘Can we come in now?’ asked Caldas, when he considered his lower arm had been sufficiently shaken.

  The guard opened the gate, revealing the beautiful gardens that surrounded the building of the laboratory.

  ‘It’s been a pleasure,’ he shouted enthusiastically as they went through.

  ‘All the best,’ replied the inspector with a forced smile.

  ‘Funny what fame achieves, right, chief?’ Estévez commented once they’d cleared the gate.

  ‘What do you mean, fame?’

  ‘Oh, no need to be humble in front of me, chief. You saw it – once he recognised you, he let us through straight away.’

  ‘I’m not that well known. Besides, it’s pretty normal not to stand in the way when the police want to come through.’

  ‘Come on, inspector, you won’t deny that people treat you completely differently because you’re on the radio. When we’re undercover, or when I go somewhere on my own, everyone looks annoyed. But if you identify yourself as the officer from Patrol on the Air, we instantly receive special treatment, as happened just now.’

  ‘Firstly, I didn’t identify myself as anything. Secondly, you won’t receive any special treatment from people if you beat them up at the slightest provocation.’

  ‘Don’t lecture me on work ethics,’ Estévez defended himself. ‘We all have our methods. If you’re not aware that your popularity is a plus, there’s no reason to turn it against me. Your success is your own business.’

  ‘Leave me alone, will you?’ said Caldas, sensing that his assistant might be right. Despite his many years of service as a police officer, if anyone knew him it was because of that ridiculous radio programme, no matter how much he disliked being a part of it.

  They got out of the car and made for the building. Ramón Ríos was waiting for them at the entrance.

  Ramón Ríos had been Leo Caldas’s schoolmate. Together they had learned many disparate things: that there was one sin graver than the others; that a goal scored from a penalty kick was a valid goal; that the derivative at a point equalled the slope of the line tangent to the graph of the function at that point … They had also heard Don José instructing them on extreme situations from the pulpit: for instance, if a terrorist is threatening a child’s family with a machine gun and asks the child to trample on a consecrated wafer, the child need not trample on it, for if the terrorist were to follow through and shoot, the family would ascend into heaven, happy and whole, as martyrs. On some occasions, provided that Alba was part of the deal, Leo would have agreed with Don José’s unorthodox theory. On most he wouldn’t.

  ‘Leo, you must be the only madman who comes to the lab when he wants to see me,’ said Ríos, by way of greeting.

  ‘Each to their own, you know.’

  They greeted with a hug. Although they no longer saw each other on a regular basis, they still acknowledged a pleasant well of friendship left over from childhood, when, for different reasons, both had found it quite difficult to interact with other children.

  ‘This time it’s not a personal visit, but a matter related to your line of work,’ said Leo Caldas, hinting at why he was there.

  ‘My what? Are you sure you’re OK?’

  ‘Don’t they pay you for coming here?’ asked Leo.

  ‘Only not to have me moping around the house,’ replied Ríos, and looked at the expensive watch he sported on his left wrist. ‘On a day like this, I’ll be on the boat in half an hour at the latest.’

  ‘Lucky for some,’ said the inspector.

  Ramón Ríos gestured in the direction of Estévez, who had lagged behind and was engrossed watching four young people in white coats manipulating a smoking green liquid.

  ‘You’ve got yourself a gorilla?’ he asked in a low voice.

  ‘Rafael Estévez, my new assistant. He’s only been in the city a few months. Rafael!’ he called out.

  ‘Quite a beast! I’m sure you’re well protected,’ muttered Ríos, winking at him in the same naughty manner he had as a child. ‘I’d heard radio celebrities need bodyguards.’

  ‘It must be that,’ Caldas said tersely.

  Estévez came over and said hello to Ríos.

  ‘How’s it going?’

  ‘Well, losing quite a bit of hair. Otherwise I can’t complain.’

  ‘Rafael, this is Ramón Ríos,’ said Caldas.

  ‘A pleasure,’ said Estévez, and pointed in the
direction of the men in white coats. ‘What are they doing?’

  ‘The ones with the green smoke?’

  Rafael Estévez nodded.

  ‘I have no idea,’ replied Ríos, as if there were no other possible answer to the officer’s question. ‘I only know about stuff in my area, and not even much about that, to be honest. In my family the clever one was Grandpa Lisardo, who set up this joint. Nowadays, the really clever ones are my brother, my cousin and the cat. And, round here, no one’s terribly clever either. In fact they’re all pretty dumb,’ he said, looking at a couple of employees coming down the corridor. ‘The best brains go over to the competition. The thing is, since Zetiza was floated, it pays better than us.’

  Estévez nodded slightly.

  Ramón carried on with his speech.

  ‘Anyway, I’m allergic to the lab myself, and that’s why I’m here as little as possible. I often get these rashes, you know, which only heal with seawater and a nice breeze. I’m sure it’s some kind of incompatibility between wine and one of the substances we produce here. Do you want to know something?’ he asked, looking at Rafael Estévez.

  ‘No, thank you,’ replied the officer, who, after listening to the maelstrom of words Ríos was capable of, thought it more advisable not to take part in the conversation.

  ‘Leo tells me you’re not from round here.’

  ‘No, sir, I’m from Zaragoza. Have you been there?’

  ‘Do you say “sir” because I’m bald?’

  ‘Pardon?’ asked the officer.

  ‘You can call me by my first name, young man. I may be ugly, but I’m not that old. See?’ he said, opening his mouth wide. ‘I still have all my teeth on this side.’

  ‘There’s no use trying, Ramón,’ put in Caldas.

  ‘As you like, but one starts with all that sir-business and ends up genuflecting, as we used to do at school.’

  Ramón started walking along the corridor that abutted at the hall.

  ‘Come this way, we’ll carry on talking at the tennis court.’

  Estévez stood bolted to his place, looking at the inspector in bewilderment.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘His office,’ replied Leo Caldas, following Ríos.

  Ramón Ríos had a huge office with walnut wood panelling. A Persian carpet covered nearly all the floor. On one side, in an area reserved for meetings, eight leather chairs surrounded a large conference table with a state-of-the-art telephone on its centre. On the other, by the window, an antique piece of furniture served as a desk. There was a sports newspaper open on it.

  ‘Crikey, for someone who doesn’t do any work here, it’s not bad,’ joked Caldas on coming in.

  ‘I know,’ admitted Ramón Ríos, taking a look around.

  On several occasions Leo Caldas had witnessed how envious his schoolmates were of Ramón Ríos’s way of casually talking about his opulent life. But Leo had never harboured such feelings himself; on the contrary, he valued Ríos’s generous and faithful friendship. If there was something he would have wished for himself, it was Ríos’s impetuous self-confidence, a far cry from his own natural shyness.

  ‘Do sit down and tell me what miracle brings you gentlemen here,’ said Ramón Ríos.

  The policemen chose two of the chairs around the table and waited in silence for Ramón Ríos to take another one.

  ‘Formaldehyde,’ said Caldas tersely.

  ‘Formaldehyde, how do you mean, formaldehyde?’ asked Ríos. ‘What can you possibly mean, Leo?’

  ‘Formaldehyde is one of Riofarma’s products and we’d like to know the names of your clients in the city.’

  Ramón looked at Caldas as if he’d spoken in a foreign tongue.

  ‘Well, we’ll need to check that,’ he replied at last, when he realised that his former schoolmate was being serious, and that formaldehyde really was the reason for his visit.

  ‘By the way, Leo, how’s your father these days?’ he asked, pulling the cord of the telephone and dragging it towards himself.

  ‘As always. A bit in his own world. We’re having lunch tomorrow, but we haven’t seen a lot of each other lately. Tomorrow we’re meeting up because he must come to Vigo on some errand, but if it was up to him he’d never leave the vineyard.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. What’s the wine like this year?’

  ‘It seems to be top-notch in quality, but the old man complains that production has dropped. Apparently it rained at the wrong time. I don’t know what the hell he means by the wrong time, but that’s what he says. I think he actually likes to complain – but we’re only in May and he’s already sold half of this year’s lot.’

  ‘He sells it too well,’ assured Ramón Ríos. ‘Last year, when I wanted to order a few boxes, he was already out. And the year before that I couldn’t taste it either.’

  ‘Well, you know, it sells out in no time,’ said Caldas, as if excusing his father.

  Ríos nodded, and then said: ‘When you see him tell him I’d like to sample a few bottles. Tell him to put aside as many as he can. Remind him I’m solvent if needs be.’

  Leo smiled and pointed to the phone.

  ‘I’ll take care of the wine, you make that call.’

  Ríos pressed one of the buttons of the fancy telephone, activating the loudspeaker so that all three could hear the conversation. The dialling tone rang clearly in the room.

  He had to make several calls. First to ascertain that, as Caldas claimed, the laboratory owned by his family did produce formaldehyde. Then to find out which division produced it and so on. When he finally got the right number, there was a feminine voice at the other end.

  ‘Good morning, Solutions and Concentrates, how can I help?’

  ‘Good morning, Ramón Ríos here.’

  ‘Don Ramón, what a surprise!’ The woman faltered and tried to fix the comment that had just slipped out. ‘I’m sorry, Don Ramón, what I meant was

  ‘Don’t worry, it would have been strange not to be surprised,’ he reassured her, tipping a wink at the inspector. ‘Who am I speaking to?’

  ‘Carmen Iglesias.’

  ‘Hi Carmen. I’m trying to find out something about one of our products. Would that be possible?’

  ‘That’s what we’re here for, Don Ramón,’ replied the woman, obviously eager to please.

  ‘Do we produce formaldehyde?’ asked Ríos.

  ‘It depends what you mean.’

  ‘I understand your division produces it,’ explained Ríos.

  ‘We don’t actually produce the substance, Don Ramón, but we do work with it. We buy it from the manufacturer and here, in Solutions and Concentrates, we treat it and bottle it according to the different ways our clients might use it,’ clarified Carmen Iglesias.

  ‘The thing is, I’m here with some friends who’d like to know a few details about the process. Would you mind helping them?’

  ‘By all means, Don Ramón.’

  ‘I’ll put them on in a moment, Carmen, but before that let me tell you that your voice sounds very…’ Ramón Ríos trailed off, searching for the right word, ‘charming.’

  ‘Thank you, Don Ramón,’ said the woman, amused.

  Caldas bent over the telephone.

  ‘Good morning, Carmen, this is Inspector Caldas.’

  ‘From the radio?’ Carmen’s voice betrayed emotion.

  ‘You see?’ said Estévez just before Caldas gave him a withering look.

  Caldas accepted the woman’s congratulations, and her assurances that in Solutions and Concentrates they never missed a programme of Patrol on the Air. But as soon as he saw an opening he limited himself to the subject that had taken them to the laboratory.

  ‘Carmen, would it be possible to obtain a list of the clients who buy formaldehyde from you?’

  ‘In all concentrations?’ she asked.

  ‘In all concentrations?’ repeated Caldas, looking at Ramón Ríos in search of an explanation.

  Ríos shrugged his shoulders and bent over the phone.
>
  ‘Carmen, would you be kind enough to explain to the inspector and me what you mean about the concentrations?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s quite simple, Don Ramón, every formaldehyde solution is a different product, used for different things. We have solutions ranging from a concentration of eight per cent formaldehyde, as used by paper manufacturers and tanners, up to solutions with thirty-seven per cent formaldehyde, which is what we normally send to hospitals, and then we have…’

  ‘I need the second one, Carmen,’ interrupted Caldas. ‘Is it possible to know which medical centres you provide with thirty-seven per cent formaldehyde solutions? I’m particularly interested in your clients here in Vigo.’

  ‘Of course, inspector. The best thing would be to speak directly to Isidro Freire, the representative for the area. He’s in charge of the sales of all our products in Vigo.’

  ‘Would it be too much to ask you to transfer me to Mr Freire?’ asked Caldas.

  ‘Not at all, inspector, but Isidro had an appointment and I saw him leave a moment ago. I don’t think he’s even had time to reach his car. If you like I can call him on his mobile and ask him to wait.’

  ‘If that’s not a problem …’

  ‘Of course it isn’t, inspector. I’ll call him right away.’

  ‘Many thanks, you’ve been very kind.’

  ‘You’re welcome, inspector. Now if you don’t mind, I’ll leave you so I can make that call.’

  ‘Just another thing, Carmen,’ interrupted Ramón Ríos, who never missed a chance.

  ‘Yes, Don Ramón?’

  ‘I was wondering how old is the owner of that lovely voice?’

  ‘Thanks, Don Ramón, I’m about to turn twenty-seven.’

  Judging by the woman’s honeyed intonation, Caldas understood she hadn’t minded his friend’s comment in the slightest.

  Ramón Ríos shook the policemen’s hands, disconnected the loudspeaker, and unhooked the receiver.