by Antonio Hill
He observed Sara’s face closely. It was clear that suicide didn’t form part of her plans, nor was it even a remote thought at that point. Her eyes were shining and her smile lit up her face.
“I’m going to go. I’m taking this photo, all right?”
Kristin shrugged her shoulders, doubtful.
Another photograph caught the agent’s attention, firstly because there were no footballers with her. A group of men and women, dressed informally, were posing in front of a minibus. He took it down and showed it to Kristin.
“No idea,” she said. “Work colleagues, I suppose.”
“Sara didn’t belong to a hiking group or anything like that?”
She burst out laughing, as if the very idea were ridiculous. He looked at the photo again, peering attentively at Sara; she was smiling enthusiastically in this one too, and the expression of happiness gave her an almost childlike appearance. She was wearing knee-length beige shorts that didn’t suit her at all. He took the photo, not asking permission this time.
Roger looked around him. There was little more to see in the room. He opened the wardrobe, with few expectations by now, and found nothing more or less than what it should contain: clothes, carefully hung up or folded. Indeed, Sara had been a more than organized woman: the shelves were arranged by color and the order was of pinpoint accuracy. Beside the computer there were shelves of paperbacks, the majority in German or English. On the bedside table he saw a novel by an author called Melody Thomas, which Sara was halfway through, judging by the bookmark. She would never know how it ends, thought Fort. He left the room somewhat depressed, with the photos of Sara in his hand.
“And what do I do with her things?” asked Kristin, as if the thought had just occurred to her that very instant. “Do I have to put them in boxes?”
The young woman’s face was worried and, not for the first time since Thursday night, Agent Fort, who came from a large, relatively united family, felt overwhelmed by a painful sadness to think that Sara Mahler had no one to collect her belongings apart from this roommate who’d known her for little more than two months and, in any case, would do so out of mere obligation. Neither did he believe that Herr Joseph Mahler would have much interest in his daughter’s things.
Kristin was waiting for an answer, so Fort opted for a compromise.
“I suppose that would be best, if you don’t mind. When you’re done, call me and I’ll come to get your roommate’s boxes.”
“Okay.”
“One more thing.” He didn’t want to show this girl the photo of the dogs: she was already upset. Nevertheless, he should ask. “Did Sara ever talk about dogs? Was she frightened of them or anything?”
She looked at him as if he’d gone mad.
“Dogs?” She shook her head. “No. Not at all. I don’t know if she liked them or not, but what has that got to do with her suicide?”
She’d said the word for the first time. It was strange, Fort reflected, how hard it was to say certain things. People spoke freely of sex, for example, and yet the subject of death, above all when it was self-inflicted, continued to be a taboo difficult to overcome.
“I don’t know. Probably nothing,” he responded, not giving her any more information.
Seconds afterward Agent Roger Fort headed toward the door, not knowing if he’d taken anything definite from that chat, apart from two photographs and a feeling of melancholy that seemed to weigh on his chest.
“Excuse me,” Kristin said to the agent when he was already on the landing. “I said ugly things about Sara before. They weren’t lies. But then I remembered when I was sick and she called the doctor and took care of me. She made soup and brought it to me in bed.” She lowered her head, as if she were ashamed. “It’s silly. I just wanted you to know. Sara was strange, but she wasn’t a bad person.”
Roger Fort nodded and smiled at her. The door of the lift opened and out came a person that he assumed was Kristin’s Catalan boyfriend. Just as young but much less blond. While descending, Agent Fort studied both photos. And thought the Dutch girl’s last sentence was a good epitaph, although it could be applied to a large part of the world’s population. He put away the photos before leaving. Sara Mahler’s smile, that childlike expression on the face of a woman, had become lodged in some corner of his mind, along with a sense of despondency that suddenly made the Barcelona streets, overflowing with vehicles and passersby, seem a strange and hostile place.
8
There are pieces of news you are happy to give because you know they’ll be well received; other totally disastrous ones you’re forced to deliver with a serious expression. And then a third, more ambiguous category exists, which generates a feeling somewhere between satisfaction and nostalgia; at least to me, thought Héctor while he was preparing to explain the “opportunity” being presented to Martina Andreu.
Martina was intrigued, no doubt. Since the previous afternoon, Salgado’s words had been going around in her head, like an annoying sting too small to pull out. To top it all, he’d spent the whole morning with Savall once more and he wasn’t free until after lunch.
“Spit it out, Héctor,” she blurted as soon as she sat down opposite him. “You have me on tenterhooks and I won’t put up with it. You know surprises make me nervous.”
He did know. Sometimes Héctor sympathized with the sergeant’s husband, whom he barely knew. Having someone at your side who was always right could be annoying at times.
Salgado took a deep breath.
“You saw I was in a meeting with Savall yesterday?”
“Of course I did. Don’t play hard to get,” she warned him with a smile.
“Wait. Don’t be impatient.” He’d considered the most appropriate words, but at that moment, with her sitting opposite looking at him with her usual frankness, he ditched them completely. “Well, Calderón was here. You know him, from the National’s organized crime unit.”
Martina knew him by sight. They’d worked together on the Nigerian women-trafficking case the year before, although it had been Héctor who’d worked more closely with him.
“I’ll sum it up briefly. Now he’s involved in various things, although he is focusing on one thing in particular. Eastern mafia. Ukrainians, Georgians, Romanians … and Russians.” The emphasis on the last word was clear. “Until now, the Russians have used Spain as a site of investment, not crime.”
Martina nodded. The news of the supposed vor v zakonye, or “thieves in law,” had been current in newspapers and official circles for some time. They were the equivalents of the capos of the Italian mafia, residing comfortably and luxuriously in different parts of Europe, especially in the south, and they laundered money thanks to the great bottomless well that had been property investment, in coastal developments in particular.
“Good,” Héctor continued. “As you also know, property is no longer what it was and, according to Calderón, some of those who up to now focused only on investment are changing their strategy. They are moving their money somewhere else more profitable, and they’re beginning to think of Spain as a place of business. You know—drugs, girls, everything …
“It seems they’re scattering. Previously they all lived together, on the coast generally, with the intention of going unnoticed and being taken for foreign residents seeking a more favorable climate than their own. According to Calderón, the moves began a few months ago. The boss stays in place, but his associates have been dispatched to different points on the peninsula: Valencia, Madrid, Galicia, Tarragona …”
“They think they are building a kind of organized network?”
“Exactly. Tough times, Martina, as we all know. And at a time like this, money is well received everywhere without anyone asking too many questions.”
“You mean corruption?”
“Corruption, necessity … Poverty, at the end of the day. The best incentive for crime. The poverty of the new rich, especially those who don’t want to go back to being poor.” Héctor shrugged. “I don’t know
the details. Apparently the thing is just starting, and perhaps for once we have an advantage over them. At least we know their movements, which is something. And the Ministry of the Interior is firmly resolved not to allow their businesses to flourish. Whatever happens.”
Martina Andreu said nothing, but it was clear from her body language that she didn’t understand what she had to do with it all.
“Good. This firm resolve translates into funds for a special unit headed up by Calderón. And with colleagues from all the different autonomous forces. I think Savall called it a ‘built-in unit.’ ” He smiled.
“And?” Martina didn’t dare to ask the question directly.
“And they want you in. Well, actually, they want you to coordinate our part. You’ll be in charge of a small group of agents and will report directly to Calderón.”
Martina leaned back in the chair, as if someone had pushed her.
“But …” She wasn’t diplomatic, she never had been, and she put the question to him straight. “Wouldn’t it be more logical for you to take charge of this? Or some other inspector?”
Salgado raised his eyebrows.
“Well … Martina, let’s not kid ourselves, you know I’m more or less on the bench at the moment.” With a movement of his head he hushed the sergeant’s imminent protest. “It’s how it is. I asked for it, partly.” He lightly hit his chest. “Mea culpa. Don’t worry about it.”
“Of course I’ll worry. It’s not fair, and—”
“Martina! As the tangos say, life isn’t fair. I pity anyone who believes otherwise. I broke Omar’s face—that’s a fact that, on record, translates as violent tendencies, with no space for explanations. And then”—his voice became more serious—“there’s the matter of Ruth.”
Martina looked away. She’d come to dislike that name and all it implied, although she’d never say so to her boss. She cared about Héctor a lot; she’d seen him so obsessed with finding an answer that when Savall held firm and took him off the case she’d almost felt relieved. It wasn’t fair, but as he’d just said, was life ever?
“So now all you have to consider is whether you’re interested or not.” They both knew that was stupid. If the superintendent had put her forward, there was little to be considered. “Martina, this is a good opportunity. You know it is.”
Héctor was aware, or at least guessed, that there was something else. Savall had wanted to rescue Martina Andreu, a woman he cared about personally and professionally, from the camp of exiles. For better and above all for worse, Andreu’s name was associated with Salgado’s, and the sooner this bond was broken the better it would be for the sergeant’s career. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell her so. Martina was so loyal she wouldn’t hesitate in raising hell if she suspected anything of the sort.
“My situation is complicated,” she clarified. “You know Rafa is still unemployed, right?”
He nodded. The sergeant’s husband was a technical architect and had been one of the first to feel the pinprick in the property bubble. First he went months without being paid and finally had been left with no work, and with few prospects of finding any, the previous September.
“I don’t know if this is the best time for me to …”
Héctor understood, but his obligation was to bring her around to the contrary.
“Martina, don’t scupper it. Don’t sacrifice a great opportunity through misguided loyalty. That won’t do either of you any good, not him and not you.”
“You can’t imagine what it’s like to see him at home.” She wasn’t given to discussing personal subjects, even with him. “He’s irritable, he gets angry at the kids over stupid things. Sometimes I think I’m not going to put up with it anymore. It kills me to see him depressed and at the same time it makes me angry, as if it’s partly his fault. As if the solution is that he should accept anything. And then I hate myself … Fuck.”
“It’s not his fault and you know it. But if you let this opportunity go, then you really will have something to blame him for.”
She forced herself to smile.
“So you want to get rid of me, Inspector Salgado.”
“Of course,” he admitted, feigning seriousness. He looked at the roof, as if he were giving thanks to a supreme being. “All this is a conspiracy I dreamed up to finally be free of your nagging.”
They looked at each other more affectionately than usual. Neither of the two was exactly effusive in their affections; perhaps that was why they had always understood each other so well.
“And if I accept, when does it all start?”
“Savall is waiting for you in his office … now. There’s a meeting in Madrid the day after tomorrow.”
“Fuck. Is someone at home packing my suitcase without me knowing?”
“I thought of sending Fort, mainly so he’d do something useful …”
Héctor’s joke hung in the air like an aimless arrow as the door opened and the person in question appeared on the threshold.
“Excuse me,” Roger apologized.
Salgado almost blushed, and Martina Andreu took advantage of the moment to rise.
“I’ll leave the boss all to you. We’ll talk,” she added, turning to Salgado. She winked at him before leaving and murmured, “Go on making friends.”
Héctor spent the first few minutes trying to figure out if Fort would have heard his unfortunate comment; he cursed himself for having said it and yet he couldn’t help thinking that that boy had the gift of bad timing. So when he suddenly saw in his face that Fort had just asked a question he hadn’t heard, he didn’t know how to answer and looked at the photo the agent had placed on his desk with unusual intensity.
“So, Fort,” he finally said, in an attempt to summarize, “you found this photo in Sara Mahler’s apartment and spoke to her roommate. Don’t rush, describe the interview slowly.”
His subordinate looked at him, flushing.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and Héctor felt even worse than before. “I suppose I’m in a hurry to get to the end.”
For the next few minutes Roger Fort obediently told him of the impressions gathered in his brief encounter with Kristin Herschdorfer. He explained that, while not definitive, they suggested Sara Mahler was not easy to live with, she led a solitary life and generally didn’t seem happy. All ready for happy Christmas to be the final blow, thought Héctor. Her flatmate was away, the house empty. If Sara had felt depressed in those final days, perhaps she had opted to end it all forever. Suddenly something occurred to him that it seemed no one had acknowledged up to now.
“And why was she in the metro station at that time? Any idea?”
Agent Fort looked uncertain.
“I mean, according to this Kristin, Sara hardly went out … And if she was in the habit of staying out all night, she would have told you so. But in the early hours of Thursday Sara was in the metro. She had to be going or coming from somewhere, right?” He answered himself: “Even if she had decided to throw herself onto the tracks, she didn’t have to go to a station so far away. And I doubt if she left home with that idea.”
It was a more than reasonable doubt. Although statistics were an inexact science, few women chose this method to end their lives. Héctor still believed those who did were succumbing to a momentary temptation, that moment of desperation in which the fatal jump felt like the only option.
Roger shook his head, distressed.
“I don’t know, sir. I’m sorry, it hadn’t occurred to me until now.”
“Well, don’t worry. What else did you want to tell me?”
Slowly, Fort continued with his story: the description of the apartment, of the bedroom; the photos of the footballers on the corkboard … and finally came to the photograph Inspector Salgado had before him.
It showed Sara with seven people: two women and five men of various ages, between thirty and fiftysomething. Sara was at one side of the photo and, although she was smiling, there was a barely perceptible but real distance between her and t
he rest of the group.
“Are they all work colleagues?”
“Yes, sir. As soon as I saw it, I had the impression that one of the faces was familiar. The guy on the opposite side of the photo. The one wearing glasses.”
“And?”
“If I’m not mistaken, and I don’t think I am, that’s Gaspar Ródenas.”
Héctor frowned slightly. An excited Roger Fort finally repeated the phrase he’d said at the start of the conversation that the inspector hadn’t heard.
“Last September, Gaspar Ródenas killed his wife and his fourteen-month-old daughter. Then he committed suicide.”
Salgado looked at the photo. He didn’t take on domestic violence cases, but the age of the little girl had stayed with him.
“You mean Sara and Gaspar Ródenas worked at the same company? And both have committed suicide?”
“Yes, sir. Bit strange, isn’t it?”
Yes, thought Héctor. Very strange. He looked back at the photo: of those eight people, all relatively young, two had died in a violent manner. In the case of one, the suicide took place alongside his family; in the other, all alone. Although everything could have another explanation, if you listened to the experts.
“Remember the knock-on effect?” he asked Fort. “If you asked me, I’d say I don’t really believe in these things, but there’s something in it. If Sara was very depressed, her colleague’s action might have given her the idea.”
He said it without much conviction. The acts of a parricidal killer could hardly be taken as an example for anyone in their right mind. And up to now, his idea of Sara Mahler was that she was no lunatic.
Héctor checked the time before speaking again. That day he wanted to leave the office on time.
“Fort, make me a copy of the photo before you go. Tomorrow try to establish what Sara was doing in that station. And get information from the domestic violence people, see what they tell you.” His eyes sought the card Víctor Alemany had given him and finally they found it. “As soon as we gather a little more information, we’ll go and pay Alemany Cosmetics a courtesy call.”