by Antonio Hill
It will take that poor girl a long time to forget what she saw, thought Héctor. It pained him to have to remind her of it, yet there was no other way. If he wanted to understand Gaspar Ródenas, know what he was like, work out what had led him to commit such an atrocious act, he had to speak to his family. He’d thought of doing it the day before, but Savall had once again brought him into a meeting with Andreu and Calderón all afternoon. So he’d finally arranged a meeting with María del Mar at five precisely, in a café close to the town hall of the area where she lived. She wasn’t Gaspar’s mother; nevertheless, for the moment she’d have to do.
It was a big noisy place, and the clientele at that hour, made up largely of businesspeople of the area, gathered around the bar. Or, with the anti-tobacco law having recently come into force, in the street, smoking while retaining the flavor of coffee in their mouths.
Héctor had gone alone, leaving Fort two tasks: to establish what Sara Mahler was doing at Urquinaona metro at that time and, while he was at it, to gather information about Alemany Cosmetics. He’d planned to approach the company the following day, Friday, to see Sílvia Alemany and, if possible, the other colleagues who appeared in the photo. In some way, that image of eight people in hiking gear was connected to that other disagreeable one Sara Mahler had received on her cell. Two pieces that could form part of the same puzzle or not, thought Héctor. And the analogy made him think of Superintendent Savall—a huge fan of jigsaw puzzles—with whom he’d have to discuss the case sooner or later. Tomorrow, he thought. Before or after going to the cosmetics lab.
María del Mar was waiting for him at the door. They entered the bar and looked for an empty table at the back. Luckily for them, there was more than one, and they chose one in the corner that ensured them at least some privacy.
Héctor waited until the waitress had served them their drinks and spent a few minutes breaking the ice. María del Mar—“Please call me Mar”—had studied education and for a few months had been a cashier in some big department stores in the area. She’d been unemployed since November. According to what she told him, so was her fiancé. He was named Iván and had worked in construction until the previous year; all he’d been able to find since then were “a couple of odd jobs with his cousin.” Minor work, pay that was a thousand euro if he was lucky … At twenty-seven, both were still living at the homes of their respective parents, since, just as they were preparing to rent an apartment, Iván was out on the street.
“I don’t know if we’ll get to marry one day,” Mar said sadly. “But you haven’t come to hear my troubles, Inspector. Is there something new in the case of my brother?” She asked nervously, as if within her she was nursing the suspicion that Gaspar Ródenas was still hiding sins yet to be uncovered.
Héctor decided to be as honest as possible; the last thing he wanted was to raise hopes in a case officially closed.
“In all honesty, no.” He chose not to mention Sara’s death. “I’m just trying to find out a bit more about your brother. To close the case with a better explanation than ‘fit of temporary insanity,’ if possible …”
It was a fairly implausible explanation, but Mar seemed trusting by nature, so she said nothing and waited for the inspector to continue speaking.
“There were a few years between you and Gaspar—”
“Ten.”
“I suppose you wouldn’t know his friends …”
“Well, I knew the ones from the barrio, but Gaspar left them aside as soon as he started going out with Susana.” She smiled faintly. “She and I didn’t get on very well.”
Héctor had guessed something of the sort on reading Mar’s statement, and he told himself that a good way of getting to know Gaspar’s personality through his sister was by delving into these differences and the relationship between the couple.
“How long were they together?”
“I don’t know … five or six years. Wait …” She did a mental tally. “Yes, five years. They married the year I finished studying; they’d only been going out a few months.” She smiled. “They decided quickly.”
“And they got on well?”
“Yes, she organized things and he went along with it. It’s one way of getting on well, I suppose.”
“Was Susana a bossy woman?”
“More than bossy, she was one of those who sulked when things weren’t done her way. So Gaspar tried not to contradict her. In the end, he’d convinced himself that the only correct way to do everything was exactly as Susana said.”
“And you didn’t get on with her?”
She looked around her. It was a fleeting, almost invisible move.
“It’s horrible to speak ill of the dead. And even more so in this case … The truth is, no: I didn’t get on with Susana. I didn’t care that she bossed my brother around, that was her business, but the way she treated my parents made me really angry. Especially after Alba was born.”
“Did you see the little one often?”
“Often?” Mar shook her head. “My mother almost had to request an audience to see her granddaughter. It was never the right time. I feel awful saying that …”
Héctor knew. It was a common reaction; but in an investigation there was no room for consideration toward those no longer here. On the contrary, their secrets had to be brought to light, their faults unraveled, their mistakes aired. The victims had lost their lives and with them the right to privacy.
“What do you think happened?” asked Héctor.
“I don’t know. When I went in …” She trembled and lowered her eyes, as if she had that scene before her once again. “When I went in I thought it was the work of a thief. You know, one of those gangs of Romanians that rob apartments.”
She looked on the verge of tears, so Héctor asked if she wanted to stop for a minute. She shook her head. She had lovely dark hair and a tense expression, but it was precisely that expression which rendered her neutral features, too correct to be beautiful, attractive. Mar Ródenas, like her brother, belonged to that immense group of people neither handsome nor ugly. They lack intensity, Ruth always used to say about that type of person. However, in circumstances like these, repressed emotion gave them strength and something resembling beauty.
“I knew you were coming to talk about this, Inspector,” she added, looking at him. “You know something? My home is like a cemetery and my parents dead people walking. My parents … God, graffiti appeared on the door of my father’s workshop a week ago. ‘Killer. Son of a bitch’ it said. As if he was the killer! My father, poor man, who never even raised his voice to us …”
Héctor’s expression darkened. Yes, this was another consequence in these cases: incomprehension, indiscriminate insults.
“Don’t they realize we’ve lost a son, a brother? A grandchild?”
Mar couldn’t hold back anymore and burst out crying. The sobbing wasn’t restorative, but bitter. Furious.
Héctor suddenly felt bad. He hated this part of his job, torturing souls even without wanting to.
“We’ll leave it at that,” he murmured.
“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Mar grabbed a paper napkin and dabbed at her face. “Where were we? Oh yes. What I saw.” She cleared her throat before continuing. “My brother was in the dining room, with his head on the table. The pistol was on the floor, beside him. I thought he was alone because I couldn’t hear the little one. It’s ridiculous, but that’s what I thought. I went running toward Alba’s bedroom, and passing the bathroom I saw the door was open: Susana was lying on the floor, on her back, with a bloodstain on her nightdress. And then I knew Alba had to be at home as well.”
She was speaking as though in a trance.
“Alba was in the cradle, in the bedroom next door. She hadn’t been sleeping alone for long. For a moment I sighed with relief seeing that there was no blood. She’s asleep, I thought. Whatever had happened, she’s asleep and doesn’t know anything. I took a step toward the cradle and tripped over something. A pillow. And then I
realized she wasn’t sleeping. That you couldn’t hear anything in that room. That she too …”
She closed her eyes and was unable to go on. Her hands were shaking. Héctor thought she looked even younger than she was.
“Just one more thing,” he said in a low voice. “Do these photos mean anything to you?”
He took the two photos from the inside pocket of his jacket and put the one of the work group in which Gaspar appeared on the table. Mar looked at it. Her face altered a little on seeing her brother, but she shook her head.
“I think he came to the funeral home,” she said, pointing at the older man, the one Héctor hadn’t yet identified. “He was my brother’s boss, but I don’t know his name. He was with a woman, although I don’t remember her very well.”
Before showing her the photo of the dogs, Héctor asked: “Did they find a note in your brother’s house? Or anything like one, by any chance?”
“There was nothing … The police already asked me. They took his computer and everything … Then they returned it to us. My father threw everything away.” Then she looked at the photo and repressed a cry of disgust. “What is this? What does it have to do with my brother’s death? It’s horrible.”
“I know. Don’t worry, it’s nothing. It’s a loose end I haven’t managed to explain,” said Héctor. He didn’t want to give away any more information and felt even worse because of it, so he ended the conversation there.
They went out into the street and Héctor inhaled deeply, as if he’d emerged from an airless well. He remained in the doorway for a few minutes, smoking, as he watched Mar walk away. At the corner a boy was waiting for her and without saying a word put his arm around her shoulders, as if wishing to console her. At least she isn’t totally alone, thought Héctor, throwing the cigarette on the ground, something he detested but which seemed the only solution when obliged to smoke in the street.
If he’d remembered the address correctly, the garage owned by Gaspar Ródenas’s father should be in one of those streets in the center. Héctor found it without difficulty and spent a few minutes standing at the door, looking inside. He didn’t know if it was worth going in and speaking to the owner, and he was almost on the verge of leaving when a man came out of the garage and lit a cigarette. He was a man of about sixty, and judging by his appearance and his hands, he’d been working for more than forty. Not really knowing why, Héctor approached him and asked for a light. Smoking is an unhealthy ice-breaker, he said to himself, remembering he’d just stubbed out a cigarette less than ten minutes before.
“Are you Señor Ródenas?” he asked as he returned the lighter.
The man pointed to the garage sign, but did so with a glance of distrust.
“Excuse my bothering you,” continued Héctor. “I’m Inspector Salgado, and—”
“What do you want?” The question sounded almost hostile.
“Maybe it’s not a good time, but I’d like to talk to you about your son.”
Señor Ródenas smoked in silence. Héctor was going to add something else when the other man spoke without looking at him.
“Do you have children, Inspector?”
“One.”
“Then you’ll understand. I raised mine to know the difference between good and bad. So I can’t believe Gaspar did this. I’ll never believe it. I don’t know what happened, but I know it didn’t happen as they say it did.”
He threw the butt into the street and turned around. From inside he pulled down the shutter without another word. On the metal some traces of the graffiti could still be made out, a reddish shadow, accusatory and unjust.
17
Sílvia Alemany looked in the car’s rearview mirror before turning the engine on. God, if the face was the mirror to the soul both were in need of a professional makeup artist. In the end that’s what we do, she thought, as she maneuvered out of the company parking lot. Falsify souls. She could make a list of their products: rejuvenating creams, nourishing creams, antioxidant creams … Whichever: their effect on the face was at best circumstantial; the inner face, the one that really mattered, aged with no remedy. It would crack, it would dry up and there was no balm or salve that could prevent it. Because of that, wrinkles reappeared, because of that, businesses like theirs went on being necessary. At heart they were like Dorian Gray’s picture: they relegated old age, evil and decay to that internal secret face, maintaining the visible one relatively young, beautiful and pure. But the picture was there, crouching within you, ready to betray you when you least expected it.
Her car merged into the many vehicles entering Barcelona at that time of the evening. An army of obedient, industrious beings retiring for a few hours, who would the following day make the opposite journey. As tired and bored in the mornings as by night: the epsilon men of 2011 who’d found happiness in buying on the installment plan. She smiled ironically at the thought that she at least had the pleasure of being something resembling an alpha woman for a few hours. A kind of queen consort, necessary and appreciated and slightly feared.
The line of cars stopped and Sílvia was taking advantage of it to put on some music when her cell phone rang.
“Hello?”
The hands-free disoriented her: she always had the feeling the other person couldn’t hear her.
“Mama?”
“Hello, sweetheart. I’m in the car.”
“Are you coming home for dinner?”
“I don’t know. There is food at home, isn’t there?”
“Yes, of course. But Pol says he’s starving and he wants pizza. If you’re not coming, we could order one.”
The car behind beeped the horn, impatient. Sílvia realized the traffic had moved a few meters forward.
“I’m moving, I’m moving …”
“What?”
“No, not you, Emma. I’m in a traffic jam.”
“Well, can we?”
Sílvia hesitated.
“No.”
“But Mama—”
“I said no. Emma, there is chicken in the fridge. And pasta salad I made yesterday. If I’m not back in an hour, make dinner for yourself and your brother, sweetheart.”
For a moment there was silence. Then she heard Emma’s voice: docile and polite.
“All right. I already told him you wouldn’t say yes. Don’t worry about the time. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you, angel. Listen, I’ll see you at home; you know I don’t like talking while I’m driving. A kiss, and tell Pol not to argue.”
“A kiss, Mama. See you tonight.”
Sílvia blew an imaginary kiss to her daughter. If only everyone was like Emma, she thought proudly as she turned on the car radio. She was sure dinner would be made and the kitchen tidied when she arrived. She had raised her well—not an easy thing nowadays. Few girls of sixteen were so responsible, so trustworthy. If in the end she went abroad to study Second Baccalaureate, she would miss her a lot. Emma still hadn’t decided, but she couldn’t take too much longer. And this wasn’t the only thing Sílva had to attend to. The wedding, for instance. However simple the ceremony would be, there were a number of things to be done … She took a breath. She was in no mood to think about celebrations just then. She had even considered the possibility of postponing it, but she didn’t know how César would take it. And despite rarely admitting it, the truth was she wanted to marry him. Have someone in the copilot’s seat, empty for years. He wasn’t the love of her life. Thank God, she’d beaten that, as if it were the measles, and been immunized forever. She found something else in César: respect, company now the children were beginning to fly the nest … She was sure he was a good man, someone she could trust who, at least, loved her as much as she did him.
You’ve become a cynic, she thought. Cynicism wasn’t good for the soul, but it was necessary for survival. Sílvia had had to swallow many things when she returned to face her father. Yes, the old man had helped her: he supported her while she finished her degree, left half-finished when she fled. He
’d given her a role in the company, although he’d made sure her brother, the good twin, would be the true heir. Old hypocrite: lots of moral lessons only to end up dying of a heart attack in a Cuban prostitute’s bed. Fortunately, Víctor was easy to manipulate, and she’d acquired large reserves of cynicism over the years so that she didn’t say aloud that her brother’s mediocrity would have sunk the company if not for her, steering from the shadows, avoiding unnecessary expenses and crazy risks. Luckily Víctor, deeply infatuated with that idiot Paula, had stopped being involved in company affairs, leaving them in her hands more and more.
He’s getting a good deal, Sílvia told herself, but in exchange she’d gained something else that was better compensation than money: exercising power. An addiction she wasn’t planning to give up.
That very afternoon, for example. She was leaving when Saúl, her second in command, told her Alfred Santos wanted to see her. The lab’s technical director was a friendly guy, with an easygoing manner, one of those men who caused few headaches. Because of that she’d received him immediately. If there was anyone who deserved attention it was Santos; he certainly wouldn’t disturb her over trivialities.
It really wasn’t trivial. An indignant Santos, more angry than she’d ever seen him, spent a long half hour setting out the faults, conflicts and problems that Manel Caballero was generating in the laboratory. So many, and in Santos’s opinion, so serious, that he’d decided to fire him. In fact, he would have done it some time before had it not been that the lab assistant’s attitude and words hinted that if necessary he could turn to higher powers than his direct boss and thereby make him look ridiculous in front of the whole department. Sílvia had had to muster all her diplomacy to keep the idiot Caballero in his post. After a good spell of excuses and reasoning that seemed to be lifted from the cowardly businessperson’s manual, Santos had looked her in the eyes and blurted out: “You’re not going to fire him, are you? He’s right: I have no say.” And for once in her life, Sílvia Alemany hadn’t known what to say. “I don’t know what the fuck is going on around here lately, but I don’t like it. Suicides, assholes who think they’re the king of everything and managers who seem incapable of managing sensibly.”