by Antonio Hill
To hell with it, she thought as she accelerated to cross an orange light only to have to stop ten meters on. She had to speak to Manel Caballero and she’d do it that very day, as soon as the meeting in César’s house ended. They’d all be there: Amanda, Brais and the asshole, as Alfred Santos had called him. Octavi couldn’t attend, as she’d imagined, but generally he was on her side. And of course, Sara and Gaspar wouldn’t be there. Sara and Gaspar. Gaspar …
She’d never have believed that it would be Gaspar Ródenas who would have a crisis of conscience. She’d have expected it of Amanda, for example. She was so young, so innocent, and at the same time belonged to that group of creative people who in her opinion dealt with the general business of life in a very impractical way; the perfect combination to suffer remorse or apply mottoes that appear in calendars beside photos of sunrises. But no: Amanda hadn’t shown the least sign of worry, perhaps because the only thing young and innocent about her was her appearance. That almost virginal, unpolluted, luminous beauty … Like Dorian Gray, Amanda seemed immune to the evils of the world.
No, it had been Gaspar who had stood in her office after the summer, weighed down by a feeling of guilt from which he couldn’t free himself. Gaspar, the pragmatic, honest and upright accountant; the father of a family with most to lose. Sílvia had turned to her powers of persuasion, all her ability to convince. She even resorted to a veiled threat in a clear demonstration of that cynicism now part of her character and, subsequently, almost without blinking, went from reprimand to praise: “You’re very important, we count on you, don’t let us down, I rely on you so much …”
“We’re a team, Gaspar. I understand, believe me. But you gave us your word—we made a pact. I’m sure that you are a person for whom giving their word means something, isn’t that right? At the moment we’ve all behaved like gentlemen. And I find it difficult, no, I find it painful, to think that someone as honorable as you wants to go back on his word, retract what he promised his colleagues and consequently lose everything he’s gained in the name of … of what, Gaspar? Of what exactly? Do you really think it’s worth it?”
A brilliant, twisted argument as false as a Christmas wreath. Appealing to solidarity from a position of authority, distorting concepts like honesty and responsibility, and placing the other person in a position in which, freely, by their own will, they decided to do as she asked, not to obtain any benefit from it but because they felt it was how it should be. In the company, as in life, friendliness generated deeper debts than imposition. Sílvia knew it and used it, especially with weak or insecure people. This couldn’t be applied to Brais Arjona, for instance, although neither was it necessary. Brais understood that they were all in the same boat and he either paddled in the same direction or sank with them. It seemed with Gaspar she hadn’t found the right carrot, and the result, that family tragedy, was something she preferred not to think about.
She saw a tight space in which to park and, as the rules demanded, she signaled her stopping and began the maneuver. She was about to get out of the vehicle when her phone rang again. Number withheld. She answered out of habit, although she was sure it was one of those promotional calls from some communications company.
18
Héctor caught the metro at L’Hospitalet station to go toward Plaça Espanya, the same line Sara Mahler had chosen to end her life. Standing as the train moved through the tunnel, he focused on observing the passengers. At that time the majority were workers or students returning home after the working day. Buried in freesheets or concentrating on their cell phones, the train car emanated fatigue, the disillusion of monotony. A girl was shouting into her cell: she was shamelessly arguing with someone and no one seemed to pay any attention. We are in an ever more autistic world, thought Héctor. He was brought out of his musings by the entrance of an older lady into the car, weighed down by a heavy shopping cart she could barely drag. There was no free seat and for a few minutes the lady leaned on the cart, tottering, until a young man sitting to his right saw her and signaled to her to take his seat. The passengers in front of the old lady blatantly turned their heads.
The young man remained standing, near Héctor, and greeted him timidly. The inspector suddenly remembered: this boy was Nelson, or Jorge—he couldn’t remember which—the older brother who had come back to the platform to return Sara Mahler’s cell phone on Reyes night. Héctor loved this provincial facet of Barcelona, a city that wasn’t as big as it liked to believe.
“How are you?” asked Héctor.
The boy shrugged his shoulders.
“Life is hard,” he said by way of an answer. He looked at Héctor as if he was surprised to see him here in a metro train. “Have you found out anything else about that woman? The one who jumped onto the tracks …”
“Not much,” replied Héctor.
“Well, I’m getting off at the next station. Don’t worry, my brother won’t be getting into trouble again.”
“I’m sure he won’t.” Héctor smiled. “But don’t let him out of your sight just in case.”
The doors opened and Nelson, or Jorge, nodded and got down onto the platform.
As soon as he arrived at the police station, Héctor knew Agent Fort had news for him. He hoped that playing poker wasn’t included among his subordinate’s hobbies, because he’d never manage to hide a good hand.
“I’ve been going through Sara Mahler’s bank transactions,” he told him, faithful to his habit of explaining the whole process through to its conclusion. “Generally they’re pretty routine, direct debits and little else. A standing order to the Hera Women’s Association caught my eye. I have to investigate it. However, between October and December, Sara withdrew some significant sums of money. Here are the details.”
It was true: two hundred euro one day, one hundred on another occasion, two hundred and fifty just before Christmas. In itself it wasn’t anything strange, but judging by previous bank statements Sara was one of those who preferred to carry very little cash, and took out twenty or thirty euro a few times a week.
“There’s more: she spent five hundred euro in a jeweler’s on December 22 and another hundred on an underwear set.”
At first sight, it was clear that in the last few months Sara had spent more than three times her usual amount. Lingerie, jewelry …
“What do you think?” asked Héctor.
“I’d say there was a boyfriend or friend around … which would explain why Sara was in Urquinaona station at that time of the night. Maybe she’d met him …”
And maybe he’d stood her up, thought Héctor.
“Any idea of where she’d gone that night?”
Glum, Fort shook his head.
“No, and I don’t know how we can find out, to be honest. We’ve asked in all the surrounding restaurants and bars and no one remembers having seen Sara. We haven’t found her on the CCTV cameras in the area either. Unless this boyfriend turns up and tells us …”
“Strange that her roommate didn’t notice anything.”
Fort smiled thinking about Kristin. That girl was too busy to interest herself too much in Sara’s life. He was going to say so when the telephone on the desk rang. He answered the call then looked at the inspector.
“I think you can ask her yourself.”
In the corridor, accompanied by a friendly officer in uniform carrying a box, Kristin Herschdorfer appeared, carrying another cardboard box, smaller but equally heavy.
“Hello,” she greeted them, somewhat nervous on finding herself in a police station. “I’ve brought Sara’s things.”
Fort blushed a little.
“There was no need for you to come. I offered to pick them up from your house myself.”
Kristin raised an eyebrow, as if that wasn’t what she had understood.
“Well, it doesn’t matter. My friend brought me to the door in the car.”
“Is this everything?” asked Héctor.
Two boxes couldn’t really contain all of Sara Mahler’s
belongings.
“Oh, no. Just what was in her bedroom. The clothes are still there. I don’t know what to do with them. And some of the furniture must be hers, of course. I think you’ll have to speak to the owner of the apartment. I’m moving out at the end of the month.”
Héctor nodded.
“By the way, but did Sara tell you anything about a new friend? Did she tell you she had met anyone special lately?”
Kristin shook her head. Her eyes lit up with genuine curiosity. “Did she have a boyfriend?”
“Possibly,” was all Héctor said. In fact, he wasn’t really sure of anything.
“If so, she must have met him on the Internet. He never came to the house, at least when I was there.”
“Did you spend much time at home?”
“No,” said Kristin. “My friend didn’t like Sara much. He said she used to … spy? on us.”
“One other thing: did Sara ever mention the Hera Association?”
Kristin’s face made it clear this meant nothing to her.
“Okay,” said Héctor. “Thanks very much, Señorita …”
“Herschdorfer,” she said, smiling. “I know it’s a tricky name. Oh, another thing. Not sure this is important, but the other day, when you left, I remembered Sara did have a visitor one day. A girl from work.”
Héctor took the group photo from his pocket. “Is she one of these?”
Kristin studied the photo for a moment.
“Yes, this one. She was really very beautiful.”
Amanda Bonet, Héctor said to himself.
“If they worked together it’s natural they should be friends,” added Fort.
Kristin looked at the agent and shrugged.
“Actually I only saw her once. When I first moved in, that’s why I’d forgotten.” She sighed, as if she wished to erase Sara and everything about her from her mind. “My friend is waiting for me outside.”
“I’ll see you out,” offered Fort.
She rewarded him with a radiant smile.
“That’s nice, thanks. By the way, do you speak Catalan too?”
Héctor didn’t understand why the question made Roger Fort go red to the roots of his hair. He saw them walking away and couldn’t help smiling, but his expression froze on seeing Dídac Bellver appear and pass Fort and the Dutch girl, almost running into them. He marched toward Héctor with the force of a locomotive and, judging by his face, in a seriously bad mood.
Ten minutes later, shut away in his office, Héctor was still at a loss to understand his colleague’s rage.
“You have no right to interfere in my work,” Bellver repeated for the nth time, pointing his index finger a few centimeters closer to his colleague than necessary.
“Look,” replied Héctor. He was leaning on his desk, and fast losing his patience, “I swear I have no idea what you’re talking about, so it might be worth explaining it better.”
“Come on, Salgado, don’t give me that. This air of innocence might work on others, but not on me.”
Héctor began counting backward, from ten to zero, a basic technique for remaining calm; but when he got to five he was sick of counting.
“No fucking air of innocence, Bellver. Do me a favor and tell me what this is about, or get out of my office.”
“Yeah right, you don’t fool me.” He inhaled and dropped the bomb, like a gob of spit. “Maybe it wasn’t you who asked Sergeant Andreu to take out your wife’s file from my archives?”
Héctor was so taken aback that for once he had no answer.
“You don’t expect me to believe Andreu did it off her own bat? Come on, Salgado, I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“I swear I don’t know anything about this,” Héctor repeated very slowly.
Bellver’s face was disbelieving.
“What the hell are you looking for, Salgado? If you want to know something about the case, come and ask me. Don’t send your henchmen to do the dirty work.”
“I don’t give a damn whether you believe me or not, I’m telling you for the third and last time: I have nothing to do with this.”
“Well, you should.” Bellver’s sentences were running into one another. “You should give a damn, Salgado, because you’re not always going to be as lucky, you know that? Anyone else would have been given the boot. I don’t know why they keep you here.”
“Maybe because I solve cases?”
It took Inspector Bellver a few seconds to react.
“What are you implying?”
Héctor knew he’d pay dearly for what he was going to say, but he’d wanted to say it for a while.
“I’m implying that if people are judged by results, your department’s score wouldn’t be so great. I’m implying, though you might not like it, I haven’t the slightest need to swipe Ruth’s file to see your progress, because I bet you anything there isn’t any. And I’m also implying that you’d better not break my balls if you want me to stop implying and—”
“And what? You’ll split my head open like you did the black’s?”
They were so close to one another that they could feel each other’s breath. Héctor started the countdown again, determined not to lose his temper completely. For his part, Dídac Bellver must have decided likewise, because he retreated to the door. Palm on the knob, he said, “This isn’t over, Salgado. I swear. I’m starting to think maybe you have more to hide in this case than I supposed.”
“Get out of my office.”
Bellver wasn’t finished yet.
“At first I assumed it was just the disappearance of a grown woman who was emotionally unstable—”
Héctor leapt up as if the desk had propelled him forward.
“Ruth wasn’t emotionally unstable. Don’t you dare say that again.”
Bellver laughed. Fucking hyena, thought Héctor.
“Well, call it what you will. But it must fuck you up, right? Your wife leaving you for another lady.”
He would have hit him. Carried on till he’d wiped that smile off his face, had it not been for Roger Fort opening the door and giving them a serious look. It was as if a blast of cold air capable of putting out the fire had entered with him.
Bellver murmured something under his breath, and Salgado nodded. Agent Fort stood aside a little so Inspector Dídac Bellver could leave.
“Thank you,” Salgado said to Fort. This time he did look him in the eyes.
19
“Now what are we going to do?” asked César.
During the entire meeting he’d sensed that Sílvia was anxious to be alone with him, to tell him something, but he’d never imagined that the matter would be so serious.
She didn’t answer. She seemed absorbed in contemplating the rug, a cheap IKEA thing with a coffee stain in one corner.
“Sílvia,” he repeated, taking a step toward the woman who usually had an answer for everything, “are you listening to me? I don’t understand why you waited until they’d left to tell me. It affects them as well. It affects all of us.”
She turned toward him and for a second César didn’t know if the look of disdain on her face was directed at the dirty rug, the apartment in general or exclusively at him.
“Don’t be stupid. Don’t you realize that one of them is behind all this?”
They, that is Brais, Amanda and Manel, had arrived two and a half hours before, as agreed. Brais Arjona was the first to knock at the door, but luckily for César, Amanda appeared shortly afterward. Manel was second to last and, submerged in an uncomfortable silence, they all focused on waiting for Sílvia for fifteen long minutes, an eternity that César would have broken with a cigarette if he’d had one. As far as he knew, none of those present smoked, so he swallowed the pang with gulps of beer. At least Brais joined him; Manel and Amanda had refused his offer with a visitor’s forced friendliness, and he had no other sort of drink in a fridge that was never full anymore. When Sílvia finally arrived, surprisingly late, César exhaled deeply, as if he’d been holding his breath the whole
time or was expelling the smoke from an imaginary cigarette.
“Sorry,” she said, in a tone César didn’t wholly believe, “this area is terrible. I couldn’t find a parking space.”
All five were seated around a central table: three on the sofa, with Brais in the middle, Sílvia in the adjacent armchair and César on one of the chairs he’d brought from the dining-room table. No one said anything, out of inertia or nerves; it was Brais who opened fire with the desperate question that a little later, in an almost empty sitting room, César would also ask.
“What are we going to do?”
César sought Sílvia’s complicity with his eyes, but seeing she wasn’t game he decided to speak up. Their position was clear: they’d spoken about it to the point of exhaustion over the last two days.
“We’re here to decide between us all, aren’t we?” And after a few seconds, “By the way, I went to see Octavi the other day. He couldn’t come, but he’ll go along with what the majority agrees.”
“How is his wife?” asked Amanda.
It was an absurd question, because they all knew how Octavi Pujades’ wife really was. And because they hadn’t come together there to exchange small talk.
César was going to answer that all was going as expected when Manel Caballero interrupted him, turning to Sílvia.
“Excuse me, are you feeling all right?” He was the only one who spoke so formally to her at this level, perhaps because he was a bit younger, perhaps because in his day-to-day work in the lab he scarcely had anything to do with her.
They all looked at Sílvia Alemany, who was indeed very pale, as if something were making her ill.
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, the color returning to her face as she spoke. “And I’d feel a lot better if I didn’t have to defend you to your boss every minute. Don’t look at me with that face, Manel, you know what I’m talking about. In a situation as delicate as this, the last thing we want is for someone to stand out, don’t you think?”