The Good Suicides

by Antonio Hill

  The report continues with Amanda, who could well be the model for the campaign, speaking about the packaging design, moving away from the classic pot that evokes creams our mothers used. After her, Brais Arjona, brand manager for the Y line, explains the marketing concepts: youth, innovation, freedom. All mixed together in the campaign presented by a Paula de la Fe who’s just woken up, obliged to go to work after a night of partying, the ravages of which are rapidly diminished by a light coat of After Hours, the star product of the range. While she applies the product, a tired but happy Paula with bags under her eyes hums the chorus of a Supergrass song; finally, when the mirror reflects a perfect image, the song is turned up to full volume.

  At the end of the presentation a friendly and almost sincere applause can be heard. Víctor abandons the role of orator and, before returning to the table, to his sister, to the others, he decides to go to his office for a moment and leave his notes there. He walks quickly; speaking in public has always made him nervous.

  Before entering his office he sees a light in Sílvia’s and moves closer to the door. It is ajar. Víctor is astonished when, pushing it open, he encounters Sara.

  “Sara! What are you doing here?”

  Sara Mahler, always so efficient, seems embarrassed. And awkward, because, as she stammers that she suddenly remembered that Sílvia had asked her for some papers, the file she was holding falls from her hand. Her boss, friendly, makes as if to help her, although she ducks and scrambles to pick up the contents. But something catches Víctor’s eye, although at that time he attaches no importance to it.

  A photo in the country, a mountainous landscape. Víctor barely has time to distinguish the image of a tree, seen from a distance, and even less to notice something hanging from its branches, before Sara, efficient once again, puts it into the file and leaves the office with a simple “Come, Víctor. The host shouldn’t absent himself from the party.”

  21

  In little more than twelve hours the rumor about the argument between Salgado and Bellver had spread throughout the station; and in barely another hour, it would reach the higher-ups. Héctor had appeared at his place of work at eight in the morning and en route to his office he’d already noticed the odd sideways look, an interrupted conversation. He was sure that he’d have to bring up the subject with the super at some point, but he had another hour of peace before that chat could take place. Enough time to look over the Ródenas and Mahler files for the last time before going to Alemany Cosmetics, although he harbored few hopes that this visit would give him anything useful. The autopsy on Sara Mahler, routine given the circumstances, didn’t contribute any information that would suggest that the victim hadn’t jumped onto the tracks of her own will. That of Ródenas, along with those of his wife and daughter, was if possible even more conclusive. And yet, the suicides of two people from the same company, who to all appearances led lives as normal as most people’s, kept alerting the instinct that Héctor had learned to trust over the years.

  He studied the photo of the group once more, trying to read those unmoving faces, immortalized for posterity in an unflattering portrait. He focused especially on Gaspar and Sara. She was smiling, confidently obeying the instructions of whoever was holding the camera. Gaspar Ródenas was concentrating on looking ahead, as if he had in front of him a balance sheet that wouldn’t tally: the furrowed brow, the tense body. An expression rather similar to that in the photo taken at the beach that appeared in Lola’s article. Maybe it was the face he put on in photos, Héctor said to himself, leaving both on the desk. He trusted his instinct, yes, but he knew it was sometimes very easy to be swayed by false impressions.

  If he’d spent another two minutes thinking, he wouldn’t have done it. Especially because half past eight in the morning was no time to call anyone. And even less so someone he hadn’t seen in more than seven years. In fact, he rang partly because he didn’t think that Lola would still have the same number after so much time and partly because he’d wanted to do so since the first time he saw her name on the byline of that article. When the sleepy voice of someone recently awakened picked up, he didn’t know what to say.

  “Yes?”

  “Lola?”

  “Says who?”

  “Lola. Did I wake you?”

  There was a pause, a silence during which Héctor imagined her in bed, with the cloudy look of interrupted sleep.

  “Héctor?” The voice sounded completely awake now.

  “The very same.”

  “Fuck. I’m going to sue my horoscope. It promised me a peaceful week, with no surprises.”

  He smiled.

  “It’s Friday. It was almost right.” Silences on the phone are as bad as on the radio, thought Héctor. Static nervousness. “How are things?”

  Lola’s laugh suggested more sarcasm than humor.

  “I don’t believe it.” She laughed again. “So many years of silence and you call me at half past eight on a January Friday to ask me how I am? This is like an episode of Sex and the City, although without sex. And in Carabanchel.”

  He was about to respond when she cut him off.

  “Héctor, forgive me, but I think I need a shower and a coffee before talking to you.”

  “No cigarette?”

  “I don’t smoke anymore.”

  “Listen, have breakfast and I’ll call you later. I’m on a case you wrote about a few months ago and I’d like your input.” He was hoping she would ask what case he meant. “Gaspar Ródenas. The guy who—”

  “Who killed his wife and daughter and then shot himself. I remember.”

  “Could I take a look at your notes?”

  “I suppose it’s important if you’re asking me like this.”

  “I’ll leave you in peace to wake up. Lola,” he said, “it’s good to talk to you.”

  He didn’t know if she’d heard him or not, because the line was cut immediately, but a goofy smile must have been on his face long enough to be seen by Superintendent Savall, who summoned him to his office five minutes later.

  “Are you in an especially good mood, Héctor?” he said by way of a greeting.

  “Well, Superintendent, they say skulls smile too. And they don’t exactly have many reasons to be happy.”

  Lluís Savall looked at him without fully understanding his answer.

  “Never mind skulls, Héctor, sit down. Tell me what the hell happened with Bellver yesterday.” His tone didn’t bode well.

  There was something about that woman he found repellent, although he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly what it was. Up to now, Sílvia Alemany had been as friendly as she was efficient and had answered his questions without hesitation. And yet Héctor Salgado couldn’t shake the irritating feeling that he was attending a forced performance. Something he’d become used to after so many years of service, given that generally he believed everyone lied to a greater or lesser degree. Self-deception, or deception of those around you, was as natural as breathing; very few people would tolerate a crude, honest judgment on themselves or their loved ones. But even taking that into account, Sílvia Alemany’s acting revealed an academic edge, somewhere between feigned and condescending, that was starting to grate.

  He had been at Alemany Cosmetics for half an hour. He’d been accompanied by Agent Fort, whom he immediately sent to take a look around the lab with deliberately ambiguous instructions though a definite aim: sound out the atmosphere, take the pulse of this organization dedicated to beauty products. The agent’s detailed report noted it had been founded in the forties and had kept going, with no great ups or downs, throughout its history. Only in the last decade had they become competitive, thanks to the development and marketing of AC/Slim, a cream that had caused a furor among ladies and gentlemen with a few extra kilos. From then on, Alemany Cosmetics had widened its products and ambition, moving from a low-profile brand sold in supermarkets to the high pantheon of artificial beauty. At the end of last year they’d launched a line aimed at younger women, Yo
ung, which Héctor had never heard of, but according to the advertising campaign was a great investment within the company.

  Sílvia Alemany was neither adolescent nor beautiful, and was naturally thin, without needing additional help. She looked like her brother, Héctor thought, though she lacked charm. If at the time he had silently compared Víctor to Michael York, his sister vaguely reminded him of Tilda Swinton, an actress he admired despite the fact that her roles usually unsettled him. He was aware that his bad mood was largely due to the chat with Savall a little earlier, but a significant portion was also caused by this polite and highly reasonable woman sitting on the other side of the desk.

  The office wasn’t at all ostentatious, which had surprised him. Rather sparse of detail, with an austerity that had little to do with what he’d imagined of a company dedicated to aesthetics, the space was deceptive. No doubt about it, Sílvia Alemany wasn’t a straightforward woman.

  “To tell you the truth, I don’t know how we can help you, Inspector. We’re still in shock over Sara’s death. In fact, we know very little about the private lives of our employees. I never would have suspected that Sara was so … unhappy.”

  “She wasn’t a woman with many friends, correct?”

  Sílvia shrugged her shoulders, as if giving to understand that this was none of her business.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea whether she had friends or not. Personally, I believe Sara wasn’t one who struck up friendships with her work colleagues; however, that doesn’t mean she didn’t have them elsewhere.”

  Of course. No one could argue with that.

  “And Gaspar Ródenas?”

  Sílvia took a deep breath.

  “Inspector Salgado, I’ve already spoken to your colleagues about Gaspar,” she replied, in a voice half tired, half willing. “I don’t see what he has to do with Sara’s death.”

  “Neither do I, as yet,” said Héctor. He took out the group photo from the file. “But it seems at the very least strange that two of the people in this image have died, don’t you think?”

  She didn’t even look at the photo.

  “I wouldn’t qualify it as strange, Inspector. Sad, perhaps.”

  “When was the photograph taken?”

  “Last year, in March or April, I’m not exactly sure. And I don’t know what—”

  Héctor interrupted her.

  “Was it a company outing?”

  “It was a few days of ‘team-building,’ as they say in English. I don’t know how to translate it …” The condescending tone emerged once more.

  “I know what it is, thank you. I see you attended as well.”

  She smiled.

  “Having a management role doesn’t mean being outside the team, Inspector. On the contrary. We usually organize various days like that throughout the year with different employees.”

  “Can you give me the names of the others?”

  Sílvia looked at the photo, as if she couldn’t precisely remember who had participated.

  “The dark-haired man, with very short hair, is Brais Arjona, brand manager of the Young line; beside him is Amanda Bonet, in charge of design—”

  “Of the same line?”

  “Yes, but not exclusively. I don’t know if you’re aware that Alemany Cosmetics has experienced huge growth in the last few years. Our packaging was old-fashioned and when we hired Brais Arjona, he insisted on modernizing the packaging of the product. It was he who proposed Amanda. And, of course, she has handled the design of the new line directly.”

  “I understand. And the others?”

  “Apart from me, there is César Calvo, manager of storage and distribution.” In the photo, César had his arm around her shoulders, so in a cold voice she added, “And my fiancé. We’re getting married in a few months.” Not leaving room for any comments, she went on: “Manel Caballero, the youngest, is part of the R & D—Research and Development—department.”

  Héctor couldn’t decide if Sílvia Alemany was explaining obvious concepts to him out of friendliness or with the intention of irritating him. Whatever the reason, it irritated him. If she noticed the inspector’s furrowed brow, she paid no attention to it.

  “Octavi Pujades, the eldest, has been our finance director for years; he was already director in my father’s final years. And the other two, as you know, are Gaspar Ródenas and Sara Mahler.”

  “If I remember correctly, Gaspar belonged to the same department as Señor Pujades, isn’t that right? Is it normal for two people from the same department to attend these away days?”

  She smiled.

  “It depends. On occasion they are organized by department, to unite the group. Other times, like this, it’s about bringing people from different divisions together. So the answer is no, it’s not normal in this case.”

  “How are the participants chosen?”

  “Well,” Sílvia was maintaining that friendly smile, “it’s not a lottery. Brais and Amanda had had months of intense collaboration, with the contact that always entails, and I thought it would be good for them to work together in a different atmosphere. At the same time, it seemed convenient for them to establish a more personal relationship with the managers of other areas: César, Octavi and me. Sometimes creative personalities like theirs tend to forget they form part of a broader whole, that there are other employees who take care of more concrete areas. The group is also balanced by age, so Manel Caballero from R & D, and another person from Sales who couldn’t come in the end. Gaspar Ródenas was on the same level, so although he was also from finance, we decided to include him.”

  “And Sara Mahler?”

  “I’m afraid that the administrative personnel sometimes feel a little excluded. We needed another woman to make it up, and Saúl and I thought of Sara.”

  “Saúl …?”

  “Saúl Duque. It’s he who takes care of organizing the details of these activities. My second-in-command. I hate the word assistant—it’s somewhat servile, don’t you think? You saw him as you came in—his desk is just in front of the door to my office.”

  Sílvia had relaxed. Clearly, speaking about the ins and outs of the company was a pleasure for her.

  “And were they good? I’m mean the away days.”

  “Neither good nor bad. Between you and me, Inspector, I’m coming to the conclusion that this kind of thing has more of a motivational effect than anything else. The people feel valued, which is positive in itself.”

  Héctor nodded.

  “But in this case the away days served another purpose. At least for Gaspar Ródenas, right?”

  Sílvia was on her guard once again.

  “You mean because afterward he was chosen to carry out Octavi’s duties during his leave of absence? Well, I wouldn’t say that happened as a result of those days. A couple of names were considered, and Gaspar’s was one of them.”

  She was lying. And when she was lying her voice took on a slight note of disdain.

  “And what tipped the balance in favor of Ródenas?”

  “It was Octavi Pujades who preferred him, and my brother and I agreed, of course. At the end of the day, it wasn’t a definitive promotion. It wasn’t so very important, Inspector. Just a few months of extra responsibility.”

  Héctor smiled inwardly; he was sure that the other name considered on that short list hadn’t seen it that way. However, he decided to move on to another subject.

  “And was it by any chance during those days that this other photo was taken?” he asked as he placed it on the table.

  “Let’s see …” Sílvia Alemany picked up the print and looked at it without too much interest, although with a serious expression. “Where did you get this, Inspector?”

  He decided not to lie.

  “Sara Mahler received it in a text message shortly before … she committed suicide.” The pause was intentional and the other person noticed. “Have you seen it before?”

  “I don’t understand why anyone would send her something like this. I
t seems in very bad taste.”

  “It’s not a nice image, of course,” Héctor agreed. “Nevertheless, you’ve seen it before, haven’t you?”

  “Inspector, I don’t know what exactly you’re insinuating, but I can assure you I’ve never seen this photograph before. And it’s not something easy to forget. What’s more, the idea of photographing a scene like this is macabre.”

  Héctor waited. He was about to rephrase his question when she got ahead of him.

  “I hadn’t seen the photograph, but yes, we saw that tree. And those poor animals hanging there. Some hunters do it, you know? When the animals are old, they’ve lost their sense of smell or they’re just sick, they hang them. It’s barbarous.”

  “Of course. It must have affected you all.”

  Sílvia nodded with a shudder that this time was genuine.

  “One of the tests consisted of a trail game. Two teams were formed and we set out on a hunt. The objective was to get to a cabin relatively far from the house we were staying in. That tree was beside it.”