by Antonio Hill
“I see.”
“In fact, we arrived almost at the same time. The two teams, I mean. There was even a final race between César and Brais to see who could reach the end first.” She said it scornfully, as if she were speaking of two little boys chasing after a ball.
“Do you remember anyone taking a photo?”
Sílvia shook her head, as if the mere idea was an aberration.
“Why would someone do something like that? It’s horrible.”
“I don’t know, but someone did. And sent it to Sara for some reason.”
Sílvia’s acting was so convincing that Salgado started to doubt his reading of the situation.
“I can’t help you with that, Inspector. But believe me when I tell you that we were all very upset. Maybe you think it’s silly, but in the flesh it was very shocking.” She took a breath and added, “So much so we decided to bury them.”
“Bury them?”
She smiled.
“In hindsight it sounds ridiculous, I know. At that time we felt we couldn’t leave them there. Out in the open, hanging by the neck. The house where we were staying was far from the town, and I wasn’t sure anyone would have come quickly just for some dogs.”
“Violence against animals is a crime,” Héctor clarified. “Someone would have come, you can be sure of that.”
“I suppose you’re right. It didn’t occur to us. That was mid-morning, and in the afternoon, when we’d finished the activities, we decided to go back and bury them. I think we’d been infected by the idea of group spirit and shared tasks.”
She said it with a hint of irony that didn’t escape Héctor.
“So you went back, took them down and buried them there.”
“Yes.” She shrugged. “I find it hard to believe that after we took so much trouble, one of those present had the bad taste to take a photo and then send it to Sara.”
“Do you get any pressure from environmental groups?” asked Héctor. “For using animals and—”
“Our products are a hundred percent natural, Inspector. We don’t experiment on animals. There is always some radical group who tar us with the same brush as other labs, but in fact it hasn’t happened for a while.”
Héctor was thoughtful for a moment. Sílvia Alemany’s explanation was reasonable, although she still hadn’t given an answer to the question. Who had taken the photo? And above all, why had they sent it to Sara Mahler, especially just before she died on the tracks of the metro?
“We’re entering the realm of hypothesis, Señora Alemany. If you had to bet on one of them, who would you say took that photo?”
“This isn’t fair, Inspector.” Seeing he was looking at her inquisitively, she continued: “What I’m going to say may seem an attempt to deflect the matter, but to be honest I think the only one of us capable of something like that was Gaspar Ródenas. No, not in the sense you’re thinking. Gaspar belonged to various associations for the defense of animals, and it may be that he wanted a picture of the tree to report what had happened.”
Héctor nodded. It was probable, although there was no mention of environmental activism or animal rights in Ródenas’s file.
“It will seem strange to you that I know that about Gaspar Ródenas, but when the tragedy occurred I went through his work file. You must understand, it was a complete shock when someone we saw every day suddenly became a murderer-suicide. So I went over the psychometric tests and reports done on him in the years he worked here. It was mentioned in one of them and that’s why I remember it.”
“Was there anything in those tests that could have predicted what he did?”
Sílvia Alemany shook her head.
“If we managed to see that with such a simple test, you would be out of a job, don’t you think?”
There was little more to say, and Héctor accepted Sílvia Alemany’s offer of visiting the factory accompanied by Saúl Duque.
“I would show you around myself, Inspector, but I have a meeting in less than ten minutes.”
“Your brother still hasn’t arrived? He told me he was going away.”
Seeing it was already a quarter past eleven, she continued: “He must be about to arrive, although maybe he went home to drop off his suitcase first. Did you want to see him?”
“No, there’s no need.”
“If you want anything else, you know where to find us.” She’d stood up, an unequivocal sign that the meeting was at an end. “Inspector, I trust you will be discreet with the workers. There have been enough unpleasant comments after the deaths of Gaspar and Sara …”
“Don’t worry,” said Héctor, “I’ll try not to spread panic.”
“I’m sure you will.”
It was false praise; the satisfaction revealed by Sílvia Alemany’s voice was too obvious for Héctor not to perceive it. And without really knowing why, this pissed him off even more. What neither he nor Sílvia herself knew was that air of confident superiority was to be shattered some two hours later, when Víctor arrived at the company and, behind closed doors, held a confidential conversation with his sister that would erase every trace of her good mood.
22
As he ran along a dark, solitary maritime promenade Héctor hoped that the tension in his body would evaporate through sweat and fatigue, but the cool night air was making it rather difficult. An invisible sea, present only in the form of an agitated, almost furious murmur, didn’t help much either. So he speeded up, seeking the relief that only muscle exhaustion can bring, when the brain dilutes worries to concentrate on withstanding the race. But for the moment there was no way of achieving this and the day’s images, unpleasant for the most part, kept floating back into his mind, rebellious and disorganized like starving piranhas.
The scolding from Savall, which he’d tried to fight off with expert irony, had been no surprise. Only the delivery had taken him aback. The superintendent had listened to him, of course, and had agreed that Bellver could be, putting it bluntly, a first-class idiot, but at the same time he’d refused to believe that Héctor knew nothing about the removal of Ruth’s file from the missing persons archives. And he’d adopted a tone somewhere between solemn and offended to make it clear he “felt deeply disappointed.” After all he’d done for him, after having supported him when he put his foot in it and taken advantage of the force, Savall had made it clear that he expected, if not thanks, then at least a little loyalty. And honesty.
There’s nothing worse than the truth that seems to be a lie, thought Héctor. However much he argued, the super had been unwavering, and he’d also accused him of using Sergeant Andreu to carry out “what you don’t have the balls to do yourself.” Héctor, who’d called Martina Andreu twice since the night before without getting an answer, reiterated his ignorance, although he was hurt that Savall didn’t believe him. At least this will be cleared up soon, he thought as he started to notice the heat of the exertion: Martina will be back on Monday from Madrid and everyone will have the chance to talk. In fact, he also found it strange that the sergeant had done something that in other circumstances wouldn’t be that important. In these, however, Ruth on one side and Bellver on the other, she must have realized that the result could be catastrophic. The superintendent’s final words, expressed in that tone of paternal anger that Héctor hated above all other things, left no room for doubt: “You’re making too many enemies, Héctor. And you can’t permit yourself that luxury. Not now. And the time will come when even I can’t defend you.”
If the gossip had pointed out the possibility that he’d smash Dídac Bellver’s face in, the superintendent had reason to worry. It had been a long time since he experienced that blind fury, the physical need to hit someone, and only Agent Fort’s appearance had stopped that from happening. Bellver’s face, when he made conjectures about Ruth’s emotional instability and Héctor’s humiliation on being left for another woman, was crying out for a punch that would dislocate the jaw with a dry, painful crack. As he ran, Héctor guessed that that was exa
ctly what Bellver wanted: to make him lose his temper, to demonstrate once again that Salgado was a crazy, violent Argentine, capable of assaulting not only a suspect but a colleague as well.
I managed to control myself, thought Héctor, although he knew it wasn’t altogether down to his own merit. On Monday it’ll all be cleared up, and this gave him the strength to accelerate even more on an almost deserted promenade, beside waves that seemed to become more furious as he calmed down. It was going to rain; the sky was swarming with dirty clouds and in the distance he sensed an isolated bolt of lightning. The most intelligent thing would have been to turn around, but Héctor was determined to reach the goal he’d set himself before leaving home, the chimneys of the old Sant Adrià power station, and he hadn’t the least intention of giving up the little he was able to control himself, through his own efforts. The only aim of the day that didn’t depend on other people’s will, on people like Sílvia Alemany telling him the truth.
In short, he thought, the visit to the labs had been as fruitless as he’d feared and, as they discussed during the journey back, Agent Fort’s inquiries hadn’t thrown up any exceptional revelations. The employees seemed appropriately shaken by the news of two consecutive deaths, but didn’t make any connection between them. The comments, according to Fort, indicated that Sara Mahler was a strange woman, “no man by her side”—something that sounded to Salgado like the most antiquated machismo—and that Christmas was sad for those who were alone. With that he did agree, he said to himself as he noticed the first drops of rain. The subject of Gaspar Ródenas was already a remote event for the majority of the workers; they’d spoken about it ad nauseam when it happened and had little more to add.
The only significant information had been the confirmation of his suspicions regarding the promotion of Ródenas. According to what Agent Fort had been told while chatting to the people at the coffee machine, Martí Clavé, the other candidate, had taken it more to heart than Sílvia Alemany had admitted. “It seems they almost came to blows,” Fort confessed, not looking at him, probably uncomfortable at a situation similar to the one he’d witnessed in his boss’s office the previous afternoon. “This Clavé confronted Ródenas during his first days in the job and didn’t hide that he felt it an unfair promotion.”
They said that Gaspar hadn’t reacted to the outburst; he’d stayed quiet. They also said that when he heard the news of his death, of the murder of his whole family, Martí Clavé, taciturn and remorseful, had gone a number of days without speaking to anyone.
All this was logical: promotions, undeserved or not, people who felt undervalued; it happened everywhere, all the time, and didn’t merit much comment. Even in times of crisis, it was unthinkable that someone would kill a whole family to get a promotion. On the contrary, maybe in another era Martí Clavé, offended, would have left the company, but as things were his protest had been only vocal, not active. And in any case, none of it was at all related to Sara Mahler, the hanged dogs or the feeling that Sílvia Alemany and the other participants in the away days had lied to him with insulting nerve.
The rain was now a reality and Héctor knew he’d end up soaked, but he kept going. Too much accumulated frustration for him to give up now. A dissatisfaction that had grown during the walk around the factory with Saúl Duque, who was a pleasant guy and chatty enough to have some information wheedled out of him, although in the end what he revealed wasn’t much use: he was happy working there, under Sílvia Alemany, a hard but fair boss; the economic crisis wasn’t affecting them too badly, although it was feared the situation would get worse, given that the green shoots announced by the government didn’t seem to be flowering; there was a good atmosphere, despite these sudden tragic deaths. In that, at least, Saúl had been adamant: “Gaspar was on edge, but I never thought he’d lose his head that way. I’m sure that there must have been something else, some marriage problem we don’t know about.” With regard to Sara, Saúl hadn’t been able to conceal a certain dislike, a reaction the poor girl seemed to arouse in most people. “But that doesn’t mean anything, Inspector. And I never thought she was depressed, just that she didn’t fit in.”
The guided tour was as uninteresting as he’d expected. With Saúl Duque at his side, he met Brais Arjona and Amanda Bonet, who confirmed the version given by Sílvia Alemany. Héctor didn’t even bother to speak to the others: he was sure Manel Caballero and César Calvo would have said the same in different words. Perhaps the only point he scored was when he casually asked Amanda if she was good friends with Sara Mahler. The girl had blushed, a reaction that could be shyness with the police, but which Héctor felt was a little excessive, and she just said that she’d gone to her house one evening for coffee. All very reasonable, all stinkingly normal. He and Fort had returned to the station more despondent than when they left. Just one more loose end to cover: Sara’s supposed boyfriend, if he existed, something Héctor was beginning to doubt …
Héctor turned around when a bolt of lightning showed he’d reached his goal. The hardest bit was still to come: the way back, retracing his steps. And thinking about the way home took him directly to the image of Lola, whom he still hadn’t called back. Later he would, but at that moment he just ran, drawing strength from weakness to flee from the rain, flee from memories. To flee from Ruth’s wounded face when he confessed what had been going on. And above all, flee from the bitter moment he decided to leave Lola forever.
23
It was after five in the morning on Sunday when César returned to cold sheets, to an accusatory hollow, to the bed where Sílvia was sleeping alone without even realizing.
It had been a leaden, rainy Sunday, as gray as a Berlin winter, matching Sílvia’s mood; she had barely said two words all day. César had never been too good with sick people and he preferred to be left alone when he wasn’t well. So when Sílvia rejected his attempts at conversation, claiming she was coming down with the flu, he gave her a kiss on her singularly icy brow and advised her to go to bed. It was no wonder she was getting sick, bearing in mind the tension of the last few days. Faithful to his role and with nothing better to do, he’d stayed at Sílvia’s the whole evening, snoozing in front of the TV, trying little by little to appropriate this space that would also be his in a few months. They were alone: Pol had gone to a friend’s house, and it appeared Emma was also studying with a friend. César never asked about them and was happy to have the sitting room to himself. In the middle of the afternoon Sílvia got up, although it was obvious she didn’t feel any better. On the contrary, the long nap had left her dazed, with a severe headache. Not for a moment did César suspect that the upset caused by the conversation with Víctor was hidden behind these symptoms.
Sílvia had decided to go to bed because she had the feeling she was losing control of her world and needed to take refuge in the intimate personal space that was her room, her bed. Clinging to her pillow and closing her eyes to forget, even for a few hours, that her life was going to change despite everything. She felt betrayed, sold by Víctor, and more so by Octavi Pujades, who had collaborated with her brother’s plans and hidden them from her with the determination of Judas in a suit and tie. She could have confided in César, and if she hadn’t it was above all out of shame: she didn’t want to be the conned woman, the loser that the truly powerful ignore without the least decency. Of course she’d keep her job, if she wanted it. Víctor had made an effort to show her that she meant something to him, but they both knew the truth: the duties Sílvia carried out in the company went beyond her job description and her power came as much from her efficiency as from her surname. No amount of money in the world could make up for that.
Any other time she would have fought with her brother, battled to protect her own interests, hurled real and imaginary insults in his face. But on Friday, after the inspector’s visit, she was feeling so pleased with herself that Víctor’s news left her speechless. Mute and empty as a dried-up skull. And twenty-four hours later, lying in her bed, all she felt was
a bitter taste in her mouth. Even the threat received by telephone two days before had lost its force. It was absurd, she knew; that evening nothing seemed important.
They had dinner together, she and César, not hungry and with no desire to talk, and only Emma’s arrival lifted the atmosphere a little. For once, Sílvia let herself be fussed over and agreed to drink the hot infusion her daughter prepared especially for her. She drank it in bed, Emma by her side, happy for once that the roles were reversed and it was her daughter who put her hand on her forehead, said she had a temperature and gave her a goodnight kiss. She’d spent half the day in bed and was afraid she wouldn’t sleep, but in fact shortly after Emma left her room and turned out the light, Sílvia fell into a calm, restorative sleep, just what her exhausted mind was demanding.
César stayed a little longer in front of the TV, not watching it. He would have gone home to his house if it hadn’t started raining again, if he hadn’t become drowsy on the sofa. Or if Emma had come down to keep him company, which didn’t happen. He decided to go to bed when it wasn’t even twelve. Sílvia had been asleep for at least two hours and he lay down beside her, against her body without disturbing her. He gave her a suggestive kiss on the nape of her neck and, seeing that she was in a deep sleep, he opted to turn over and move a few centimeters away from her, although he knew it was pointless. He was too restless to sleep and couldn’t be bothered to masturbate, so he closed his eyes in the hope that sleep would resolve both. But sleep didn’t come, and the heavy rain falling on the city was keeping him awake. César wasn’t imaginative or susceptible to the elements; however, there were too many worries going around in his head that impeded his rest: he was scared of the threats, he was starting to believe that there was something behind the deaths of Gaspar and Sara.