by Antonio Hill
“No?” she asked with an ironic smile. “Look around you. Do you think the people on the street, normal people, know the whole truth? There are things to which normal people, like you or I, cannot have access. That’s how it is, how it’s always been, however much people now think they have a right to know. If you take it on another, smaller scale, you’ll see that it also applies in refuges, in families … When you have your son you’ll realize that the truth isn’t important if it is at odds with other values like security, protection. And like it or not, you’ll have to decide for him. For that you’re his mother: to plot a safe path for him and avoid him suffering.”
Leire began to feel queasy again, but that woman’s last words made her think of something else.
“Is that what you did with Patricia? Move her away from the road you had planned for Ruth?”
Señora Martorell held her gaze, not blinking.
“I just told her to leave my daughter alone. She was smothering her. We mothers always notice these things. I spoke to Ruth, I put a little pressure on her and in the end she told me everything. She was so frightened, so confused … She didn’t know her own feelings, inclinations. My duty was to protect her.”
“Protect her from Patricia?” She couldn’t help the note of sarcasm in her voice.
“Protect her from something she wasn’t yet ready to face. And of which she wasn’t even fully aware.” She paused before adding, “It takes courage to be different in this life, Señorita Castro. My only aim was to avoid Ruth suffering. So, before Patricia left, I had a chat with her, alone.”
Leire imagined this woman, imposing in old age; she must have been intimidating as an offended mother. And Patricia would have felt betrayed, even ashamed in those years. She could almost see her after facing Señora Martorell, driving home alone …
“Didn’t you feel bad afterward?” It was hard to believe, it seemed impossible, that this woman in front of her felt not a trace of remorse. “When did you hear about the accident?”
Montserrat Martorell straightened up and answered in a frozen, emphatic voice: “My feelings are absolutely none of your business, Agent Castro.”
No, they’re not, thought Leire. She almost preferred not to know.
“You’re right. I have no right to ask you that, but I have the right to tell you something. Maybe you already know or maybe not, but at least from now on you can’t hide behind ignorance.”
And Leire told her about the stolen babies, the Hogar de la Concepción and Sr Amparo; she spoke about the possibility that Ruth’s mother hadn’t handed over her daughter voluntarily, that they would have deceived her by saying she was dead or taken her from her arms. That her husband’s donation was payment in exchange for a newborn.
Señora Martorell listened attentively, not interrupting her. When she finished her account, Leire was very tired and wanted to leave. Her apartment with suicidal tiles and blocked pipes suddenly seemed like the best home in the world.
“You are very pale,” Señora Martorell told her. “I think I’ll call a taxi to take you home. And … believe me, Agent Castro, because I say it for your good and that of your child: stop raking over a past that, even if it were true, won’t help us find Ruth. Focus on the future. Best for you and for everyone.”
Leire would have liked to answer that justice consisted of that, but she didn’t have the strength to do it. She simply looked at her, trying to communicate her incomprehension of this manner of seeing things. The woman didn’t appear to take it personally. Apathetic, Leire rose, took the piece of paper where Ruth’s father’s donation was recorded and went to the door without saying anything else. She would wait for the taxi outside.
She longed to get home, shut herself inside and forget about this world. Perhaps it wasn’t deliberately cruel, but it was certainly deeply inhuman.
37
The clock on the nightstand indicated that it was only six a.m. and Leire turned over in bed. She had no reason to be awake so early. She closed her eyes and tried to get to sleep, as if it were something she could force by will. When she finally gave up and stopped lying in bed, a quarter of an hour had passed. Enough time to know it was better to get up although it was still almost night.
She went from the bed to the sofa, strangely without appetite for breakfast, and for a while she awaited movement from Abel. It finally happened and she breathed easily. She’d become accustomed to noticing it and when she didn’t she was overcome by a horrible fear.
Facing her, on the table, were the photos of Ruth, her file and the tape with the recording of Dr. Omar’s clinic. She didn’t feel up to watching it again and suddenly she realized that she was beginning to feel unable to continue with the case. It was upsetting her too much, invading her consciousness, making her uneasy. This can’t go on, she told herself. And slowly, assuming that for the first time she was giving up on a case before exhausting all the possibilities, she collected everything into the same envelope Martina Andreu had given her. After a moment’s hesitation, she left the donation document out. She’d give it to Inspector Salgado, who could do as he wished with it.
She had decided: she would give everything back to Sergeant Andreu, telling her she was too tired to continue investigating. She would speak to Héctor Salgado and communicate all the details clouding his ex-wife’s birth. And then she’d concentrate on waiting for Abel to be born, with no shocks or distressing conversations like the one she’d had with Ruth’s mother.
But memory played by its own rules, and Ruth’s face, just as it appeared in the photo, kept reappearing. Ruth, perhaps adopted without knowing it. Manipulated by her mother until she had the courage to decide for herself. How would Ruth have felt when she heard about Patricia’s fatal accident? Like the character in Breathless, she’d been frightened by her own feelings and, in a way, had betrayed her friend to her mother. For Señora Martorell it had all ended there, but not for her daughter.
Ruth had kept the photo of Patricia, she’d written that love generates eternal debts. Even to those you no longer love. Through this misplaced sense of responsibility Ruth had gone to Dr. Omar to intercede for her ex-husband. Yes, she was sure. What had that perverse old guy said to her? Nothing very serious, because Ruth had changed very little after that visit, about which she’d told no one. Héctor had spoken to Leire about the last time he saw his ex-wife, when she accompanied him to the airport to pick up his missing suitcase. She seemed fine, same as always … Then she disappeared.
I can’t do it anymore, Leire said to herself. She was sure that if Ruth had some way of seeing what was happening in the world, she wouldn’t feel betrayed by this pregnant agent. On the contrary, she’d understand perfectly.
Halfway through the afternoon she left the station, bag now empty, seized by a mixture of feelings that went from relief to guilt, passing through a range of different emotions. Inspector Salgado was busy questioning a whole group of witnesses of a case and she couldn’t see him. It didn’t really matter—what she had to tell him could wait.
Martina Andreu had understood completely and taken charge of everything. “It’s better this way,” she’d added. “You don’t know the trouble stirred up because of the file.” And she must have looked bad, because her words were the same as Señora Martorell. “Relax, Leire.” And yes, for once she planned to listen: she just wanted to return to her apartment, lie on the sofa and do nothing for what was left of her pregnancy. She tried to drive the image of Ruth from her mind without managing it completely, but determined to do it.
Because of that, when she met Guillermo at the door of the building where she lived she was tempted to tell him not to come up, that she didn’t feel well. But she didn’t: the boy seemed so nervous and she was so tired that she had no choice but to invite him in.
38
“Sorry for turning up like this,” he said, already inside her house. “I called, but you didn’t answer.”
He took out his cell phone to show her and left it on the table.
/>
“It’s no problem, don’t worry.” She let herself collapse on the sofa. The room was spinning.
“Are you feeling all right? You’re very pale.”
“A little bit queasy, that’s all. It’ll pass when I’ve rested for a while. If you’d like something to drink, you can grab it yourself from the fridge.”
Guillermo declined the invitation, but offered to bring her something if she wanted.
“Yes, can you bring me a glass of water, please?”
He obeyed and returned immediately. He held out the glass as he sat down beside her.
“You said I could talk to you about Mama.”
Yes, she had said so, thought Leire, although just then it was the last thing she felt like doing. She took a sip of water and prepared to listen. He was sitting at her side. He was worried, no doubt about that. Even nauseated, she could see.
“I suppose I should tell Papa,” he said, “but he’s been very busy for the last few days and I thought I could talk to you first.”
“Of course.” The water felt good. “Tell me, has something happened?”
He nodded.
“Do you know Carmen? The landlady of the building where we live?”
Leire knew of her and was aware that she maintained a close relationship with Héctor and his family, one that went beyond what usually existed between a landlady and her tenants.
“Carmen has a son,” he continued. “His name is Charly, but he doesn’t live with her. They’ve not seen each other for years.”
She remembered hearing something about this Charly from Inspector Salgado, and of course it wasn’t exactly praise.
“Well, Charly has come home to his mother.”
“I’d say he’s not a good influence for you …” ventured Leire. “Do you know him well?”
“Actually, I don’t remember him from before he left, but …”
“But what?” Curiosity was overcoming her nausea.
It took him a while to speak, as if he were betraying a confidence.
“But I know Mama let him sleep at home, in the loft a few times.”
Leire sat up.
“What?”
“Papa wouldn’t have liked it at all and Mama asked me not to tell him. According to her, Charly wasn’t so bad and anyway, she said she was doing it for Carmen. A mothers’ thing. It was only three or four nights after we moved there—he never stayed long. I’d forgotten, but now, seeing him again, I thought it might be important, mightn’t it?”
“Maybe. You did the right thing in telling me.”
“Do you think he could have done something to her? I wasn’t at home that whole week. I went to Calafell, to a friend’s house …”
He looked so upset that Leire hastened to console him.
“I don’t know, Guillermo, but I don’t think so.” She didn’t know why, but she doubted such a complex case could suddenly be solved by the reappearance of a small-time crook. “They would have found his fingerprints—he must have a record. Also, your mother didn’t usually make mistakes, did she? Maybe Charly isn’t such a bad guy.”
A grateful smile appeared on Guillermo’s face.
“In any case, you have to tell your father.” Remembering she had things to tell Inspector Salgado, she added, “I have things to tell him too.”
“Really?”
Leire left the glass on the table. She didn’t want to discuss it with this boy. And as she couldn’t find Ruth, she told herself the least she could do for her was give her son something for dinner.
Not only did Guillermo accept her invitation, he offered to make dinner, which to Leire’s surprise turned out rather good. She forced herself to be cheerful and try to eat the pasta the boy had boiled while making a tomato sauce seasoned with black pepper and a little mince he found in the fridge. She couldn’t eat much; the nausea kept coming in waves.
He was clearing the plates from the table when a sudden, violent, stabbing pain left her breathless, and pale as new linen. It was only a few seconds and then the feeling disappeared, but a cold sweat and the constant vertigo remained.
“Are you all right?”
Leire was about to answer when the pain returned. No, no, you can’t be born yet, she thought.
“I think …” It hurt so much she almost couldn’t speak. “I think we need to call the doctor.”
39
The arrest of Manel Caballero occurred at half past nine in the morning on Thursday, January 20. An offended and frightened Manel, protesting vehemently, was approached at his place of work by Roger Fort and another agent, in front of his astonished colleagues: he had to accompany them to the station for questioning. They handcuffed him without the least compassion. Simultaneously, Héctor Salgado was doing the same with Sílvia Alemany, who, to the inspector’s surprise, left her office with her head held high and without saying a single word.
The two were put in separate police cars and transferred to the station. They saw each other then, at the door, though they didn’t have a chance to talk. He, handcuffed and almost pushed toward the building’s interior; she walking with dignity with the inspector at her side. Two very different interrogation rooms awaited them.
Frightened is nothing, thought Héctor as soon as he entered one of them, ready to get everything he could out of that slippery young man. Since the previous afternoon, when he got back from the house in Garrigàs, he had been setting the pieces of this puzzle in order: the dogs, the bicycles, the spade, the shift in attitude of the participants, Amanda’s shock the night before. And although he didn’t know for certain how things had happened, he did have at least a vague idea of what could have happened. An idea he didn’t like at all.
He sat down opposite Caballero in silence and left a file on the table. He was going to open it when the other man belligerently spat out, “May I know what this is about? Why the hell have you brought me here?”
“I was just going to explain, don’t you worry.”
“You can’t treat people like this! You don’t fool me, I know my rights—”
“You’ve seen too many TV series, Manel,” Héctor replied with a condescending smile. “In any case, since you’re so up to speed with your rights, I’m going to recap mine. You’re a suspect in a multiple homicide case and you’re here to be questioned.”
Manel’s expression showed the hit, and Héctor continued, “I can’t force you to talk, although I promise you it wouldn’t bother me to do so. On the other hand, I can hold you for seventy-two hours for you to reflect and decide to cooperate.”
“Handcuffing and mistreating me up to now isn’t the best way of asking me to cooperate, Inspector! At least tell me what you’re talking about, because if you think I killed Amanda and Sara, you’re completely mad.”
Héctor smiled again.
“Madmen sometimes guess the truth. Or so they say—haven’t you ever heard that?” His tone changed as he added, “I don’t want to talk about Sara, or Amanda. Or even Gaspar. I want us to talk about what happened at the house in Garrigàs.”
He managed to rattle him, though just for a moment. Manel mustered all his strength and replied, “I have nothing to say about that.”
“Sure? Nothing to tell me about some stolen bicycles? A missing spade?”
Manel flushed, but managed to stay calm and feign a fairly convincing incredulous tone.
“I think you don’t know anything, Inspector. You only guess things. So hold me as long as you wish. I’ll wait for my solicitor.”
“Of course. No problem.” Héctor rested both hands on the table, rose and leaned toward an astonished Manel. When he spoke it was in a quiet, firm voice. “But you won’t wait here.”
“What do you mean?” stammered Manel.
The inspector didn’t answer. He left the room slowly, and shortly afterward came back in accompanied by two agents. Without a word, they lifted Manel Caballero from the chair.
“What’s this? Where the fuck are you taking me?”
“As
I said, I have seventy-two hours to get you to cooperate.” He looked at his watch. “But you’re not going to spend them here. You’ll be in one of the cells. I need this room to talk with someone more important than you. It wouldn’t be wise on my part to send Señora Alemany to a cell, would it? I could get into real trouble.”
The look of rage Manel cast him was the first of his victories. The agents carried him away, oblivious to his shouts of protest, to one of the small station cells, already occupied by a couple of junkies.
“No! No! You can’t do this to me …”
Héctor slowly exhaled. Manel’s screams faded. It was only a matter of time, he was sure. Anyone who wanted to sleep alone wouldn’t last too long in those cells.
“How’s it going?” Roger Fort asked from the door.
“It will be fine,” answered Héctor. “Any news?”
“Víctor Alemany called. Not me, Superintendent Savall. From what I understand he’s coming here with his solicitor. Well, more accurately, with Señor Pujades. Inspector, I know you’re in a hurry, but there’s something I’d like to show you. It’ll only take a moment. Come with me.”
Fort walked ahead of him and they went toward a room equipped with a screen. On it Héctor saw the frozen image of that damned metro platform.
“I was wondering how someone could have entered after Sara without being caught on the turnstile cameras. And suddenly it occurred to me that there was only one possibility: that they arrived on the metro going in the opposite direction and crossed from one platform to the other, like someone getting off at the wrong station.”
Héctor looked at him and nodded.
“Of course—as simple as that.”
“They didn’t come down onto the platform, of course. They must have stayed on the stairs. Sara Mahler didn’t move much, so, supposing someone pushed her, they could have waited there, sitting on a step, and emerged only when they saw the train was about to arrive.”