by Antonio Hill
Yes, thought Héctor. A risky, almost suicidal act, but possible. The camera hadn’t captured that moment.
“But Sara must have seen them get out. She did pass those steps,” he responded.
“Yeah, I thought that too. But she looked worried. If she’d seen a guy sitting on the steps she wouldn’t have looked twice. She’d have thought they were drunk. Maybe …”
“Good work, Fort. I mean it. Have you requested the tapes from the other platform?”
“They’ve gone for them, sir. I’ll look at them as soon as they arrive.”
“I leave it in your hands,” said Salgado, smiling. “I’m going to talk to Sílvia Alemany before her troops arrive. Make sure no one interrupts me while I’m with her. Not the superintendent, not Alemany, not the Pope of Rome, is that clear?
“And another thing. If Manel decides to cooperate, lock him in one of the rooms and call the other two. César Calvo and Brais Arjona. I want them all nearby.”
This time I’m playing at home, thought Héctor when he found himself in the presence of Sílvia Alemany, who still had the bearing and composure given by intelligence united with a kind of class. She appeared indifferent, sitting in the interview room where they had brought her on arrival, but she couldn’t help a sidelong glance on seeing the inspector enter.
“Do you wish to talk about the dead dogs again, Inspector?” she asked. “If I’d known it was going to cause so many explanations, I’d never have agreed to carry it out.”
“You know something, Señora Alemany? I think that’s the first honest thing you’ve said to me since we met.”
“I’m also getting tired of your veiled insinuations, Inspector. If you have something to charge me with, do it. And if not, let me go. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Making sure the others don’t talk? I’m afraid it’s too late. Manel doesn’t have your mettle, that’s obvious. It was all the same to him as long as he felt safe. But when he found himself caught between a rock and a hard place—”
“Don’t deceive me, Inspector Salgado. When he sees himself between a rock and a hard place, Manel chooses the hard place. Never the rock.”
Héctor laughed.
“You’re right. The good thing about proverbs is that they’re symbolic, so you never really know what the rock or the hard place mean. I assure you poor Manel Caballero faced a very sharp, treacherous rock.”
She grew pale.
“Why don’t you tell me your version of what happened? You’re tired, you must be—is such a burden really worth it?”
Sílvia hesitated. He could see the doubt clouding her eyes and the temptation to talk begin to grow within her. But pride got the better of her.
“I’m sure my brother must be on his way here. And not alone. So, Inspector, I think soon I’ll be able to leave this room and relax.”
“Oh yes? When you lie down will you forget Gaspar’s face? Or Sara’s? Amanda’s? Three dead people, Sílvia, not counting Gaspar’s poor wife and child. You’re a mother.”
“One of the subjects that annoys me nowadays is the general opinion that being a mother makes you a better person, Inspector. There are good and bad mothers. Good and bad daughters.”
Héctor didn’t know what she was talking about, but it was clear he’d just hit a nerve in the woman in front of him.
“And don’t try to put the blame on me for what Gaspar did to his family. I have enough trying to understand my own.”
Finally he’d made an impression on Sílvia Alemany. The bitter tone couldn’t be ignored. And Héctor understood the moment had come to bet, albeit cautiously, so that she didn’t guess how low the cards in his hand were.
“Returning the bicycles was a mistake, Sílvia. A silly mistake. Not like you.”
She seemed absorbed in thoughts that had nothing to do with that, and everything to do with her family.
“The bicycles were intact. There were no si—” Sílvia went quiet, but it was already too late and Héctor finished her sentence for her.
“There were no signs of the accident, were there?”
“What accident?” she asked in a voice much less sure.
“The accident that happened when you were returning from burying the dogs.” The bluff was working, Héctor could feel it. “I think you came back in a good mood, self-satisfied, from the completed task. I don’t think you expected destiny to play a dirty trick on you. And to tell the truth, I honestly think the first act of this farce was a genuine accident. Am I right?”
Sílvia Alemany no longer had the courage to continue denying it. She closed her eyes, inhaled very slowly and began talking.
40
The eight of them contemplate their work with the satisfaction that comes from having done something real, with their hands, based on real physical effort and sweat. A feeling to which they are in fact unaccustomed because their jobs have little to do with that.
“Done,” says Brais with a sigh, as he rubs his hand. He is the one who has dug the most and he knows that the following day he’ll have blisters all over his hands from the hoe, but the physical effort seems healthy. Invigorating.
The only trace of those mercilessly sacrificed animals is the newly turned earth a hundred meters from the tree. Without them, the branches of the cork tree revert to being inoffensive, vulgar. Dusk bathes the landscape in a comforting, placid light.
“Are we going now, or do you expect us to say a prayer?” asks César. He’s the only one who appears immune to the general feeling of well-being. In fact, he agreed to dirty his hands only reluctantly, when he saw the vote was lost anyway. Only Manel had objected to the idea and César didn’t like to associate with losers.
Octavi smiles and Sílvia looks sideways at her fiancé. César shuts up.
“Why don’t we get going?” Manel intervenes. “It’s almost night.”
“Why don’t we wait a moment?” suggests Sara. “There aren’t many opportunities to enjoy a sunset like this one.”
César is tired and wants to go back to the house, but once again the others seem in agreement. And in fact, all of them, him included, watch the sunset on the mountains, partly because it is beautiful, and partly because they’re too tired to move or argue. The sun descends behind the peaks, slowly, effortlessly, quenching its orange-colored shine and leaving the world in shadow.
“Well, that’s it,” says Brais quietly. “It’s been a long day.”
They walk toward the van, fatigued but happy. The task and the twilight have satisfied them. A euphoric, contagious peace overwhelms them.
“I’ll drive,” says Sílvia, and César, who had driven them there, throws her the keys. “I like driving at night.”
They make themselves comfortable in the van, which has two rows of three seats as well as the driver and passenger seats: Sílvia driving and Octavi beside her; the others are arranged on the two rows behind. She puts on some music before starting the engine and they all seem to feel as young and free as the song proclaims.
“I love it,” says Sílvia. “Now my brother can’t hear us, I think it’s the best of the campaign.”
There is a general laugh: it’s unusual to hear the Alemanys criticizing each other, although there’s been a rumor going around that their relationship isn’t the best at the moment.
Sílvia turns the key and the van begins to move. They feel happy and not at all tired.
“Hey!” César protests after a corner that throws them all to one side. “Careful. The damned spade is sticking into my ribs.”
“César, don’t be a spoilsport. We’re nearly there. Put the song on again, Octavi. It cheers me up.”
And Sílvia accelerates, because all of a sudden she feels like she did when she was young and rebellious, and she hasn’t experienced a feeling like this in years. She accelerates, not taking into account that visibility isn’t good, and neither is the road. She accelerates because she doesn’t think she’s going to encounter any obstacle to brake for on this lonely road.
They’re almost there; the lights can be made out in what would otherwise be a black field. Those sitting behind don’t even see what happens. They just hear Octavi’s sudden warning, an abrupt swerve and a dull thud. The van stops at the side of the road, opposite the gate of the track leading to the house.
“What was that?” asks Amanda.
No one answers. Octavi gets out of the vehicle and approaches a shape on the ground. Except it’s not a shape, or an animal. The overturned bicycle beside him confirms it. César tries to follow him, but the spade, leaning against the seat, is blocking his way, so with an impatient gesture he tosses it outside to be able to get out. More agile, Brais gets there before him once again. And the three men look at the Arab boy, the wound bleeding from his temple, covering Octavi’s hand with blood when he tries to sit him up.
“Don’t touch him!” exclaims Brais, but it’s clear from Octavi’s face that it no longer matters.
“Shit … fuck.” César scuffs the ground and for once his protests seem justified.
“It was the wing mirror,” says Brais, pointing at the van’s mirror.
They look at each other, not knowing what to do, and César returns to the vehicle, head down. He walks slowly and approaches the driver’s side. Sílvia lowers the window and looks at him and knows by the expression on his face that something serious has happened. She sighs and covers her face with her hands.
Amanda and Manel have already got out of the vehicle, but they’re not moving, as if there, stuck to the van, they might be safe. Gaspar and Sara do the same, she with her cell phone in her hand.
“We have to call an ambulance. Or the police. I don’t know.”
“Don’t call anyone. Wait a moment,” César orders and continues speaking to Sílvia in a low voice.
The world seems to have stopped on that section of dark, gloomy road. They no longer feel young and free, but anxious and frightened. The silence of the fields, pervaded by unknown murmurings, is unsettling.
“I don’t want to see him,” says Manel. “I can’t bear blood.”
He takes the path toward the house, at top speed, fleeing it all.
“Yes,” says César. “Go into the house. Go on, Gaspar, go with Sara and Amanda. And don’t call anyone. We’ll take care of this ourselves.”
They understand that he wants to be alone with Sílvia, who is still inside the vehicle, and Octavi. Maybe even with Brais.
Gaspar picks up the spade from the ground, the one César threw from the van, and starts to walk. Sara and Amanda go after him; they move a little out of their way so as not to pass close to the body, although Amanda can’t help a quick glance.
And then, once again, the unexpected happens. They hear a shout from the patio of the house, and a cry of alarm that can only be coming from Manel. Sara and Amanda stop, frightened, and Gaspar, with the spade in his hand, runs toward those shadows thrashing on the ground. The next thing that is heard is an intense, metallic thud.
The crunch of a skull as it cracks.
“What happened then?” asked Héctor, shocked despite himself.
Sílvia Alemany had adopted a neutral tone during the whole tale, a voice that appeared not to be part of the story, not that of one of the protagonists.
“What do you think?” she asked, sounding once again like the woman Héctor knew from these past few days. “They were two Moors, certainly a pair of petty thieves. A couple of illegal immigrants no one would miss.”
“Did you convince everyone not to report it?”
“More or less. It wasn’t difficult, believe me. Gaspar was in shock and Octavi convinced him that it wasn’t worth ending up in jail, away from his daughter, for a thief with no family or future. Sara showed herself to be loyal to the company, to me, as did César. Manel accepted it because he knew he could get something in exchange. And Amanda … Honestly, Inspector, I don’t know what Amanda Bonet thought.”
About her personal life, Héctor said to himself. He was certain it had been an obsession for Amanda: the intensity of her devotion to Saúl indicated as much.
“And Brais?”
“He was the hardest to persuade. I’ve never known why he gave in. I think he did it for Gaspar. Brais is an orphan, you know? I’m not sure—he’s not a predictable man. But a man of his word.”
“So you decided to hide it,” Héctor concluded. “And it worked out, or at least it all seemed forgotten until—”
“Until the Gaspar thing happened. He was very strange in the months prior to the summer, so much so I was afraid he would tell all. So when Octavi informed me of his leave of absence, we decided a promotion would be good for him. Get him more on our side. But it wasn’t like that: he felt even worse … I don’t know if he received a photo of the dogs before he died.”
“The photo?” Héctor sat up, suddenly alert. “Did you all get it?”
“I think so, but later on. In fact, not long ago. After Sara’s death.”
Héctor’s mind was working nonstop, linking facts, asking questions and answering them in the only way that seemed possible. The cruelty toward Gaspar’s family, Sara’s meal before dying, the photos … When he spoke, his voice was serious and accusatory.
“You did with those men the same as you’d done with the dogs. Got rid of their bodies, erased them from sight. Eliminated them so the countryside could go back to normal. But men aren’t dogs, Sílvia.”
“Some are worse. Beasts with a treacherous bite.”
Héctor smiled ironically.
“That opinion of others seems exquisitely cynical coming from you, Sílvia.” He raised his voice to add, “Tell me, what did you do with their bodies?”
Sílvia looked him in the eyes. She no longer had the strength for the challenge, but she retained one primary instinct: that of survival.
“That, Inspector, is the one thing I don’t plan on telling you.”
41
Héctor left Sílvia in the interview room and went out into the corridor. After that quiet confession, the noise of the station felt almost like a racket, as if he were coming to the surface after diving in dark and treacherous waters. A surface clear only in appearance, he thought. He still didn’t know how Gaspar had died. Sara. Amanda. A voice startled him.
“Inspector. I’ve done as you asked. They’re all in room 2.”
“And Manel?”
Roger Fort spread his hands in a gesture that could be either apologetic or mocking. “He passed out in the cell, Inspector. We had to take him out of there to bring him around, but he was completely gone. We’ve sent him to the hospital.”
Héctor nodded. The weak would always be weak, and in fact he felt better for having made one of the others fall. It’s cleaner, he thought, although he certainly knew this was an adjective he could rarely apply to his work. It was two in the afternoon of what promised to be an extremely long day.
Judging by their postures, thought Héctor on entering, one would say they form three gangs: Víctor Alemany and Octavi Pujades were sitting very close; Brais and César occupied two chairs with space between them and away from the other two. None of them was speaking when Salgado came into the room.
“I hope you have a good explanation for all this, Inspector.”
“You must be Octavi Pujades,” said Héctor.
“Indeed, and I don’t know if you’re aware that my wife may be dying at this very moment while I’m here supporting Víctor.”
Despite his elderly appearance, this man retained the air of authority typical of those who have exercised it for a long time.
“I would have made you come regardless.”
“What are you talking about?” Víctor Alemany rose from his seat. “This … this is persecution of my company. I’ve spoken to your superiors and I assure you they will take measures.”
Héctor smiled.
“Señor Alemany, before you go on, I suggest you listen. It will save you looking ridiculous.”
“I will not consent—”
> “Be quiet, Víctor,” Octavi ordered.
“Listen to your friend, Señor Alemany. Allow me to speak.”
And Héctor spoke. He told them, in a shorter form, yet not omitting any important detail, almost all Sílvia had told him. He had the satisfaction of no one daring to interrupt, and when he finished the silence was as dense as the unpleasant truth. Víctor Alemany had listened and remained dumbstruck, and if Héctor had any doubt that he was on the margins of that secret, at that moment he knew it was indeed so.
“And now we know what happened up there, have you anything to add, gentlemen?”
There was no answer. Héctor was sure that in some previous conversation they’d decided what the plan would be if it came to light.
“There’s nothing you want to tell me?”
It was César who responded:
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Denial. That was the plan. Because in the end it would be their word against that of the person who had only half betrayed them. Because, if no one revealed where the bodies were, it would be very difficult to charge them formally, however much Héctor wanted to see them all inside.
“Fine. Stay quiet, but I assure you I’ll find out what you did with the bodies. And then you’ll be charged with murder. All of you.” He looked at Brais Arjona. “Even those who weren’t driving and didn’t hit anyone.”
There was no way of working out what Brais was thinking; his face was the epitome of concentration. He snorted, disheartened.
“Better keep quiet, Brais.” Octavi Pujades turned to Arjona, his voice rough. “Or we’ll have things to say as well.” He went on, unable to hold back. “You threatened Gaspar, he told me. He was scared of you!”
“Old age is making you senile, Pujades.” Brais made a gesture of irritation. “We’ve not trusted one another for months. Or perhaps you don’t remember that César and I came to see you on Sílvia’s orders? Gaspar was hysterical, we all saw it. Don’t blame me for what he did. I didn’t try to convince him any more than you or Sílvia … Then it was still worth it. Now it doesn’t matter.”