by Antonio Hill
“Yeah. But we’re the same. Omar died and, between you and me, they should send that lawyer who did it to a spa instead of putting him in prison.”
“Of course no one will miss Omar,” Savall agreed. “I swear, very few times have I dealt with someone so vile.”
“Yes, I remember him. Well, you have it all there.” Martina thought about her next sentence for a moment. “Lluís, I know I’m not in a position to do so, but I want to ask something of you. Leire has done all this in her free time: leave her alone. If you have to open a case on me, do it.”
He brushed off this possibility with one of his typical gestures.
“You know I’m not going to do that. We’ve spent too many years together, Martina.”
“Thank you,” she said. Deep down she’d expected it, although one never knew for sure with something like that. “Precisely because of the trust we share, I want you to know that neither Castro nor I would have become involved in this if the investigation were in other hands.”
She said it in all sincerity, but at the same time Martina knew that Ruth Valldaura’s disappearance seemed condemned never to be solved. It wasn’t the first time something like that had happened, nor would it be the last.
Savall shot her a reprimanding glance.
“I don’t think you can permit yourself the luxury of criticizing Bellver. Not now, not in front of me. And,” he added, “if you’re referring to Salgado, I don’t want him involved in that again. It was a mistake to allow it in the first place. It went against all logic, and you know it. As well as against every rule.”
“Rules … Good people have too many and bad people hardly any. You know that too.” Martina got ready to get up, but didn’t. She looked at her boss and added in a low voice, “At least put the case in someone else’s hands, Lluís. If I were Héctor and Bellver was in charge of something concerning me personally … Well, it doesn’t matter. Better I keep quiet.”
“Yes.” He took a deep breath and his large body appeared to swell. “Leave it, it’s Friday and it’s already night. We superintendents shouldn’t work these hours.”
“Neither should mothers,” she replied, going toward the door.
“Speaking of mothers, how is Castro?” asked Savall.
“Well. The birth was a few weeks early, but it all went off without too many problems.”
“It’s not hard to believe Agent Castro’s son was in a hurry to be born,” he joked. “I’ve rarely had anyone so impatient in my charge.”
Martina smiled. It was everyone’s first comment as soon as they met Leire Castro.
From her hospital room window, Leire was also contemplating that dense snowfall, so strange in Barcelona, and told herself: everything seems to be changing. Starting with herself. She had just been with Abel; only a short while, because the baby weighed very little and had to stay in the incubator like a defenseless guinea pig full of plastic tubes. When the nurse told her she had to return him to that tank Leire obeyed, but couldn’t help a strange feeling. She would have stayed for hours observing him, checking that he was all right. Whole, healthy, perfect. The nurse must have read her mind, because she calmed her with the efficiency of someone who has spent years handling premature babies and neurotic mothers. And with that same authority, she sent her to her room to rest. “Don’t worry,” she said to her, “I’ll be here all night, with these four little ones. Nothing will happen to Abel.”
And Leire believed her, although then, as she watched how those flakes were changing the city and converting it into a Christmas-card scene at the end of January, she thought about how terrible it would be if that nurse’s friendly face hid someone capable of making the baby disappear, telling you that he’d died, and selling him as if he were an object. A baby like Abel, or like Ruth …
She told herself she still had something in her power that proved nothing and implied much, something that opened the door to a new enigma around Ruth Valldaura. If these suspicions were confirmed, Ruth’s life had drawn a sadly perfect circle: she disappeared from a cradle at birth, and from her home, that loft she shared with her son, thirty-eight years later. All those who took pleasure in her as a daughter, mother, lover or spouse were now obliged to search for her as perhaps a woman had done many years before. A single woman who maybe had to face a whole world against her. A hierarchy of white robes and black habits, pieces aligned in this perverse chess, which, to be able to act with impunity, also counted on accomplices in other spheres.
She didn’t hesitate to use the word “perverse.” Leire thought that in this world, in this city disguising itself as pure, bad people existed. And she wasn’t thinking of delinquents, or even killers, but of monsters without conscience like Dr. Omar. The images of Ruth in that old man’s clinic were still fresh in her memory and—she was convinced of it—were still part of that impossible jigsaw. She’d just managed to add new pieces to an incomplete puzzle. I’ll have to accept that, she thought. Someone had told her once that to get older is to give in a little. Well then, she gave in, at least for a few months. And without feeling bad about it.
Leire stayed a little longer at the window, enjoying that white night, thinking about Abel. About her own parents, who were arriving the following day, caught by surprise first by a premature birth and then by adverse weather. About Tomás, who, disregarding everyone’s advice, had started out on the journey and was now trapped on the train. And she remembered what her mother had said to her that day in the kitchen, the premonition that in fact seemed to have come true. “In the end, when the moment comes, you’ll be alone.”
But, as she watched the snow fall, Leire found she didn’t feel like that at all. And with a smile she told herself, actually, it was the complete opposite. Since the previous day she’d never be really alone again.
It hadn’t taken Ruth long to collect what she wanted to take. It would be two days, so she only needed a few things, which she put in a small travel bag. The sun flooding the house made her want to go even more. In an hour she could be lying on the beach, reading a book. With no more obligations than using sunscreen and deciding where she wanted to eat. It was a good idea. She needed a couple of days for herself. Just that, a weekend of sea, calm and boredom. She deserved this small reward after a few complicated weeks, and some very unpleasant moments. She still hadn’t got that sinister man out of her head, and the fact that he might have disappeared didn’t calm her much either. Enough, she said to herself. She’d made a mistake going to see him, but beating herself up for it wouldn’t do any good. She hadn’t told anyone … Sometimes even she didn’t understand why she got herself into these messes, which were really none of her business.
She was going, but beforehand, out of pure compulsion, she checked the taps in the bathroom and kitchen, and since she was there she put away the breakfast plates she had already washed. This is the behavior of an old woman, she scolded herself as she did it. Then she grabbed her minimal luggage and made sure she put everything required in the bag: the keys of the house in Sitges, her cell phone, the charger … She took out her sunglasses; that day she couldn’t drive without them.
She was making toward the door when the bell rang and an annoyed expression crossed her face. She had no intention of being held up by anyone, but she was surprised to see who it was.
“Hello, Ruth. Forgive me for coming without calling. Do you have a moment?”
“Of course …” She tried to conceal her irritation as best she could and let him in, because she guessed that this temporary setback to her plans arose from something important.
Lluís Savall didn’t usually make courtesy visits.
Acknowledgments
It’s been about a year since The Summer of Dead Toys was published, and it would be impossible to thank everyone who helped inspire the novel. From the commercial and publicity teams at Random House Mondadori to the booksellers who go on recommending titles to a faithful clientele, from the press to bloggers, everyone contributed an important grain of sa
nd. I can’t leave out the foreign editors who dared to bet on an unknown name and are now publishing Héctor Salgado’s first case in their respective countries, nor Justina Rzewuska, who made it possible.
Now, finishing my second novel, I’m absolutely aware that this wouldn’t have come about without the contributions of many people who have put affection, intelligence and goodwill into it. I want to start by highlighting my editor, Jaume Bonfill: his patience and dedication have been vital in making The Good Suicides what it is. Neither can I forget María Casas and Gabriela Ellena, and they know perfectly well why; nor Juan Díaz, editorial director of Debolsillo, who continues to believe in me and Inspector Héctor Salgado.
Apart from them, and although I’m sure I’ll leave someone out, I want to give thanks to: my family, always there; Pedro and Jorge, Carlos, Yolanda and Guillermo, Sara, Carmen (and Leo), Jose, Hiro, Edu, Carmen Moreno (excellent poet), Anna, Xavi, Rebecca and her skulls, Sílvia and her spaghetti. And Ana Liarás for her understanding throughout this whole process.
To all and many more, thanks again.
About the Author
Antonio Hill studied psychology and lives in Barcelona. He is a professional translator of English-language fiction into Spanish. The Good Suicides, set over a cold winter, is the second in the series of Barcelona-set detective stories and was a bestseller in Spain. The first, The Summer of Dead Toys, set in the blistering heat, was also a major bestseller in Spain, and was translated into fifteen languages.