“Well, that opens up a lot of options,” he said next.
“What do you think about it?” asked Eva, who still hadn’t managed to piece together in her mind the fragments of the case.
“Basically, what I just said; that we have to consider many possibilities, even more if the murderer is cold and manipulative, as is thought. I don’t think we can discard anything, however extreme: it’s possible that she caused the accident, and the possibility that her mother was her first victim also fits, or that...”
“Did you find a golf ball in the flat?” she interrupted.
“No, not one.”
“Then her mother isn’t one of her victims,” said Eva, categorically.
“But that opens up a whole other possibility: that Emma saw her mother dead, and what she’s doing could be a reaction to that. It could well be the case that she’s gone crazy and started killing people with no motive, or that she’s taking revenge on the people she blames for her mother’s suicide. Anyway, I think it would be more than advisable to get hold of the Guardia Civil’s statement regarding the accident. The dates I’ve given are approximate, and I don’t think I’ll be able to make them any more specific. Given the circumstances, I imagine you’ll find it easier to get it from them.
“Yes, I also think that would be a good starting point. I’ll try to get in contact with them to see if it’s possible to locate the statement.”
“Alright. If you need anything else, just let me know,” concluded Inspector Lago.
“Thank you very much for your help, inspector. I will keep you informed.”
Now they had a lead. Vague, because the most likely thing was that the photograph, which was years old and surely taken before any of her operations, was not valid for publication in the press as a warning, nor for requesting collaboration from local citizens. They did not know her reasons yet either, or her criteria by which she chose her victims. However, at least the mysterious killer now had a visible face for the police, and a name along with it: Emma.
She would now be able to record her name in each of the respective reports for the three murders.
MAUNDY THURSDAY
16
The bedroom light had been on and the blinds closed for many hours, just as the front door to the flat had remained locked and bolted. It had been like this for so long now that night had already fallen.
Inside the bedroom, ten empty and dented beer cans were resting on the floor next to the head of the bed, whilst one that was half-full was balanced precariously on the bed itself, threatening to topple over at the slightest hint of movement. On top of the bedside table, there was another can of beer waiting to be opened. It was the first in a line of objects there, brushing up against the butt of his pistol, behind both of which lay his badge. This arrangement was not accidental. At certain times, one’s life depends on such attention to detail.
Miguel was sitting on the bed, still dressed. He had not moved from there since he had returned from the police station that afternoon, and also finalised the details of his imminent holiday at the travel agency. Now all he had to do was wait, and allow the hours to pass and the night to consume him, and then for the sun to bring the new day.
Once more, Miguel crossed his hands over his lap and listened for a moment. All was silent in the apartment, deserted. He was in total solitude. Just the same as every other night for the last year: a detail that, under normal circumstances, tortured him relentlessly. However, in spite of that, he now had a special, newfound appreciation for it, as if his life depended on it.
He closed his eyes slightly and leaned back against the headboard. He thought about how at that time the following day, he would be in an aeroplane, flying over the Atlantic, on his way to Cuba. There awaiting him was a luxurious hotel room, and a thousand sensations to discover on its beaches and intriguing leisure venues, designed for tourists eager for amusement at any cost. Then he would no longer be wishing for that silence, or have to wait holed up like a prisoner in his own flat. He thought that tomorrow, perhaps, he would not be alone. Imagining his immediate future made him feel good. The Caribbean holiday represented a total oasis of tranquillity within the tense desert of the last few days.
Almost without even realising it, the unmistakable aroma of the sea flooded into his bedroom. An aroma of seaweed and sand, pleasant and invigorating. He breathed deeply, several times, filling his lungs with air and then exhaling slowly, enjoying the sensation. Miguel saw how the water surrounded him, as he found himself in a blue, crystalline sea. The water hardly came up over his knees. He felt relaxed. The feeling of sand beneath his feet gave them a pleasant massage with every step, and the gentle waves spread the water evenly around his thighs. He noticed the wet hair, flattened down on legs that were now extremely tanned, as opposed to their usual white for the majority of the year. It was not hot, although he realised the water did not actually feel any colder than the air. It was as if the air and the sea were the same temperature. And when he tried to see the shore, more out of curiosity than a desire to approach it, he found that it was out of sight. Yet however, for some reason, he knew that it was there, close by, within his reach, and as such he was not bothered by the situation.
Standing in that ideal and almost infinite sea, Miguel found himself surrounded by people who were also enjoying the water. The children were laughing and playing, and the adults were walking from one place to another just for the fun of it, without a care in the world. Miguel watched, unable to understand their attitude because, to the right of him, was a hole in the sea into which the water was falling. The hole was of considerable dimensions, and could engulf more than one person in the event that they approached the edge. He wanted to warn them of the danger, but he realised that although everybody was moving from one side to the other, nobody was falling into it. They all avoided it without even having to alter their path. Both adults and children acted as if it didn’t exist; the adults walked in straight lines, which never crossed paths with the hole, and the children played with balls to the side of it without any of them falling inside.
Miguel then noticed that, on the other side of the hole, to his left, his mother was also in the water. However, unlike all the other people, she remained motionless, completely still, as if she were anchored to the seabed. It wasn’t that she couldn’t move, but rather it seemed as though her own movement had never been within her control. She was talking to him, and making gestures. She seemed to want to point out something important to him, but he was not managing to understand her. He began to walk towards where she was. Deep down, he was only really trying to see her face up close, to contemplate it once more, to remember her.
He had only taken a few steps forward in the water when it dawned on him that with each step he took he was, for some incomprehensible reason, getting further away from her, and closer to the hole. Miguel was nonplussed, because although he was walking to the left, he continued to advance to the right. He stopped for a moment and checked his surroundings. The hole was still in the same place. He was the one who was moving, but no matter how much he tried to reach where his mother was, all he did was get further away from her. Miguel then decided not to move, but he was no longer able to stay still, and every movement he made, no matter how small, brought him irredeemably closer towards danger. He also realised that his mother’s gestures were becoming increasingly expressive and telling, and by now were almost desperate. She seemed to be trying to tell him to move away from where he was, but he was incapable of making her see that he didn’t know how to. All around him, the children continued throwing the ball to each other, and their parents continued their walks as if he didn’t even exist: oblivious to his situation. He wanted to shout out, but couldn’t, and when he tried to look at his mother once more, he felt himself falling completely into the hole, into infinity.
Mid fall, Miguel suddenly opened his eyes, startled. With his vision restored, he could see that his beer had spilled on top of his bed, reaching down to his k
nees. He also remembered that his mother had been dead for ten years, and that there had never been an ocean by Ourense.
He placed the now empty can on the floor, next to all the others, and reached out to grab the one that was still waiting on the bedside table. He opened it, took a long swig, and started to listen again, expectantly.
All was still silent and solitary within the flat. His subconscious dream was over.
17
After a long, sleepless night, and when he had finished the last beer in the pack, Miguel got up off the bed and stretched. It was a little after nine in the morning, and he did not have to be at Lavacolla airport until three o’clock that afternoon. That was when he would be flying to La Habana but, for the moment, he was in no hurry.
He looked down at the floor by the bed, which was now decorated with twenty-four cans of Heineken. The contents of two twelve-packs: one from the previous afternoon and night, and the other from early that morning. He took his gun from on top of the bedside table, turned the safety off, and left the bedroom, kicking one of the cans. At the other end of the flat, the front door was still bolted and the key was still where he always left it. Nothing had been moved.
He advanced slowly through the hallway, and successively checked the bathroom, the spare room, and the living room. He carried out the same routine in each room: first, he would open the door, then he would reach out his arm whilst still standing outside to turn on the light, and then finally he would enter into the room. Everything was in order in each of the rooms, which were empty, and with the blinds down.
He repeated the same actions in the kitchen, which was situated in front of the living room, and to the side of the front door. Once inside, he carefully left his handgun on the counter, and set to making some breakfast. He placed two slices of bread in the toaster and took the butter and marmalade out of the fridge. Then, put on a pot of coffee and squeezed the juice from three oranges. Once the juice was prepared, he picked up the glass and sat down at one of the stools at the small kitchen table as he waited for his toast to brown and the coffee to be ready.
He had hardly tasted the juice when he heard his phone ringing on his bedside table. He hurriedly left the glass on the table and made his way quickly to the bedroom to get it. He didn’t recognise the number. He hesitated for a second, although in the end he decided to answer it.
“Hello.”
“Mr Miguel Sarmiento? I’m calling from the agency. I’m sorry to bother you at this hour, but I need to inform you that there have been some flight cancellations, and I’m afraid that they will directly affect your travel plans.”
“How?” he asked, without disguising his unease.
“I hope I haven’t woken you, but I’m sure you will understand that I wanted to let you know as soon as possible,” answered the woman, certain that he had understood the first explanation. “You have booked a holiday to Cuba with us, leaving today, is that right?”
“Yes, for three days. But I haven’t heard that there would be any strikes arranged for this weekend.”
“The problem isn’t from Spain. There’s been a computer failure at La Habana airport, and they don’t think they can have it sorted out until Saturday. We’re sorry we’re only telling you today, but they only just told us an hour ago.”
Miguel sat down on the bed and was silent for a moment, trying to absorb this news. Finally, he answered:
“So, can’t they make stopovers in other countries, or divert the flights to other airports?”
“They can divert to the United States, but I’m sure you’ll realise that, given the current rush with all the other diverted flight plans, we don’t offer it because it’s just one big fuss.”
“Shit!” he exclaimed under his breath.
The woman continued to explain, trying to excuse herself for an incident for which she did not seem to be responsible:
“I’m really sorry for the inconvenience,” she said. “On our part, the only thing we can do is offer you a full refund. Or instead, we could change the trip to another date of your choice, at no extra cost.”
“No,” Miguel cut her short, without concealing his nervousness. “I need, I mean I wish to go away this Easter weekend,” he then said, his voice faltering. “Do you understand that?”
“Yes... you need... this Easter weekend,” repeated the woman, trying to absorb what he had just said.
“As soon as possible,” Miguel corrected her in a calmer tone, although no less firm.
The woman took a moment.
“In that case,” she now said, “I suppose that we could look for another solution.”
“Yes, look for another solution for me. I don’t care where, it doesn’t have to be Cuba, it can be another country, but I would like to leave today.”
“Any other country will do?” she asked, taken aback.
“Yes. Far away, if possible.”
“Well, I would have to do a bit of research.” The woman was trying to follow him. “But I’m sure that we’ll be able to sort it all out.”
“Have a look. And I’ll say again, I’d like to leave today, like I previously booked.”
“Alright, alright. But I need a little time, I’m sure you understand.”
“How much time?”
“Well, bearing in mind that there are always customers who cancel their trips at the last minute, I think that I could include you on one of them without too much trouble,” reasoned the women quietly from the other end of the phone, “and I also have to check that it isn’t somewhere where you need prior vaccinations. Anyway,” she said, more loudly, “I give you the word of both myself and the company that you will be leaving on your journey today.”
“Will you be calling me back?”
“No, no. I need to give you the new tickets. I’ll also need for you to sign a new contract, for sure.”
“Do I need to go to your office?” A clear tone of discomfort crept back into his voice.
“No, it’s a holiday today, and we’re all closed to the public. This is just an additional office for urgent matters, and if you want to change the destination but not the dates,” said the woman firmly. “If you like, again as an additional measure, I could call in at your residence myself,” she took a moment to think. “In an hour, at the most, I believe that we will have it all sorted out. Can I visit you at the address you have given us?”
“Yes, it’s Vasco Díaz Tanco. So you’re coming here?”
“That’s the one I have too,” she confirmed. “Yes, I can be there in an hour, more or less. That’s if it is alright with you, of course.”
“Wait, hold on a minute. What do you look like?”
“What do I look like?” exclaimed the woman, not understanding her customer’s question. “Does my appearance have any importance regarding you allowing me in your home?”
“No, no, I’m sorry,” Miguel apologised. “It’s just a question. But tell me what you look like, so that I can recognise you when you get here.” he finished by adding.
“Well... I’m blonde, average height, long hair, and I don’t have any special characteristics. But I don’t understand why this description is necessary.”
“You’re blonde?” he inquired again, trying to reassure himself that he had not misheard.
“Yes, blonde. Do you have something against blondes? I’m sure you will have been attended by a dark-haired girl the day you came in, but I’m the boss and, given the seriousness of the situation, I’m dealing with you personally regarding...”
“Don’t worry,” he interrupted, “I don’t have anything against blondes; that’s not why I ask.”
The woman maintained a silence on the other end of the line. Miguel continued after a moment of pause:
“One last thing: if you wouldn’t mind doing something for me, when you arrive, press the intercom three times. If not, I don’t think I’ll open it, because I don’t usually receive anybody at my residence.”
“Alright. I’ll do that. It was evident no
w that the woman no longer felt like discussing this new eccentricity from her client.
Miguel hung up the phone with a certain level of nervousness coursing through his body. Although if, in any case, that kind blonde woman did her job well, his plans should not be completely changed by that setback.
Still sitting on the bed, he thought about giving the flat a bit of a tidy up, such as picking up the cans that were strewn across the floor, amongst other things. Although he also thought that, at the end of the day, she was a saleswoman and he would be receiving her in the living room. And the living room was perfectly presentable. At least, to his eyes it was.
He went back into the kitchen, where his breakfast awaited him. When he got there, however, the juice was warm, the toast was cold, and the coffee was burnt. And when it came to eating, Miguel was quite the foodie. He chucked it all away and set to preparing his breakfast all over again. He waited once more for his toast and coffee whilst he sat at the table, with his juice in hand, just like the first attempt.
This time he managed to take two swigs of orange juice before his phone started ringing again. He wondered if he should answer. In the end, it was the possibility of it being a call informing him of his new trip that swung it for him. Wrong deduction.
“Miguel? This is Inspector Santiago.”
“Hello.”
“Are you well?”
“Absolutely fine. You’re calling me on my day off at nine in the morning to ask me how I am?”
“No, I’m sorry,” Eva apologised, wanting to be friendly. “I’m calling you most of all because I think that I was out of line doubting you yesterday.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“I just thought that I should apologise before you leave, because it’s today you’re leaving, isn’t it?
“Yes.” He didn’t want to give any further details.
“Soon?” Eva did want more details.
“At midday,” or before, if all went well, thought Miguel to himself.
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