“Well then, again, I offer you my apologies, and I wish you a safe trip.”
“Thank you, inspector.”
Miguel went into the kitchen once more. This time, the coffee was not yet ready and the toast was still browning. He took a third swig of juice, thoughtful, trusting the manager from the agency to do a good and speedy job.
She would be arriving in an hour, and would inform him of his new destination. Then he would be able to pack his suitcase, as he would know what sort of clothes he would have to take.
18
Barely an hour after Miguel had taken the last sip of coffee, somebody buzzed the intercom to the old converted house in the A Cuña neighbourhood. Three times, as agreed.
“Mr Miguel Sarmiento?” asked a female voice via the intercom. “I’m here from the agency, we spoke on the phone.”
Miguel pushed the button that opened the door. Once he had heard that the door had opened, he answered:
“Make sure that the door is closed.”
“Yes, okay,” he heard after a while.
The woman had had to enter, double back on herself when she heard the man’s voice, answer, and go back in again. If she was still in any doubt, it must have been quite clear by that point that her client was trying to turn his home into a fort. Anyhow, the door closed automatically, meaning that it would actually close barely two seconds after somebody entered.
She climbed the stairs up to the first floor. From within the flat, the footsteps were heard with total clarity, and he could have counted them if he wanted to: eleven steps, then three, and finally another block of seven. Two more steps in the corridor and, automatically, the knock on the door.
Miguel observed his visitor through the spy-hole for a good while. The woman was indeed blonde, completely blonde, and she was also wearing make-up. A lot of make-up. He could appreciate her even through the small hole through which he was observing her. A living advertisement, he thought.
He unbolted the door in one movement, and then turned the key a couple of times:
“Good morning, I was afraid you had left without waiting for me,” said the woman as soon as he opened the door, attempting to make a joke.
Miguel didn’t laugh, or perhaps he didn’t find it particularly funny. It rather seemed that he took the statement quite literally.
“No, I’m still here, but I need to leave today and you’re my big hope,” he answered as he stepped aside for the woman, and walked her into the living room.
“Don’t worry. Like I said on the phone, there’s always some client who cancels their trip at the last minute,” she said, with a smile on her lips.
Miguel felt relieved to hear these words, and his face immediately brightened up. In the living room, the woman sat down on the sofa at one end of the table and he at the other, facing her, without taking his eyes of the enormous file that she had rested on top of it. However, she had no intention of opening it yet.
“I’m Elena Monteagudo,” she introduced herself, offering her hand over the top of the table. “As I told you on the phone, I am the boss of the company, and I assure you that visiting a client at their home is a complete exception.”
“I’m sorry, but you need to understand that it’s very important that I leave today.”
“Don’t worry, in less than half an hour, you will have already chosen a new holiday.”
Miguel nodded. Elena grabbed her file, making to open it, but at the last minute, she seemed to change her mind. The young main remained expectant.
“But before we do anything,” she said brusquely, passing her hand over her forehead, “would you be able to bring me a glass of water? I’ve walked quite a way.”
“Yes, of course,” said Miguel, standing up. “Would you prefer some coffee? I have the pot already prepared.”
“That would be fantastic,” answered Elena, smiling slightly.
Miguel walked into the kitchen. It could be heard immediately as he put on the coffee pot and prepared two cups, teaspoons, and opened up a cupboard to get the sugar. The woman spoke to him from the living room:
“Any preferences over which country? I would imagine that you’d want to go somewhere with a beach, like you had with Cuba.”
“No, I’m not bothered,” he answered from the kitchen.
“Then I would suggest a country in Europe.”
Miguel did not reply this time. When a few seconds had gone by, the woman poked her head into the kitchen:
“Or better, the United States. Have you ever visited New York?”
“No,” replied Miguel.
As soon as he turned around, alerted by the closeness of the voice, he saw the woman in the doorway, petrified, looking at the handgun that was still on top of the counter. The man realised instantly.
“Don’t be alarmed, I’m a policeman,” he answered quickly, at the same time that he placed a napkin on top of the gun. “It’s my regulatory weapon, please excuse the carelessness.”
That simple explanation seemed to be enough for Elena to recover her ability to speak:
“Tell me, do you live alone?” she asked, casting a glance over the breakfast things, which were still on the table.
“Yes, why?”
Miguel also looked at the untidiness of the kitchen and understood the question. It’s a good job she hasn’t seen the bedroom full of empty cans, he thought.
“I was not expecting company,” he said, trying to excuse himself.
“Don’t worry, I know what bachelor flats are like,” she replied, unable to avoid the trace of a smile on her lips.
When the coffees were ready, the two of them returned to the living room, sitting in the same positions as before. Elena now really did open up her file, and took out a few catalogues with different photographs of New York, which she kept in her hand as she spoke:
“If you’ve never visited the skyscraper city, it’s a destination that I personally recommend for the coming days.”
It seemed good to Miguel. Indeed, he never had visited that city, and, what seemed the most important thing for him at that moment, New York was a very long way from Ourense. Furthermore, if she was recommending that trip, he deduced that it was because he would be able to leave immediately. Elena placed the two photos on top of the table, beginning to list iconic places included in the trip: the Empire State, the Statue of Liberty, Central Park, St Patrick’s Cathedral, etc.
“These are the most typical places in the city, which all the agencies usually offer,” she added. “But there are other less known ones that, however, have much more charm. New York is a city with a big personality, and that is something that the majority of agencies forget when they offer a trip. On the contrary,” she concluded, “we include all of them in our offers.”
The woman looked him in the eye as she spoke, as if she already had it decided that this was the offer that would convince her client, and he would end up accepting it.
Miguel took the catalogues in his hands, and she leaned forward to point things out in them.
“This one points out your typical places to visit. And this one,” she said, pointing to the other catalogue, “points out the ones that nobody includes. I think that, for somebody like yourself, they are places you will enjoy visiting.”
The young man put the first one back on the table and chose to look more carefully through the brochure with the less common places. Elena watched attentively as Miguel was focussing on the photographs.
“Would you mind if I grabbed a glass of water from the kitchen,” she asked suddenly, standing up. “To drink with the coffee. It’s an old habit, I always drink water after having a coffee.”
“No, not at all. But I don’t have any bottled, it’ll have to be from the tap.”
When Miguel moved to accompany her, Elena approached him and put her hand on his shoulder, a clear sign that he did not have to:
“No, don’t get up,” she told him decidedly, “I’ll get it myself.”
Miguel focussed his atte
ntion once more on the photographs.
“New York is not a city that should be abandoned for a simple glass of water,” she said jokingly from the living room door.
The young man smiled. This time he did understand that she was joking.
Now in the kitchen, Elena took one of the glasses from the draining board, turned on the tap, filled the glass, emptied it down the sink, and filled it once more. Then she drank a decent amount, almost half, and emptied the rest down the sink again. She left the glass on the counter.
“Have a look at the Winter Garden Theatre, it’s in the second brochure. It’s my favourite,” she called out to him from the kitchen, whilst she uncovered the handgun. “It’s a total tradition. To not go to one of its productions would be to squander the whole trip.”
“I’m already getting ideas...” she heard him reply.
The woman took the weapon in her hand, being careful not to make any noise against the marble worktop. She brought her index finger into the space in front of the trigger, and approached him up to the living room door, tightly gripping the butt of the gun. Miguel continued looking over the details about the theatre.
“And when does the flight leave for New York?” he asked, upon feeling the woman’s return.
“This very day, if you like,” she answered as she raised the handgun, with her arm extended straight, so as to minimise the recoil.
“That’s perfect, then,” he reasoned, still sitting with his back to the door and unable to suspect that the nape of his neck was in the sights.
The young man left the brochure on the table, then made a gesture of agreement, and finally wanted to turn around to face the woman. He never got around to completing the movement. Elena pulled the trigger and the detonation was immediate. The shot rang out like a firecracker within those enclosed, tightly locked up walls. Then, silence and uncertainty. The woman remained in the doorway for a moment, immobile, expecting any movement, any voice coming from the street, or the building itself. She did not hear anything.
Miguel, propelled forward by the bullet, slumped over the table at which, only a few seconds before, he had been looking hopefully at his possible destination. A trickle of blood coming from his head spread over a colourful photograph of Central Park before overflowing onto the floor. He was still twitching, irregularly, in his dying throes, as if expelling with each movement the small amount of life still remaining.
Elena grabbed her bag and made her way once more to the kitchen, leaving the gun on the table. To the side of it, she placed a small perfume bottle, filled with poison for the occasion.
“Easier this way,” she murmured to herself.
She then took the glass of water and finished it off. She then washed it and left it on the draining board, next to the others. She gave a last glance around and walked to the bedroom. There, she examined the room from the door, instantly seeing Miguel’s badge on the bedside table. She entered, negotiating the cans on the floor, grabbed the badge and put it in her bag. Then she glanced over the bedroom again; at the bed, the bedside table, and the cans.
“Pig!” she exclaimed out loud, with the utmost contempt.
Afterwards she retraced her steps and poked her head in through the living room door again: Miguel’s spasms had finished. She did not pick up the file or the brochures.
She turned around and listened behind the front door for a few seconds. It was definite that nobody had reacted outside. The entire building remained in silence.
It was time to leave.
19
The headlines for the 5th April 2012:
‘Three young men found dead in strange circumstances. Javier Fernández Martínez, Sebastián Covelo García and Marcos Dorribo Vázquez have appeared dead over the course of Holy Week after receiving, in each case, the mysterious visit from a young, dark-haired woman of average height.’ La Región.
‘A black Easter week in Ourense. A murder on Monday night, and what seemed at first to be two tragic accidents on Tuesday and Wednesday, bring to light the presence of a serial killer in the city.’ La Voz de Galicia, Ourense edition.
‘A supposed serial killer spreads terror throughout in the city. A golf ball discovered by each of the victims; her macabre symbol.’ El Faro de Ourense.
Antón had left the office in search of coffee almost half an hour ago, whilst Eva cast her eye once more over the day’s press. Two black coffees, extracted from the ancient machine situated in the station’s foyer. One euro twenty, in coins, and barely a minute in production. Inevitably, Antón must have been stopped along the way, she deduced. It wasn’t that she was bothered by her partner’s absence, but rather that she was now beginning to realise that the coffee would be arriving cold.
When he finally arrived, Eva took it with humour:
“Antón, was the machine broken?”
“What machine?” he asked, while he placed the plastic cup on top of the table.
“The coffee machine...”
“No. Why do you ask?”
Eva responded with an expression of absolute innocence. Antón understood, and went to his seat, explaining as he stirred his coffee:
“I was in the foyer watching how the new scanner works.”
“And is it working well...?” Undoubtedly a potent reason for dragging your feet, Eva thought sarcastically.
“Yes, I think so. A parcel’s just arrived for Miguel, and it’s incredible: you put it on the tray, pass it through the scanner from above, and the image immediately comes up, like an x-ray. If it had any metal inside, it’d come up on the screen.”
“Well, if it’s for Miguel you can all put it away in a safe place, because until Monday, he won’t be here to collect it.”
Eva looked down, bringing an end to the conversation, and picked up the newspapers. Only a second later, she looked back up again suddenly:
“A parcel for Miguel?”
“Yes. It was brought in by a courier.”
“What kind of parcel?”
Antón left his coffee on the table and stood up:
“A box,” he said, sensing that something was not quite right. “A small box,” he corrected himself. “Little...” he indicated the size with his hands as he spoke, and it really did seem to be a very small box.
Eva walked out and set off in the direction of the officers’ office, to Miguel’s desk, with Antón behind her. There it was: it was a small, light box. Eva shook it in the air, and ascertained that something was moving around inside. She removed the paper it was wrapped in and opened it. Inside was another box. She did the same thing again and discovered yet another box, smaller than the previous. She opened it quickly, and was finally able to confirm her worst fears: inside was a golf ball.
“Call Miguel,” she said immediately.
Antón did not realise that Eva was already offering him her phone. He ran to take her mobile, and then ran to the foyer. There he asked the officer for Miguel’s number, who immediately consulted an extensive list. He did not take long to find it. Antón punched in the nine digits and waited for the dial tone. Eva came past him, shouting:
“Let’s go. Now!”
Antón followed her with the phone to his ear. Two patrol cars also followed. The sirens sounded in unison. The convoy easily parted the way through the festive Ourense morning.
“There’s no answer,” said Antón, after dialling the number for the third time.
“Shit,” Eva let slip, with obvious nerves. “Keep trying.”
There was no need. Barely a few seconds later, the three cars parked in front of Number 70 on the street Vasco Díaz Tanco. Several neighbours came out, alerted by all the noise. One aging woman was cleaning the main doorway, with the door open. On seeing the cars, she moved aside, startled.
Eva was the first to climb the steps, with the rest of the police officers struggling to keep up with her. When she arrived at the door to the second flat, she banged on it several times. Then she rang the bell. Next, and without waiting for a re
sponse, she banged on the door again with the palm of her hand.
Everybody listened. Nobody answered.
“It smells of gunpowder,” noted Antón.
The six police officers breathed in, including the woman who had been cleaning the main doorway.
The heaviest policeman administered an accurate kick at the latch, and the door gave way, opening before them. They all drew out their handguns.
Eva entered the hall and looked to her right: the kitchen. Then she looked to her left. She went in to the living room, and was immediately stopped in her tracks, faced with the sight of Miguel’s body. He was in front of the sofa, sprawled over the small coffee table, in a large pool of blood. She quickly approached him and, bending down, she took his pulse. Nothing.
She stood back up, slowly.
“Shit, shit, shit,” she repeated as she walked out of the room.
In the hallway, she punched the wall. Then she leaned against it, firstly one shoulder, and then her head. Antón walked up to her. Eva did not move.
“Are you alright?” he asked.
“I knew it, I just knew it,” she murmured.
“No, you couldn’t have known.”
“He’s still warm...”
Antón did not answer. Eva remained silent for a moment. Then she turned around and looked straight at her partner, visibly vulnerable:
“Could you cover the scene? I need to be alone for a moment.”
“Yes, don’t worry about it.”
“Although I’m sure that she hasn’t left us with anything to go on,” she reasoned. “If you need me, I’ll be downstairs,” she then added.
“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it myself, really.”
Eva descended the stairs despondently, staring at the floor, thoughtful.
“Has something happened to Miguel?” asked the woman who was cleaning, as Eva drew level with her.
The inspector looked at her, and nodded. Then she asked:
“Have you seen a young woman enter or leave?”
“No.”
There were no further questions.
Eva moved away from the house, went around the corner and took a seat on the terrace of one of the small bars in the area. She was the only customer there at that time. All the others, alerted by the sirens, had gone out to see what was happening.
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