No Resurrection

by Martínez Guzmán, Roberto; Christina Hopkinson, Rachel;

  “Is he handing Toni over to you, then?”

  “Of course. To me, he’s always been my son.”

  Eva felt that, aside from the other less desirable details, that was the first bit of good news all day. It was fantastic for both Javier and Toni. She wished there could have been more.

  25

  You’ll definitely like me. And if not, you can take your hatred and anger out on my body, she had said over the phone in that steadily timid voice. It was the ideal way of luring this one in and convincing him: much easier than it had been to get her hands on the police badge. Those faceless words were nothing but the promise of what he had always been searching for, but had never found.

  Tonight would be a special night.

  At 21:55, two policemen, a corporal and a constable, were passing in front of the last houses on Alejandro Pedrosa Street. Four hours of watch duty awaited them, as they were coming to take over the shift of another corporal and constable. Almost at the end, they turned to the left to go up a steep slope. At the end of it, a blind left turn led in to the Covadonga neighbourhood, on top of the highest hill in the city. It was perhaps the most feared place in Ourense, but also the least known. It was comprised of official protection houses, all the same; old, situated along the length of dark streets and squares frequented by purveyors of illegal substances who saw their businesses coexisting in perfect harmony with people of very low purchasing power. It was a hard, dense environment that was difficult to get used to.

  This is where Isaac had been born and had grown up, under the care of his grandmother. And it was to her modest flat that he always returned whenever he was in Ourense. Perhaps because in that dark corner of the city, everybody admired, respected, and even envied him. In Covadonga, Isaac felt important, and powerful, clothed in tailored suits costing thousands of euros, and his powerful Audi A5, whiter than snow, parked just around the corner. Always in front of the main square, so that everybody knew he was in the neighbourhood.

  The two recently arrived policemen pulled up alongside the car of the officers whose shift they had come to relieve. There was no light in the street. The corporal, lowering the window, greeted the other corporal, who was waiting behind the wheel of his vehicle.

  “Any developments?” asked the first one.

  “Nothing. He hasn’t moved all afternoon,” replied the one as he was leaving, the tiredness showing on his face. “Three hours ago he turned on the light. What haven’t turned on at any point are the street lights,” he added, then annoyed. “It’d be worth letting the council know.”

  To his side, and without giving too much importance to the last comment his companion had just made, the constable added, tilting his head and pointing towards Isaac’s flat:

  “Every now and then, he pokes his head out of the window, laughs for a bit, then turns back round and disappears off.”

  “Shouldn’t he have the blind down?” observed the corporal who’d just arrived.

  “Yeah, but I’d like to see someone try and tell him to close it,” replied the other corporal, as he started the ignition. “Besides, there isn’t anywhere around where someone could get a clear shot at him in the window,” he explained. “Anyway, that’s that then. Have a good shift.”

  “We’ll try.”

  As soon as the patrol car had left, the two new policemen took their place. Without getting out of the car, they checked Isaac’s window, in silence, trying to capture any strange movement. Everything seemed to be in order. They then cast an all-round glance over their surroundings, also from the car. The street was calm, dark, solitary.

  When they turned their attention back to the window, Isaac was watching them from inside. When their eyes met, he waved to them. The two policemen returned the gesture. He then moved away from the window, disappearing from sight.

  The corporal looked at his watch: 10:03.

  “Get comfortable,” he said unenthusiastically, sitting back in his seat, “this is going to be a long night.”

  The constable immediately did the same. Their guard shift had just begun.

  Inside his flat, Isaac looked at the enormous clock presiding over his kitchen: 11:45. From the window, naked, he took a moment to make sure that the patrol car was still in its place. Then, he placed a coffee pot onto the hob and went casually to his bedroom to get dressed. As soon as he had done this, he returned to the kitchen, took out a tray from behind a piece of furniture, and placed on it two cups, some cream pastries, a dozen individually wrapped cupcakes, along with some sugar and two spoons. When the coffee pot started to whistle, he looked at the clock again: 11.57. He filled one of the cups almost halfway and, tray in hand, made his way to the door.

  No sooner had he opened the door and set foot in the street, the two policemen’s eyes latched onto him. Isaac did not say anything. He walked slowly towards the patrol car, holding the tray up, dressed in a designer tracksuit. If it weren’t for the light coming from the doorway, it would have been difficult to recognise him.

  The two policemen lowered the window to receive that macabre silhouette gliding under the cover of darkness.

  “How’s it going, boys?” Isaac greeted.

  “You shouldn’t be out in the open where you could be seen,” noted the corporal.

  “Why? Don’t you realise it’s already one minute past twelve? Boys, it’s Sunday and... I’m still alive,” he added after looking down at his body.

  “What’s the tray for?” asked the constable in the other seat.

  “To celebrate!” Isaac replied instantly, simulating a less than convincing euphoria. “As I can guess your beautiful boss is still concerned for my physical wellbeing, and you’re going to be stuck here for several hours, I thought that the least I could do was bring you a couple of cups of hot coffee. They’re always nice on cold nights. You see,” he added, “I’m not as bad a guy as you’ve most likely been told.”

  “I wouldn’t be counting your chickens just yet ...”

  “I know, she told me herself this morning. One death per day. Seven victims, seven days. The most certain thing is that she’s gone off for the seventh. They’ll be the easiest target. You’ll have scared her, and she’ll have moved me to Sunday. But of course, tomorrow I won’t be in Ourense anymore. Perhaps that little detail’s escaped her. Have you checked to see if she’s killed someone else in my place?”

  “I’d bet that you’re still her main target,” the corporal replied, disregarding Isaac’s theory.

  “And I’d bet that you’re considering me the main target because in reality you don’t know the other.”

  “There’s another...?”

  “It’s obvious: seven days, seven victims,” he repeated.

  Then he went quiet, and the two policemen did the same. Perhaps the conversation was beginning to gain a certain level of importance. After the uncomfortable silence, the corporal wanted to get a few things straight:

  “Why did you come down?” he asked, with a contagious seriousness.

  “You’ll see,” said Isaac, just as serious, “as I’m tired of being in the flat all afternoon, I thought it would be a nice idea for you to celebrate Sunday’s arrival with a couple of coffees, and I with an intimate lady friend who’ll help me let off some steam. I know it’s not exactly fair but, at the end of the day, I’m the one who’s life’s been hanging in the balance all day and not yours.”

  “A lady friend?” the corporal cut in.

  “Yes, a lady friend: the kind that offer affection in exchange for a little financial compensation. And I have a wallet upstairs full to bursting, ready to satisfy her needs, and she’ll satisfy me in equal measure, although in a different way...”

  “Sorry to put a spanner in the works, but I don’t think that’s a good idea,” the corporal protested. “We’ve been ordered to identify any person who enters the building, especially if it’s a woman.”

  “Damn! I don’t know how, but I just knew a coffee wouldn’t be enough to convince you.”


  “There’ll be time aplenty to enjoy your lady friends another day,” the corporal blurted.

  “Keep your wallet in a safe place, and I’m sure your friend will wait as long as it takes,” added the constable, letting out a slight smile.

  “No, no. In my life, when I want something, I really want it, and I want it now. That’s why I learned a long time ago how to get it, and exactly why I thought that, once this moment came, there’d be nothing left for me to do than raise my offer considerably. So much so, that you won’t be able to refuse.”

  “What do you think’s going to convince us?” insisted the constable.

  “Well, the most powerful of all reasons: I’ll give you exactly what you want but don’t have.”

  The two policemen looked at each other.

  “Here’s the deal,” said Isaac, becoming serious. “I’ll give you the name of the seventh occupant of certain cars and, in exchange, all you have to do is let my friend through. If anything, I think you could even consider her a helper because... that way I’ll have an extra bodyguard. And, in case the vigilante wants to kill me, to do so she’d also have to kill her too.”

  “Stop playing games. If you know the name, then you should tell the inspector ASAP.”

  “Don’t be naïve. If I do that, your boss will crucify me right here and now. No, I’ll give you the information, and you’ll pass it on to her. Otherwise, no name, no way of finding him, or even speaking to him. I’ll deny everything.”

  The two policemen looked at each other again. Then they made a gesture, doubtful. The corporal was the one who spoke:

  “Is the prostitute trustworthy?” he asked, prepared to take initiative with the situation.

  Immediately, a loaded smile spread across Isaac’s face once more.

  “Of course, absolutely,” he said, convinced. “I don’t buy just any old one off the street.”

  “What’s the name?”

  “Rodrigo. Have you heard about him yet?” said Isaac.

  “Rodrigo. What else?”

  Isaac’s cynical smile now gave way to a guffaw. The policemen waited.

  “I can see you haven’t,” he said once he’d finished. “His name’s Rodrigo. He was with me and Sandra in the car.”

  After this, he became serious, and continued:

  “But if you also want to know how to find him,” he said, “I have a few conditions. Don’t bother the whore. She’ll get here, give me three rings from her mobile, ring the intercom, then another three rings, and then I open the door. If she doesn’t do this, stop her; otherwise, let her by. And two more conditions: there’ll be no telling your boss about her visit, and no more questions for the rest of the night.”

  “Done.”

  “He’s a priest,” he came out with, suddenly.

  The policemen looked at each other again. He insisted:

  “Yeah, yeah, the little priest was there that day,” he said, resuming his guffaw. “I thought he’d managed to get out of it. Rodrigo was a timid little baby. He was a friend and confidante to Sandra, and he was the one who brought us together. Or, rather more accurately, she was the one who brought us together. His grandparents were from here, but he studied at the seminary in Vigo. He’d come back for a few days for a holiday, or because one of her grandparents was ill, I don’t remember all that well. What I do remember though is that he was a real wet blanket. As soon as we passed a hundred in the car, he pissed his trousers. It was funny at first, but after a while it got unbearable. He’d only gone out with us for a couple of days.”

  “How can we find him?”

  Isaac shrugged his shoulders.

  “I don’t know what’s happened to him. He’ll be delivering sermons in some church in the area. One thing’s for sure; religion ran in his blood. But I didn’t see him again after that day, fortunately,” he added.

  “Don’t you have a phone number, or somewhere where we might be able to find him?”

  “I already told you, I imagine he’s in some church somewhere. I don’t think it’ll be difficult. Besides, what I don’t understand is how this vigilante woman hasn’t killed him yet because he is, without doubt, the easiest target. Or maybe she’s already done it, and he’s lying dead on some street corner.”

  He let out another, noticeably joyful guffaw.

  “But don’t cry for him. Even if she does kill him, I assure you the human race won’t be losing anything necessary for its survival.”

  Isaac passed the tray inside the car to them, faced with the policemen’s silence that they made no move to break. Then he added:

  “You can drink them at your leisure,” he said, pointing at the coffee. “Just think, that if something had happened to him, there’d be no need to have come to an agreement with you.”

  The two policemen remained there, not knowing what to do, taken aback by the observation. Isaac, very seriously, pointed through the open window to the corporal, who did not retort:

  “She’ll be here at twelve thirty. Remember your end of the deal. If you get any bright ideas and try to pull a fast one, I’ll just make a call and see to it that the little priesty-boy will be out of your reach, and then he’ll just be a sitting duck for the vigilante.”

  He then strode back towards his flat. Then, in the middle of the street and hidden by darkness, he turned around:

  “And about the coffee,” he said, laughing once more, “don’t be naïve; I’m about to go and get myself accused of drugging two police officers.”

  When Isaac went inside and closed the door, the two policemen emptied the coffee out into the street, and set aside the tray, along with the pastries and sugar. They kept the little cupcakes. They each unwrapped one, and contacted Eva on the radio.

  “Any news?” she asked, over the device.

  “Regarding the idiot, no. The little bully’s still alive and kicking, and there’s nothing new.”

  “Better that way,” she exclaimed.

  “But we’ve managed to get him to tell us the name of the seventh victim.”

  “What?”

  “Yep, you heard me right. It wasn’t difficult, using a little manly understanding,” the corporal said, rather boastfully. “It seems to be one such Rodrigo. Back then, he was in the seminary. Today, he should already be a priest. According to Isaac, he’s a timid man, and he even told us that it’s not out of the realms of possibility that he could even have been the one killed today, in his place. But he doesn’t know any more.”

  “He doesn’t know any more?” she repeated.

  “No, I don’t think so. But don’t call him, because he’s made it quite clear that if you get in on the action, he’ll deny everything like he has done up till now. And being as he is, I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s left something to check that we’ve upheld our end of the deal.”

  “What an absolute idiot,” Eva exclaimed on the other end of the line. “Let’s see, we have to proceed on the assumption that the priest is alive,” she reasoned. “If she had killed him, Emma would have made it clear to us. She’ll have failed with Isaac today, but no, I believe Rodrigo is still Sunday’s. We need to find him at any cost.”

  “Do you need us to do anything?”

  “No. I’ll take care of finding him. You two stay there and keep your eyes open. Right now, we need to consider all options. We can’t discount anything; such as her killing them both, or deciding not to carry on in a daily order when seeing that we’re expecting her. In any case, what seems clear is that whilst you’re there, I don’t think she’ll dare go for Isaac.”

  “Understood,” said the corporal, as a goodbye.

  Eva hung up and looked at Antón, who had been following the conversation from his desk.

  “What day is today?” she asked.

  “The dawn of Resurrection Sunday.”

  “Good. Rodrigo, a priest,” she then said to herself, as she got up to grab the dossier with the victims’ information.

  Once she had the papers in her hands, she looked at them for
a moment. Then she took two of them and placed them on top of Antón’s desk.

  “You take care of calling Miguel and Marc’s families,” she said. “I’ll deal with Sebas’, Javi’s and Sandra’s. We’re looking for someone who might remember this Rodrigo character and can perhaps tell us how to find him. In the eventuality that nothing comes up, then that’ll be the time to start exploring other areas.”

  Antón obeyed. There was a long night of work ahead.

  26

  A large white taxi pulled up in front of Isaac’s front door, alongside the two policemen. Firstly, they’d seen the lights illuminate the street, and it slowly advanced towards them before stopping in front of them. Now, the vehicle was simply a pale and motionless silhouette in the darkness.

  “Why the hell is there no light on this street?” asked the constable.

  “We’re in Covadonga, you just don’t ask.”

  A woman got out, gripping less than elegantly on to her handbag. She cut a slight figure, her clothes were tight, and her hair was silvery, almost fluorescent. The light from Isaac’s bedroom reflected in it. She did not seem nervous.

  “Why is it that all prostitutes seem to have some sort of sign above them saying they’re a prostitute?” the constable asked from inside the car.

  His nervousness was evident. In the adjacent seat, the corporal was occupied with monitoring the movement outside. And, without looking at him, he responded to his colleague:

  “Because if they didn’t, nobody would know who was and who wasn’t.”

  The screen of the mobile the woman was holding lit up. Then she approached the intercom, which also lit up. Finally, she used the phone again.

  When the door unlocked, the woman, holding open the door, made a signal to the taxi driver and he went on his way. For a moment, the street was lit up once more by the vehicle’s lights. In contrast, the porch did not. All that could be seen was the mobile screen light up the walls, or rather, wall. Every now and then, the screen would go off, and she would turn it back on again.