by Antonio Hill
She had only one lead to follow before confronting her friend and asking point-blank if he’d seen Omar the afternoon of his disappearance, as this Rosa was alleging. It was a shot in the dark, but it was worth a try. The damned pig’s head had been delivered by a nearby butcher’s which usually supplied similar delights to the sinister doctor. Maybe in this case he’d ordered it himself, as usual. Or maybe not . . . And when she pushed the door of the establishment, not far from the doctor’s clinic, she hoped with all her heart that on this occasion it had been Omar himself who had placed the repugnant order.
The shop was empty, and Martina wasn’t surprised. Saturday noon, too hot to go shopping, and the type of place her mother would judge second-rate without the slightest hesitation. On the other side of the counter a fat guy, equipped with an apron that would never again be white, looked at her with a smile on his lips, a gesture of welcome which faded as soon as she revealed that the reason for her visit wasn’t exactly to stock up her fridge with chops.
“They already came to see me about this,” replied the shopkeeper, ill-tempered. “What do you want me to say? If they ask me for a pig’s head, I sell them one. It’s none of my business what they do with it afterward.”
“Of course. But you’re not asked for them a lot, are you? I mean you wouldn’t usually have them in the shop, for sale . . .”
“Not the whole head, of course. Although you know, we make use of the whole pig,” the man pointed out proudly.
“Would the doctor order them in person? Or by phone?”
“At first he came in person. Then by phone.”
Just then a kid of around fifteen, a scaled-down version of the shopkeeper, came out of the warehouse. “My son took the orders to his house, didn’t you, Jordi? We’re a small shop, Señora, you have to look after the customers.”
And clean the windows, thought Martina.
“Who took the call this time? You or your son?”
“I did,” said the kid.
“Do you remember when he called?”
“Two or three days before, I don’t know.” The boy didn’t have the appearance of a genius and he didn’t seem very interested in the conversation. However, suddenly he seemed to remember something. “Although this time he didn’t call.”
“No?” The sergeant tried to disguise the nervousness in her voice. “Who was it?”
The boy shrugged his shoulders. His mouth was half open. Martina was tempted to shake that stupid expression off his face. However, she smiled at him and asked again.
“Was it his assistant?” She didn’t know if Omar had an assistant, but it was all she could think of.
“No idea.” Jordi made a slight effort to remember, which made his mouth hang open a few millimetres more.
“What did they say? It’s important, you know.”
“Just that.”
Martina bit her lip, but something in her gesture must have inspired the junior butcher to keep talking.
“It was a man. He said he was calling on behalf of Dr. Omar for us to bring a pig’s head to his house, last thing Tuesday evening.”
“And you did?”
“Of course. I took it myself.”
“Did you see Omar?”
The boy shook his head.
“No, the same guy told me the doctor was busy. That he had a visit.”
“How do you know it was the same guy?”
Jordi seemed surprised by the question.
“Who else would it be?” He saw that the answer didn’t satisfy this demanding woman and he remembered another detail. “Also, they had the same accent.”
“What accent?”
“South American. Well, not exactly.”
Martina Andreu had to make a superhuman effort not to beat a clear answer out of him.
“Think hard,” she persisted in a soft voice. She tried to find a point of reference this kid might understand. “Did he speak like Ronaldinho? Or more like Messi?”
That completely clarified the apprentice butcher’s memory. He smiled like a happy child.
“Exactly! Like Messi.” He would have shouted “Visca el Barça” had Sergeant Andreu’s stare not warned him, with no room for doubt, to shut his mouth.
29
A surprised Lluís Savall opened the door of his home, a comfortable flat on Ausiàs March, near Estació del Nord. Receiving inspectors at his home at lunchtime on a Saturday wasn’t exactly the superintendent’s favorite pastime, but Héctor’s tone of voice had awoken not a little curiosity in him. On the other hand, his daughters weren’t at home, for a change, and his wife had gone to the beach with a friend and wouldn’t be back until the evening. So the superintendent had the flat to himself and had spent part of the morning on his five-thousand-piece jigsaw, which still had over a thousand pieces missing. It was his favorite pastime, as innocuous as it was relaxing, and his wife encouraged it as much as his daughters did, giving him one puzzle after another, the more complicated the better. This one would end up forming an image of the Sagrada Família, but at the moment was as unfinished as the temple itself.
“Do you want a drink? A beer?” asked Savall.
“No, thanks. Lluís, I’m truly sorry to bother you today.”
“Well, it’s not as if I have much to do,” replied the super, thinking wistfully of his puzzle. “But sit down, don’t stay standing. I’m going to get a beer for myself. Sure you don’t want one?”
“I’m sure.”
Héctor sat down in one of the armchairs while he thought of how to bring up the subject. Savall came back immediately, with two cans and a glass each. Opposite him, after finally accepting the damned beer, Salgado said to himself that no one in a position of authority should ever wear shorts.
“What brings you here?” asked the super. “Something new in the case of that girl?”
“Gina Martí?” Héctor shook his head. “No news. At least until we get the forensic report.”
“Right. So?”
“I wanted to speak to you today, away from the station.” Héctor got annoyed at himself for beating about the bush and decided to take the bull by the horns. “Why didn’t you tell me you already knew the Castells?”
The question sounded like an accusation. And Savall’s mood changed instantly.
“I told you I was a friend of his mother’s.”
“Yes. But you didn’t mention that you’d been on another case relating to them.” He asked himself whether he needed to say the name or if the super already knew to what he was referring. Just in case, he continued: “Years ago a little girl drowned during camp. The camp director, or whatever you call the role, was Fèlix Castells.”
Savall could have pretended, made believe that he’d forgotten it, that he hadn’t put the two names together, the two deaths separated by almost thirteen years. And perhaps Héctor would have believed him. But his eyes betrayed him, revealing what they both knew: the Iris Alonso case, the girl drowned among dolls, was one of those that persisted in the memory for years.
“I don’t remember that little girl’s name—”
“Iris.”
“Yes. It wasn’t a very common name then.” The super left his glass on the coffee table. “Do you have a cigarette?” “Of course. I thought you didn’t smoke.”
“Only sometimes.”
Héctor passed him a cigarette and offered him a light, lit another for himself and waited. The smoke from the two cigarettes formed a little white cloud.
“I’ll have to open the window afterward,” said Savall. “Or Elena will be telling me off forever.”
“What do you remember about that case?” persisted Salgado. “Not much, Héctor. Not much.” His eyes showed that although they were few, the memories weren’t at all pleasant. “Where is this coming from? Does it have something to do with what happened to Joana’s son?”
“I don’t know. Maybe you can tell me.”
“I remember him. Marc. He was just a kid and he was badly affected. Shaken.”
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“He found her, didn’t he?”
Savall nodded, not asking how he knew that.
“So they told me.” He shook his head. “Children shouldn’t see things like that.”
“No. They shouldn’t drown either.”
The super gave Héctor a sidelong glance, and his expression, which a few seconds before had been uncomfortable, even apprehensive, was now one of hard impatience.
“I don’t like that tone. Why don’t you ask me what you want to know?”
Because I don’t really know what to ask, thought Héctor.
“Lluís, we’ve known each other for years. You’re not just my boss, you’ve treated me like a friend. But right now I have to know if there was something strange about that girl’s case. Something that could pose a threat to someone now, almost fifteen years later.”
“I don’t think I understand you.” Lluís put out his cigarette.
“You understand me.” He took a deep breath before continuing. “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about. There are details that must have come out in the investigation: Iris wasn’t eating, she’d run away from that house two days before, she was behaving badly, and she’d changed greatly in the last year. Her mother couldn’t control her. Doesn’t all this make you think of something?”
“You’re talking about many years ago, Héctor.”
“Abuse of minors isn’t a new thing, Lluís. It’s always been around. And it’s been covered up for many years.”
“I hope you’re not insinuating what I think you are.”
“I’m not insinuating anything. I’m just asking.”
“There was no proof of that.”
“Oh no? His behavior wasn’t proof enough? Or is it that you trusted what Father Castells told you? A priest from a good family, why doubt someone like that?”
“That’s enough! I won’t tolerate you speaking to me like this.”
“I’ll say it another way, then. Was the death of Iris Alonso an accident?”
“Believe it or not, yes.” Savall looked him in the eyes, trying to inject the assertion with all his authority.
Héctor had no choice but to accept it, but he wasn’t going to give up easily:
“And the dolls? What were those dolls doing floating in the water?”
“I said enough!” There was a pause, loaded with as many threats as questions. “If you want to look over the case, you can find the file. There’s nothing to hide.”
“I’d like to believe you.”
Savall looked at him severely.
“I don’t have to give you an explanation. That little girl drowned in the pool. It was an accident. It’s terrible, but it happens every summer.”
“Do you really have nothing else to say?”
Savall shook his head and Héctor rose from the armchair. He was about to say good-bye, but the super spoke first.
“Héctor. You said we’re friends. As such, can I ask you to accept my word on this case? I could order you to leave it alone, but I prefer to trust in your friendship. I’ve shown my affection for you. Perhaps it’s time you do the same.”
“Are you asking me for a favor? If you are just say so. Say it, and then I’ll know what I should do.”
Savall kept his eyes on the floor.
“Justice is a two-way mirror.” He raised his head slowly and kept speaking. “On one side it reflects the dead and on the other the living. Which of the two seems more important to you?”
Héctor shook his head. Standing there, facing his superior, he looked at this man who had helped him at times of need, and searched within himself for the gratitude he owed him, the trust he’d always inspired in him.
“Justice is a vague concept, Lluís, we agree on that. I prefer to talk of truth because of that. There’s only one truth, for the living and the dead. And that’s all I came looking for, but I see I’m not going to get it.”
Standing in front of the lift, Héctor realized he’d left that house with a bad taste in his mouth and he seriously considered knocking on the door, entering and starting the conversation all over again. His hand was on the doorbell when his mobile rang and his priorities changed immediately. It was Martina Andreu and she was ringing to inform him that his landlady, Carmen, had been assaulted in her home. The lift had come, but he hadn’t waited for it: he ran downstairs and took a taxi to Hospital del Mar.
30
If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, it was clear that the four ready-made dishes Leire had bought from a deli weren’t going to make Tomás fall at her feet in devotion. While she watched him chew the reheated croquettes half-heartedly, Leire almost took pity on him. He’d answered the phone with a deep voice that indicated that the drinks with colleagues had lasted until the early hours, and he’d reluctantly agreed to come to her house to eat. Now he was forcing himself to appear awake and hungry, not realizing that the dessert awaiting him was going to be more difficult to swallow than anything that had gone before.
“How was last night?” asked Tomás, while he wavered between taking another croquette or an empanadilla glistening with oil. He opted to drink some water.
“Rather hard. A dead girl. In the bathtub of her house.” “Suicide?”
“We don’t know yet,” she said in a tone that hoped to close the subject. “Listen, I’m sorry to have woken you before . . . but we have to talk.”
“OK, this sounds ominous.” He smiled at her. He moved the plate off the table with a face of disgust. “I’m not very hungry.”
She was, but it didn’t matter. She wouldn’t be able to swallow a bite until she had got the weight oppressing her off her chest. For the last time she recalled María’s advice. What would she gain by telling him? She could end it with him, here and now, tell him she’d met someone else, and this guy would happily get on with his life, not knowing that she was carrying his child. He’d find someone to take on a cruise and he’d soon forget those half-dozen wild fucks. Maybe he’d call her again some day, but she wouldn’t answer. She let out a sigh. Why the hell did she need to be so honest? She’d never been able to lie, not to herself, nor anyone. Lies came to her, but when the moment to speak them arrived, something inside her turned them back into the truth.
And after all, she told herself, she wasn’t asking anything of him: no money or responsibility. The baby had been created by both of them, but it was she, and only she, who had decided that the pregnancy should continue. He could leave and never come looking for her again. That idea, the feasibility that this might happen, pained her a little more than she was willing to admit. Then she realized he was saying something to her, and she came back to reality.
“. . . let’s drop it. I know you hate commitment, you made that very clear. But I thought it would be fun.”
“What?”
“The boat thing.” He looked at her strangely and smiled. “I thought I was the one who was hungover!”
“Of course it would be fun.”
He spread his arms in a gesture of surrender.
“There’s no understanding you. I thought that the idea of spending ten days with me was too much for you. That you felt pressured or something.”
“I’m pregnant.”
It took him a few seconds to process the information. And a few more seconds to work out that if she was telling him this, it was probably because he had something to do with it.
“Preg . . . nant?”
“I have to go to the doctor on Monday, but I’m sure, Tomás.”
“And . . . ?” He took a deep breath before asking. She saved him the effort.
“It’s yours. I’m sure of that too.” She hushed him with her hand. “Stay calm. Take your time. You don’t have to say anything just now.”
Of course he seemed at a loss for words. He cleared his throat. He shifted in his seat. She couldn’t say what his face showed: surprise, perplexity, distrust?
“Listen to me,” Leire went on. “I’m telling you because I think you have
a right to know. But if you get up from your chair and leave right now, I’ll understand completely. It’s not like we have to be together or anything like that. I won’t feel disappointed, or cheated, or—”
“Fuck.” He leaned back against the chair and looked at her as if he couldn’t believe it. “I couldn’t get up even if I wanted to.”
She couldn’t help smiling.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I know it’s not what you were expecting to hear.”
“Definitely not. But thanks for telling me.” He was beginning to react. He spoke slowly. “Are you sure?”
“That it’s yours?”
“That you’re pregnant! If you haven’t seen the doctor yet—”
“Tomás.”
“OK. And what are you intending to do?”
“You mean am I going to have it?” It was the logical question. “Yes.”
“Yeah.” He nodded slowly. “So you’re just telling me, aren’t you?”
Leire was going to contradict him, but realized that, in the end, he was right.
“Yes.”
“And the alternatives you leave me with are . . . ?”
“Well, you can go out to buy cigarettes and never come back,” she said. “Or stay and be a father to the baby.”
“I think the cigarettes option is outdated.”
“Classics never go out of fashion.”
He smiled, despite himself.
“You’re unbelievable!”
“Tomás.” She looked at him gravely, and tried to make what she was going to say reflect exactly what she wanted to say, not sound like a threat, coercion or self-sufficiency. “The truth is I like you. I like you a lot. But we’re not in a relationship, we’re not a couple, or anything like it. I don’t know if I’m in love with you, and I don’t think you’re in love with me. Not that I really know what being in love is, if I’m honest . . . But if I weren’t pregnant, I would go on a cruise with you and see what happened. Given the circumstances,” she continued, pointing to her belly, “everything has changed.”