by Antonio Hill
“You saw the photos?” asked Enric. “You didn’t tell me—”
“No,” Héctor intervened. “She didn’t tell you anything. She decided to punish Marc on her own, isn’t that right?”
Castells jumped up as if on a spring.
“I won’t tolerate one more word, Inspector!” But his eyes showed doubt. He turned slowly toward his wife, who remained still, like a rabbit in the headlights. “That night you didn’t sleep with me. You went to bed with Natàlia. You said the little one was afraid of the fireworks.”
There was a moment of extreme tension. Glòria took a few seconds to answer, the time needed to stop her voice trembling.
“And that’s how it was. I slept with Natàlia. Nobody can prove otherwise.”
“You know what?” Héctor intervened. “In a way I understand you, Glòria. It must have been terrible. To see those photos without knowing what else they’d done to your daughter, fearing the worst. The same would have happened to any mother. There’s something powerful in a mother’s love. Powerful and implacable. Even less aggressive animals attack to protect their young.”
Héctor saw the hesitation in her eyes. But Glòria wasn’t easy prey.
“I’m not going to continue talking to you, Inspector. If my husband doesn’t throw you out of our home, I will.”
But Enric seemed not to have heard the last statement by his wife.
“The following day we had to stop for petrol. I didn’t even remember. Fèlix was driving because I wasn’t capable of taking the wheel. But the tank wasn’t so empty when we went up . . . I haven’t thought about it since . . .” He faced his wife and whispered to her, unable to raise his voice. “Glòria, did you kill . . . ? Did you kill my only child?”
“Your only child!” The bitterness exploded in a hoarse shout. “And what is Natàlia? What would you have done if I had told you about the photos? I’ll tell you. Nothing! The excuses, the justifications would have started . . . The little one is fine, it was a joke, teenagers are like that . . .
“What did you say when he posted that video on the internet? ‘He’s had a difficult life—his mother abandoned him’ . . .” Her words oozed rancour. “And Natàlia? The years she spent in the orphanage? Don’t they count? This daughter doesn’t count for you. She’s never mattered to you at all!”
Glòria looked at the inspector. She was trying to make him understand the truth. To justify herself somehow.
“I couldn’t forgive him, Inspector. Not this time. Who knows what else he would have done to my little girl?” She’d started and now she couldn’t stop. “Yes, the night before San Juan I told you I would sleep with Natàlia, but I went down to Barcelona in the car as soon as I heard you sleeping. I’d made sure you would sleep, believe me. I didn’t know what I was planning to do. Accuse him of it all and force him to leave without you knowing, I suppose. I wanted him out of Natàlia’s life and out of mine. I got home just as Aleix was leaving. I saw the light go on in Marc’s room and then go out. A little later, I saw him leaning out of the window. I crossed the street quickly and went up to the attic. He was still there, and at that moment I couldn’t help it. I ran toward him and pushed him . . . It was an impulse . . .”
And you put the ashtray on the sill back in its spot, automatically, thought Héctor, not saying a word.
“But killing Gina wasn’t an impulse, Glòria,” said Héctor. “It was a crime in cold blood, committed against an innocent young girl—”
“Innocent? You haven’t seen all the photos, Inspector! They did them together, the two of them. They took advantage of a night she came to babysit Natàlia. She was even in one, although I suppose they planned to delete it.”
“They didn’t hurt her,” murmured Héctor. “They were mistakenly trying to hunt down an abuser of minors.” “But I didn’t know that. God, I didn’t know! And I told myself that if Marc had died, she had to die as well. Also—”
“Also, you didn’t even know she’d stayed over that night and when you found out you panicked. Luckily for you, Gina was so drunk that she fell asleep immediately and heard nothing. But when we saw you here, and you realized the case was still open, you were frightened. And you decided that Gina’s false suicide would put a full stop to it all. You went to her house that evening, spoke to her, you certainly drugged her a little, as you did your husband on San Juan. Afterward you brought her to the bathtub and with utmost cruelty you slit her wrists. Then you wrote a fake suicide note, trying to imitate the style of young people when they write.”
“She was as evil as him,” replied Glòria with hatred.
“No, Glòria, they weren’t evil. They might have been young, mistaken, spoiled, but they weren’t evil. The only evil person here is you. And your biggest punishment won’t be jail but being separated from your daughter. But believe me, Natàlia deserves a better mother.”
Enric Castells watched the scene dumbfounded. He couldn’t even say a word when Héctor arrested his wife, read her her rights and steered her toward the door. If his heart could have moved at will, it would have stopped that very instant.
41
Héctor left the station at around half past ten that night and knew that, although he didn’t feel like it at all, he should return to his flat. He’d gone more than thirty-six hours without sleep; he was conscious of the nicotine filling his lungs, his empty stomach and fuzzy head. He needed to wake up a little, then take a long shower: get rid of tension, regain strength.
The city seemed muffled that warm Sunday night. Even the few cars that were circulating appeared to be doing so slowly, lazily, as if the drivers wanted to prolong the last throes of the weekend. Little by little Héctor, who had started walking at a brisk pace, began to keep time with the slow rhythm ruling the streets. He would have given anything to stifle his mind as well, to stem the flow of unbidden images. He knew from experience that it was a question of time, that these faces which now seemed unforgettable would sooner or later fade through the drain of memory. There were some, however, he’d prefer not to forget for the moment: Eduard Rovira’s shocked, miserable face, for example. Despite the threats of jail that he himself had made, he knew it would be difficult to make him answer for his actions before the courts. But at least, he told himself, he’d have to put up with the shame of having been found out and the contempt of those around him. Héctor planned to make sure of that personally and as soon as possible: guys like Edu didn’t deserve even the slightest compassion.
He took a deep breath. He had other things to do the following day. Speak to Joana and say good-bye, drop in at the hospital to see Carmen . . . And apologize to Savall. Maybe his behavior in Iris’s case years before hadn’t been exemplary, but his motives hadn’t been selfish; rather the contrary. In any case, he had no right to set himself up as judge and jury. That he left to people like Father Castells. Tomorrow, he thought, tomorrow I’ll sort all that out. That night he could do no more. He’d made one call from the station: to Agent Castro to inform her that her intuition was correct. He owed her. After all, if it hadn’t been for her, this case might never have been solved. She was good, he thought. Very good. He didn’t spend a long time on the phone because he realized she wasn’t alone. In the background he suddenly heard a masculine voice asking something.
“I won’t bother you any longer—we’ll talk tomorrow,” he said as he wished her good-bye.
“OK. But we have to celebrate it, all right? And this time I’ll pay.”
There was a brief pause, one of those moments in which the silence seems to mean something. But, after the usual goodbyes, both had hung up.
Standing before a red light he took his mobile out again to see if there was any message from Ruth. It was almost eleven; perhaps they were still en route. It was almost a month since he’d seen Guillermo, and as he crossed the street he told him
352 A NTONIO HILL
self that this couldn’t happen again. He didn’t want to be an absent figure, as Enric Castells had been with
his son. Responsibility can be delegated, but not affection. The ironies of fate, he thought. Enric was once again alone and with a child in his care, a little girl he didn’t even consider his own daughter.
By now he was close to home, and the apprehension of the moment of going back into his house hit him again. The building he’d lived in for years felt like a sinister place, contaminated by Omar, by his killers. Enough, he ordered himself once again. Omar was dead and those who had killed him were locked up in jail. He couldn’t have asked for a better result. Inspired by this thought, he put his key in the front door, and just as he crossed the threshold, his mobile rang. It was Guillermo.
“Guille! Brilliant! You’re back then?”
“No . . . Papa, listen—have you heard from Mama?” “No. I spoke to her on . . . Friday, I think.” It seemed as if a
century had passed, rather than a few days. “She told me she would come to pick you up.”
“Yeah. Me too. We arranged for her to come around nine, half nine.”
“And she still hasn’t arrived?” He looked at his watch, uneasy.
“No. And I’ve called her and she’s not answering. Carol doesn’t know anything either.” He paused and continued in a voice that wasn’t that of a child but a worried adult. “Papa, Mama hasn’t spoken to anyone since Friday morning.”
Mobile still in his hand, facing the staircase which led to his home, Héctor suddenly remembered what Martina had said about Dr. Omar, about the rituals he was preparing, about the DVD Ruth had received. “Forget all this, he’s dead—it doesn’t matter now . . .” the sergeant had said.
His forehead broke out in a cold sweat.
TODAY
It’s already been six months since Ruth disappeared. No one has heard from her since that Friday she decided to go to her parents’ apartment. We’re not even sure that she got there, because her car was found in Barcelona, near her house. We’ve published her photo, put up notices, searched her flat. I personally interrogated the good-for-nothing lawyer who killed Omar and I’ve come to the conclusion that he knows nothing apart from what he’s already told me. The damn doctor told him, with a Machiavellian smile, that I would have to suffer the worst possible sentence. The lawyer thought it was just one of his phrases. I wouldn’t have taken it seriously either. But now I know it’s true. There is nothing worse than not knowing, living in a world of shadows and doubts. I roam around the city like a ghost, scanning faces, thinking I see Ruth in the most unlikely places. I know one day I’ll find her, dead or alive. I’ll have to explain to my son what happened to his mother. I owe him: if I have kept my sanity it is thanks to him. To him and my friends. They’re not giving up either. They know I have to find out the truth and I won’t rest until I do.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Antonio Hill lives in Barcelona. He is a professional
translator of English-language fiction into Spanish.