The Summer of Dead Toys (11 page)

Last visit of the day, thought Héctor as the car stopped just in front of the Castells’ house. One more and he could go home and forget all about it. Shelve this absurd favor and focus on what really mattered. What’s more, Savall would be happy for once; he would arrange a meeting with the boy’s mother, tell her it had all been an unfortunate accident and they’d move on. During the journey, his companion had told him the detail of the T-shirt and her reinforced belief that Gina Martí wasn’t telling them the whole truth. He’d made signs of agreeing, although he thought, without saying it aloud, that lying wasn’t the same as pushing a childhood friend out the attic window. A window which was visible now, above the creeper-covered railings. Héctor looked toward it and squinted: from that point to the ground was a good thirty-five or thirty-six feet. Where on earth did this custom of kids doing dangerous stunts come from? Was it out of boredom, a desire for risk, or simple irresponsibility? Maybe an equal amount of all three. He shook his head, thinking of his son entering adolescence, that awkward age plagued by stereotypes, during which he, as a father, could only arm himself with patience and hope that everything he had tried to impart in the past might have some effect in offsetting the hormonal turmoil and congenital stupidity of those years. Marc Castells was almost twenty when he fell from that window. Héctor kept his eyes fixed on it and realized he was overwhelmed by the sudden fear he’d felt at other times when confronted by absurd deaths: accidents that could have been avoided, tragedies that should never have happened.

A middle-aged woman with South American features accompanied them to the lounge. The contrast between the house they’d just visited and this one was so huge that even Héctor, for whom interior design was as abstract a discipline as quantum physics, couldn’t help noticing it. White walls and low furniture, a painting in warm tones and Bach smoothly wafting through the air. Regina Ballester had made it very clear that Glòria Vergès seemed rather dull to her, but the atmosphere she’d created in her house was one of harmony, of peace. The type of house that a man like Enric Castells wants to come home to: calm and beautiful, with large windows and bright spaces, not too modern or too classic, in which every detail exudes money and good taste. Without wanting to, he noticed that the table runner flaunted a black-and-white geometric pattern, which he recognized as one of Ruth’s designs. Maybe that was what made him feel a stab of sadness, rapidly mixing with an ill-at-ease feeling, a bitter pang he recognized as unfair. Someone had died there less than two weeks before, and yet the house seemed to have recovered completely: the tragedy had been neutralized, everything had gone back to normal.

“Inspector Salgado? My husband told me you were coming. He should be here any minute.” Héctor understood instantly why Glòria Vergès and Regina Ballester couldn’t move beyond a superficial friendship. “We should wait for him,” she added, with a note of uncertainty in her voice.

A little girl of four or five claimed Glòria’s attention and she didn’t hesitate in giving it to her immediately.
“It’s a castle!” announced the little one, waving a drawing in the air.
“Wow, the castle where the princess lives?” asked her mother.
Seated at a small yellow table, the little girl looked at the drawing and thought about the answer.
“Yes!” she exclaimed at last.
“Why don’t you draw the princess? Walking in the garden.”
Glòria had crouched down beside her and from there she came back toward Salgado and Castro. “Would you like something to drink?”
“If you don’t mind, we would prefer to go up to the attic,” said Salgado.
Glòria hesitated again: it was obvious her husband had given her precise instructions and she didn’t feel comfortable disobeying them. Luckily, at that moment someone entered the lounge. Salgado and Castro turned toward the door.
“Fèlix,” said Glòria, surprised but relieved. “This is my husband’s brother, Father Fèlix Castells.”
“Inspector.” The man, very tall and rather stout, extended his hand to greet them. “Enric just rang me: something has come up unexpectedly and he’ll be a little late. If you need anything in the meantime, I’ve come to be of use to you in any way I can.”
Before Héctor could say anything, Glòria approached them.
“I beg your pardon, would you mind talking somewhere else?” She gave a sidelong glance at the little girl. “Natàlia has had a very bad time recently; she’s had some appalling nightmares.” She exhaled. “I don’t know if it’s best, but I’m trying to bring everything back to normal,” she added, almost as an excuse. “I don’t want to remind her of it again.”
“Of course.” Fèlix looked at her affectionately. “Let’s go upstairs, shall we?”
“I’ll go up with you,” said Héctor. “Would you mind if Agent Castro had a look at Marc’s room?” He lowered his voice on saying the boy’s name, but even so the little girl turned toward them. Evidently she was following the conversation although she seemed absorbed in her drawing. How much of what was going on around them did children understand? It must be very difficult to explain a tragedy like this to a little girl of her age. Maybe her mother’s choice was the best: returning to normal, as if nothing had happened. That is, if that were even possible.

Enric Castells’ unwelcome thing that has come up unexpectedly is at this moment observing him from the other side of the table with a mixture of curiosity and scorn. It’s a tranquil bar, above all in summer, because the soft armchairs and tables of dark wood give off a feeling of heat that the air-conditioning can’t quite dispel. Waiters are dressed in uniforms of an oldfashioned formality, and a pair of old-timers sitting at the bar clearly spend every afternoon there since their health is the topic of conversation. And them, of course, sitting in the back, almost crouching, as if they are hiding from anyone who might come in by chance. On the table there are two cups of coffee with their respective saucers and a little white jug.

Seen from the other side of the glass, their gestures are those of a couple in crisis facing an imminent and unavoidable break-up. Although their words can’t be heard, there is something in the posture of the woman which suggests extreme tension: she spreads her arms and shakes her head, as if the man opposite her is disappointing her once again. He, for the most part, seems immune to anything the woman may say to him: he looks at her with irony, with an ill-concealed indifference. His rigid posture, however, contradicts this indifference. The scene continues thus for a few minutes. She insists, asks, demands, pulls out a piece of paper with something printed on it and throws it on the table; he looks away and answers in monosyllables. Until suddenly something she says makes its mark: it is immediately obvious in his darkened expression, in the fist he makes before clasping both hands, tense, on the table; in his manner of getting up, as if he’s no longer prepared to endure any more. She looks out of the window, pensive, turns to add something but he’s already gone. The piece of paper is still on the table. She picks it up, re-reads it. Then she folds it carefully and puts it back in her bag. She suppresses a bitter smile. And, as if doing so is a great effort, Joana Vidal gets up from her seat and walks slowly toward the door.

The word attic brings to mind sloping roofs, wooden rafters and old rocking chairs, forgotten toys and dusty chests: an intimate space, a refuge. The one in the Castells’ house must be the pasteurized version: spotless, with white walls, in perfect order. Héctor didn’t know how the room had looked when Marc was alive, but now, two weeks after his death, it was a perfect extension of the harmonious atmosphere of the floor below. Nothing old, nothing out of place, nothing personal. An empty table of pale wood, arranged at a right angle to the window to take advantage of the light; a modern, almost officelike chair; shelves full of books and CDs, slightly illuminated by the evening light coming through the window, situated at waist height. A large, impersonal room, nothing standing out. The only thing that evoked real attics was a large box leaning against the wall opposite the table.

Héctor went toward the only window, opened it and leaned out. He closed his eyes and tried to visualize the victim’s movements: seated on the windowsill, legs hanging, cigarette in hand. A little drunk, just enough for his reflexes to be less quick than usual, probably thinking about the girl awaiting him in his room, although, it seems, without too much enthusiasm for following her to bed. Maybe he is mustering up the courage to turn her down, or the reverse, taking in air to give her what she wants. It is his moment of peace: a few minutes in which he puts the world in order. And, when he finishes his cigarette, he puts one leg inside, intending to turn around. Then the alcohol has its effect; a momentary but fatal dizziness. He falls backward, his arms moving through space; the foot on the floor slips.

Fèlix Castells had stayed on the threshold, observing him in silence. Not until Héctor had moved away from the window again did he close the door and turn to him.

“You have to understand Glòria, Inspector. All this has been very hard for Enric and the little one.”
Héctor nodded. What had Leire said before? “After all, she’s not his mother.” It was true: Glòria Vergès might mourn her stepson’s death—and no doubt she did—but her priorities were her daughter and her husband. Nobody could reproach her for that.
“How did they get on?”
“As well as could be expected. Marc was at a difficult age and he tended to retreat into himself. He was never a very talkative boy: he spent hours in here, or in his room, or rollerblading. Glòria understood him and in general left Enric to worry about his son. That’s not hard: my brother tends to take charge of almost everything.”
“And Marc and your brother?”
“Well, Enric has a strong personality. Some would describe him as old-fashioned. But he loved his son very much, of course, and worried about him.” He paused as if he had to expand on his answer and didn’t know how. “Family life isn’t easy these days, Inspector. I’m not so reactionary as to be nostalgic for other times, but it’s clear that ruptures and separations provoke . . . a certain imbalance. In all those affected.”
Héctor said nothing and went toward the box. He guessed its contents, but was surprised: Marc’s mobile, his laptop, various chargers, a camera, cables and a torn teddy bear, completely out of place among the other objects. He took it out and showed it to Father Castells.
“Was it Marc’s?”
“I really don’t remember. I suppose so.”
Well-guarded possessions, placed in a box like their owner.
“Do you need anything else?”
Truthfully no, thought Héctor. Even so, the question came out without thinking:
“Why was he suspended from school?”
“That was a long time ago. I don’t see what good remembering it now could possibly serve.”
Héctor said nothing: as he hoped, the silence spurred the desire to speak. It made even a man of Fèlix’s age, an expert in blame and absolution, uncomfortable.
“It was a stupid thing. A joke in bad taste. Very bad taste.” He leaned on the table and looked Héctor in the eye. “I don’t know how such a thing occurred to him, if I’m honest. It seemed so . . . out of character for Marc. He was always a rather sensitive boy, not cruel at all.”
If Father Castells wanted to intrigue him, he was doing a good job, thought Héctor.
“There was a boy in Marc’s class. Óscar Vaquero. Fat, not bright, and . . .” he searched for the word, which clearly made him uncomfortable, “. . . a little . . . effeminate.”
He inhaled and continued talking, now without pausing. “It seems Marc recorded him naked in the showers and put the video on the internet. The boy was . . . well, you know, excited, it seems.”
“He was masturbating in the changing room?”
Father Castells nodded.
“Some joke.”
“The only thing that can be said in my nephew’s defense is that he owned up straight away to being the one who did it. He apologized to the other boy and took the video down only a few hours after putting it up. Because of that the centre decided to only suspend him temporarily.”
Héctor was about to answer when Agent Castro knocked at the door and entered without waiting for a response. She was carrying a blue T-shirt in her hand.
“It’s been washed, but it’s the one in the photo. Definitely.”
Father Castells watched them both, ill at ease. Something in his bearing changed and he stood up from the table. He was a big man, four inches taller than Héctor, who at five foot ten wasn’t exactly short, and no doubt thirty kilos heavier.
“Listen, Inspector, Lluís . . . . Savall told us that this was an unofficial visit . . . to reassure Joana more than anything.”
“So it is,” replied Héctor, somewhat surprised at hearing the superintendent’s name. “But we want to be sure to tie up all loose ends.”
“Inspector, look here, at the top of the T-shirt, just below the collar.”
Some reddish stains. They could be many things, but Salgado had seen too many bloodstains not to recognize them. His tone also changed.
“We’ll take it. And,” pointing to the box, “that too.”
The voice from the door surprised them all.
“What are you taking?”
“Enric,” said Fèlix, addressing the recent arrival, “this is Inspector Salgado and Agent Castro . . .”
Enric Castells was in no mood for formal introductions.
“I thought I’d made it clear that we didn’t want to be disturbed any more. You were already here and rummaged through everything you wanted. Now you’re back and expect to take Marc’s things. May I simply ask why?”
“This is the T-shirt Marc was wearing on San Juan. But not the one he had on when he was found. For some reason he changed his clothes. Probably because this one was stained. And if I’m not mistaken they are bloodstains.”
Both Enric and his brother received the news in silence.
“But what does that mean?” asked Fèlix.
“I don’t know. Probably nothing. Perhaps he cut himself by accident and changed his clothes. Or perhaps something happened that night that the kids haven’t told us. Either way, the first thing is to have the T-shirt analysed. And speak to Aleix Rovira and Gina Martí again.”
Enric Castells’ attitude suddenly changed.
“Are you telling me something happened that night that we don’t know about? Something to do with my son’s death?” He spoke steadily, but it was clear the phrase had pained him.
“It’s too early to say. But I think we all want to get to the bottom of this matter.” He said it as delicately as he could.
Enric Castells lowered his eyes. His face clearly indicated that he was thinking about something, deciding what to do. Seconds later he seemed to come to a decision and, not looking at anyone, he said in a clear voice:
“Fèlix, Agent Castro, I’d like to speak to Inspector Salgado. Alone. Please.”