The Summer of Dead Toys (25 page)

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.

“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?”

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.”
“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.

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.”
He nodded, and inhaled deeply. It was clear that a great many ideas, questions and possibilities were thronging in his mind.
“Don’t be angry,” he finally replied. “But I need time to get used to the idea.”
“You’re not the only one. We have approximately seven months for that.”
He stood up and she knew he was leaving.
“I’ll call you,” he said.
“Of course.” She wasn’t looking at him. Her eyes were on the table.
“Hey . . .” He came over to her and stroked her cheek. “I’m not running away. I’m just asking for some time out.”
She turned to him, and couldn’t help the irony in her voice.
“Are you out of cigarettes?”
Tomás took a packet out of his shirt pocket.
“No.”
Leire said nothing. She felt the hand move away from her cheek and Tomás taking a step back. She closed her eyes and the next thing she heard was the front door. When she opened them he was gone.

Hospital del Mar’s brand-new waiting room was as full as might be expected on a July Saturday, and it took Héctor a moment to locate Sergeant Andreu. In fact, she saw him first and made her way toward him. She put a hand on his shoulder and Héctor turned, startled.

“Martina! What happened?”
“I don’t know. It appears someone broke into her house and attacked her. It’s serious, Héctor. They’ve taken her to the ICU. She hasn’t regained consciousness.”
“Shit.” His expression was so intense the sergeant feared he might lose control. “Héctor, let’s go out for a minute. Right now, we can’t do anything here and . . . I have to talk to you.”
She thought he’d refuse, demand to speak to the doctor, but what he did was ask the inevitable question she’d expected.
“How come you found her?”
The sergeant looked at him intently, trying to discern in that altered expression a sign that might let her decide, know. She didn’t find it, so she merely answered in a low voice, “That’s what I want to talk to you about. Let’s go outside.”
The sun was making the mirrors of the cars sparkle. It was half past three in the afternoon and the thermometer was hitting thirty degrees centigrade. Sweaty, Héctor lit a cigarette and smoked hungrily, but he felt sick and the nicotine tasted foul. He threw the remains of the fag on the ground and stubbed it out.
“Calm down a little, Héctor. Please.”
He put his head back and breathed deeply.
“How did you find her?”
“Wait a minute. There’re a couple of things you should know. There’s news in the Omar case.” She was hoping to see some reaction in her colleague’s face, but all she could make out was interest, a desire to know. “Héctor, I asked you this Wednesday when we had lunch, but just so we’re clear. Did you see Omar on Tuesday?”
“Where is this going?”
“Fuck, just answer! Do you think I’d insist if it wasn’t important?”
He looked at her with a mixture of frustration and rage.
“I’ll say this for the last time. I didn’t see Omar on Tuesday. I didn’t see him again after that day. Got that?”
“What did you do on Tuesday evening?”
“Nothing. I went home.”
“You didn’t speak to your ex or your son?”
Héctor looked away.
“What the fuck did you do?”
“I sat down to wait for someone to remember to call me. It was my birthday.”
Martina couldn’t suppress a guffaw.
“Fuck, Héctor! Hard man of the month, going around whacking suspects, and then sitting down at home to cry that nobody remembers him . . .”
Despite himself, he smiled.
“Well, getting older makes you sensitive.”
“The worst thing is, I believe you, but a witness saw you outside his house on Tuesday evening, around half past eight.” “What are you saying?” he almost shouted.
“Héctor, I’m just telling you what I’ve found out. I don’t even have to, so do me a favor and don’t raise your voice.” She went on to tell him Rosa’s testimony, not omitting a single detail, as well as the information obtained at midday in the butcher’s. “That’s why I went to your house. The front door was open and I went up. When I passed the first floor I noticed that the door there wasn’t closed either and it seemed strange. I pushed it and . . . I found that poor woman unconscious on the floor.” Salgado heard his colleague’s story without interrupting her once. While he was listening to her, his brain tried to fit the other pieces into it: those disturbing recordings of him beating Omar and of Ruth on the beach. He didn’t manage to do it, but he thought Andreu deserved to know. He didn’t want to hide anything else from her, so he told her everything as soon as she’d finished. Then they both stayed quiet, thinking, each absorbed in their own doubts and fears. Héctor reacted first and took out his mobile. Nervously, he looked for his son’s number in his contacts and hit the call button. Luckily, Guillermo answered immediately this time. Salgado spoke to him for a couple of minutes, trying to seem normal. Then, without thinking, he called Ruth. The only reply was a cold voice announcing that the phone was turned off or out of signal. Meanwhile Martina Andreu was watching him attentively. He was aware of it, but told himself she was within her rights. There were reasons for her suspicions, and suddenly he realized—the irony of fate—that he would have to put forward the same argument he’d heard from Savall an hour before. Appeal to her friendship, trust, the years of working together.
“Ruth not answering?” she asked when he put away his mobile.
“No. She’s away. At her parents’ apartment in Sitges. I’ll call her again later. She didn’t find the thing with the DVD very amusing, as you can imagine.” He turned to Sergeant Andreu. “I’m scared, Martina. I feel like my whole world is under threat: me, my house, my family . . . And now Carmen. It can’t be a coincidence. Someone is destroying my life.”
“You’re not taking Dr. Omar’s curses seriously, are you?”
He stifled a bitter laugh.
“Right now I could believe anything.” He remembered what the faculty professor had said to him. “But I suppose I must force myself not to fall into that. I’m going to see if there’s any news about Carmen. You needn’t stay.”
She looked at her watch. Ten past four.
“Sure you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. Martina, do you believe me? I know all this seems very strange and all I can ask of you right now is blind trust. But it’s important to me. I didn’t go to see Omar, I didn’t order a pig’s head and I have no clue to his whereabouts. I promise you.”
She took a little while to answer, perhaps more than he hoped and less than she might have needed to give a completely honest answer.
“I believe you. But you’re in a real mess, Salgado. That I will say. And I don’t know if anyone can help you out of it this time.”
“Thanks.” Héctor relaxed his shoulders and looked toward the door of the hospital. “I’m going inside.”
“Keep me posted on any news.”
“Likewise.”
Martina Andreu stayed still a moment, watching Héctor disappear through the entrance to the hospital. Then, slowly, she went to the taxi rank, got into the first cab and gave the driver Salgado’s address.