The Summer of Dead Toys (29 page)

“It’s over,” she said out loud. She couldn’t take it any more. She wasn’t giving any more of herself. Maybe the best thing was to report the finding of the body with all the consequences and for Héctor to submit to the appropriate investigation. She’d done all she could . . . She took a few minutes before making the call that would set the whole process in motion, while she considered how to cover up her act, unprofessional from any perspective. She set the Omar papers aside and while she meditated on her own situation, she opened the file of battered women who had registered for the self-defense course she would be teaching in the autumn. If she wasn’t put on checkpoints when all this came out, she thought. She went on leafing through pages, looking at photos. Unfortunately they couldn’t accept them all, although she made an effort to take the maximum number of pre-registered women. Then some always dropped out, whether because they didn’t feel able or they’d resigned themselves to putting up with these bastards. Poor women, she thought once again. Those who didn’t deal with them didn’t have a clue of the terror they were subjected to. They were all ages, from a variety of backgrounds, different nationalities, but they all had fear, shame, distrust written on their faces.

She stopped at the photo of a woman she instantly recognized. It was Rosa, no doubt about it. María del Rosario Álvarez, according to the form. Finding her there didn’t surprise Marina all that much: Rosa had spoken of a husband she feared. She remembered her words in the park, her desperate plea to remain anonymous. Rosa must have forgiven her husband, since the report of assault was from February. But then another name caught the sergeant’s eye. A name that chilled and unnerved her at once. The lawyer who’d represented Rosa was Damián Fernández, the same person who defended Omar’s interests.

She had to force herself to stay calm, to think about this unexpected connection with a tranquillity which had abandoned her hours earlier. She went back to Omar’s file, but this time she studied it from a radically different perspective. Who had seen Omar on Tuesday? Rosa. Who had positively identified Héctor? Rosa. Only her, because an Argentine accent, the butcher’s contribution, was easily imitated. Other than this woman’s word, there was no proof that Omar was safe and sound on Tuesday evening. If this testimony was discounted, what was left? Damián Fernández’s statement, which said he’d met Omar on Monday. And that was probably true. That Monday, the lawyer had gone to see his client, not to present the deal offered by Savall but to beat him. Yes, to beat him and steal the money he definitely had hidden in some corner of that fucking house! And then . . . then he’d calmly brought the badly injured body, in the middle of the night, to the empty flat, taking advantage of the fact that Héctor wasn’t returning until the following day. The strange feeling she had had leaving the keys in Carmen’s house, that game with all the keys of the building that the woman barely used, came back to her forcefully. She didn’t know how Damián Fernández managed to get them, but she was sure he had. Keys he’d copied and used as he pleased, entering Héctor’s house when he wasn’t there, and the empty flat to imprison Omar’s body and record his death. Even Carmen’s assault fitted now. She must have surprised him at some point, probably while he was leaving the latest bits of evidence in Salgado’s home, and he’d had no choice but to split her head and bring her down to the first floor. And, amidst all this, his accomplice Rosa had called her and played her part to perfection, putting Héctor at the scene.

Excited, with adrenalin pumping through her body, Martina Andreu knew that she didn’t yet have all the answers, but she did have many questions to put to Rosa and Damián Fernández. And she didn’t plan to wait until the next day to start asking them.

Héctor listened, somewhat astonished and overwhelmed, to the tale that a sergeant seemingly possessed by an inexhaustible energy was telling him at four in the morning.

“We have them, Héctor! Maybe it would have been more difficult if we hadn’t caught them in bed together in his house. Fernández was a tough nut to crack, but she went to pieces straight away. She told us everything, although obviously she denies knowing anything about the murder. And when we put Rosa’s confession before him, he couldn’t keep putting on an innocent face.”

“Robbery was the motive?” After thinking about curses and dark rites, the explanation almost disappointed him.
“Well, a relatively meaty robbery for two wretches like Fernández and Rosa. We found more than a hundred thousand euros in the lawyer’s house, which no doubt were stolen from Omar’s office.”
“How the hell did he get my house keys?”
“He didn’t open his mouth, but Rosa told us when we leaned on her a little. He boasted to her, saying he’d passed himself off as an air-conditioning salesman. Poor Carmen showed him the house, had a nice long chat with him, and he took advantage of a moment of distraction to take those keys. He arranged a second visit for the following day and returned the originals.”
She lowered her voice.
“He was spying on you the whole time, Héctor. He took advantage of your movements to go into your house and leave those discs.”
“He did that too?”
Andreu frowned.
“It’s strange. He recorded you beating Omar with the camera in his clinic and they were thinking of presenting it as evidence against you, so it occurred to him to use it to back up the other one, the one showing the doctor’s death. With regard to your ex . . . I don’t know what to think. Fernández says he found it among Omar’s recordings.” Andreu paused. “He added something about the doctor having been preparing something in the days before his death, one of his rituals.”
“Against me?”
“It doesn’t matter now, Héctor. He’s dead. Forget all this. Just think that we have enough proof to charge them both. And to exonerate you . . .”
There was a brief silence, charged with complicity, with gratitude. With friendship.
“I don’t know how to thank you. Really.” It was true.
She raised her hand to her brow. The long night was catching up with her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. It’s late . . . or early,” she added, with a smile. “What are you going to do? Go home?”
“I suppose I’ll have to go back tomorrow. But for tonight I’d prefer to sleep in my office, believe me. It wouldn’t be the first time.”

That night Héctor didn’t sleep at all: he stayed awake, asking questions and setting out interrogations. It also helped, he knew deep down, to drive the memory of Leire Castro’s laugh out of his mind.

The airport was a seething mass of tourists pushing trolleys and suitcases on wheels. Some turned their heads for a last glimpse of that sun that had accompanied them, bronzed and hot on the beach and in front of the Pedrera; a star which, once they arrived at their northern destinations, would have disappeared or at best would appear timidly from behind a mass of clouds. Others moved toward the exits with excitement etched on their faces, although they stopped just after going through them and leaving behind the air-conditioned new terminal, with floors like black mirrors, to receive the first shock of heat.

Leire had picked Héctor up at his house, at his request. She had been surprised to receive his call, since they’d arranged that she would go to the airport alone to search for Inés. Having gone to his house first thing—just as long as was necessary to shower and change his clothes—he seemed to be in an excellent mood. The shadows under his eyes were still there, no doubt about that, but the spirit had changed. She hadn’t slept much herself, and the bout of nausea that morning had been the worst yet. Worse than an awful Sunday hangover.

The flight was only slightly delayed, and it took even less time to recognize the girl from the photo, although the blackand-white had definitely flattered her. The young woman moving toward the door, not very tall, with curly hair and somewhat plumper than could be seen in the photograph, had little of the enigmatic about her. Héctor got there first.

“Yes.” She looked at the inspector apprehensively. “Is something wrong?”
He smiled at her.
“I’m Inspector Salgado and this is Agent Castro. We’ve come to collect you and take you to Joana Vidal’s house. Marc’s mother.”
“But—”
“Relax. We just want to talk to you.”
She lowered her head and nodded slowly, then followed them to the car without saying another word. She said nothing during the journey, although she answered a couple of trivial questions politely. She sat on the back seat, pensive. She was carrying only a type of rigid backpack and kept it firmly at her side.
She remained silent as they ascended the steep stairs leading to the flat where Joana lived. Héctor realized, with a pang of remorse, that he hadn’t heard from her since the day before, when they had breakfast together. However, as soon as Joana received them, he noticed that something had changed in her in the last few hours. Her footsteps and her voice revealed a composure he’d only briefly glimpsed before.
She showed them to the dining room. The windows were open and the light streamed in.
“I had to inform the police of your arrival,” said Joana, turning to this stranger, who had sat down, like the others, but with her back straight, as if she were about to undergo an oral exam.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” she murmured.
“Inés,” Héctor interjected, “you met Marc in Dublin, didn’t you?”
She smiled for the first time.
“I would never have recognized him. But he saw my name on the student residence’s list. And one day he approached me to ask if I was the same Inés Alonso.”
Héctor nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“He introduced himself and we went for a drink.” She spoke tenderly, simply. “I think he fell in love with me. But . . . of course, though we avoided it at the start, in the end we had to talk about Iris. Always Iris . . .”
“What happened that summer, Inés? I know you were only a little girl and I understand it must be painful to think about her . . .”
“No. Not any more.” She was flushed, tears shone in her eyes. “I’ve spent years trying to forget that summer, that day. But not any more. Marc was right about that, although he didn’t know part of the truth. In fact, I didn’t know it either until a little while ago, until last Christmas, when my mother moved flat and we packed up everything from the old house. There, in one of the boxes, I found Iris’s teddy bear. It was torn, the stuffing was coming out of a rip, but when I picked it up I noticed something inside.”
She interrupted her story, opened her backpack and took out a folder.
“Here,” she said, turning to the inspector. “Or would you prefer me to read it aloud? My sister Iris wrote it that summer. I’ve read it hundreds of times since I found it. The first few times I couldn’t finish but I can now. It’s a little long . . .”
And, with a voice that wanted to be firm, Inés took out some pages and began to read.

I know what death is, or at least I think I do. You go to sleep and don’t wake up. You stay like that, asleep but not dreaming, I suppose. Papa was sick for months when I was little. He was really strong, he could cut down big trees with the axe. I liked watching him, but he wouldn’t let me because a splinter might come out and hurt me. While he was sick, before he went to sleep forever, his arms shrank, like something was eating him from inside. In the end he was only bones, ribs, shoulders, elbows, and a bit of skin, then he fell asleep. He wasn’t strong enough to stay awake. I’m not very strong now either. Mama says it’s because I don’t eat, and she’s right, but she thinks I want to be thin, like girls in magazines, and she’s wrong. I don’t want to be thin to be more beautiful. Before I did, but now it seems silly. I want to be thin to die like Papa. And I’m not hungry either, because not eating is easy. At least it was, before Mama focused on watching me during meals. Now it’s much harder. I have to pretend that I’m eating everything on my plate so she doesn’t get annoying, but there are tricks. Sometimes I have it in my mouth for a long time and then I spit it into a napkin. Or recently I’ve learned that the best thing is to eat it all and then vomit. You’re clean after vomiting, all that dirty food is gone and you feel calm.
Inés stopped for a moment and Héctor was tempted to tell her not to continue, but before he could do so, the young woman took a deep breath and resumed her reading.

I live in a town in the Pyrenees, with my mother and my little sister. Inés is eight. Sometimes I talk to her about Papa and she says she remembers, but I think she’s lying. I was eight when he died and she was only four. I think she only remembers him thin, like Jesus Christ, she says. She doesn’t remember strong Papa who cut down trees and laughed and swung you round like you were a rag doll that weighed nothing at all. Then Mama laughed more. Later, when Papa fell asleep forever, she started praying a lot. Every day. I liked praying, and then Mama insisted on us making our First Communion, Inés and I, at the same time. It was nice: the catechist told us stories from the Bible and it wasn’t hard for me to learn the prayers. But the hosts made me sick. They stuck to the roof of my mouth and I couldn’t swallow them. Or chew them because it was a sin. Inés liked them though, she said they reminded her of the layer on the top of
turrón.
I have the photo of the communion. Inés and I were dressed in white, with ribbons in our hair. Hardly any of the girls in school did it but I liked it. And Mama was happy that day. She only cried a little in the church but I think it was because she was happy, not sad.

I already said I live in a small town so every day we have to catch a bus to go to school. We have to get up very early and it’s very cold. Sometimes it snows so much the bus can’t come to get us and we stay at home. But now it’s summer and it’s hot. In summer we move because Mama is in charge of cooking in a house for camps. I liked it a lot because the summer house is much bigger and it has a pool and is full of children. They come in groups of twenty on a bus from Barcelona. And they stay for two weeks. It’s annoying, because sometimes you make friends and you know that in a few days they will leave. Some come back the next year and others don’t. There is a boy who stays all summer, like us. Mama told me it’s because he has no mother and his father works a lot, so he spends half the summer at camp. With his uncle, who is in charge of everything. And the monitors who help him. I have to help Mama too, but not much, just a bit in the kitchen. Then I am free to swim or take part in the games. Before I did but now I don’t feel like it. And Mama keeps telling me it’s because I don’t eat. But she doesn’t know anything. She lives in the kitchen and doesn’t know anything about what happens outside. She only thinks about food. Sometimes I hate her.