The Summer of Dead Toys (32 page)

Sitting on the white sofa of the Castells’ house, while Glòria finished bathing the little one before coming down to join them, Héctor said to himself that in this lounge he was breathing in the same peace he’d noticed the last time they were there. But now, while he contemplated the elegant décor and heard the soft music floating in the air, Héctor knew that all this was nothing more than a set. A false calm.

He and Leire had argued a lot on how to approach the next part of the matter. Salgado had listened to Castro’s reasoning and together they’d joined all the dots to arrive at the same conclusion. But when they got to the end of the process, when the name of the person who had killed Marc, and probably Gina as well, was clear to both of them, Héctor remembered something he’d said to Joana: “It’s possible this case may never be resolved.” Because, even with the truth before them, the proof was minimal. So minimal that he could only trust that the tension and fear combined would be stronger than endurance and cold blood. For that reason he’d imposed his will and gone alone. For what he was going to do, two was a crowd.

“I don’t want to be rude, Inspector, but I hope you have a good excuse for turning up at my home on a Sunday evening. I don’t know if you are aware that this weekend hasn’t been exactly easy for us . . . Yesterday we had to give our condolences to good friends whose daughter committed suicide and maybe killed . . .” He was quiet for a moment. “And since then I can’t stop going over everything in my mind. Everything . . .”

“I want all this to be over,” he said then. “If Glòria ever comes down . . . Can’t we begin without her?”
Héctor was going to repeat what he had said to him as he came in, that he needed both of them to cooperate because new and disturbing evidence had come to light in relation to his son’s death, but just then Glòria came in alone.
“Finally!” exclaimed Enric. “Does it take so long to bathe that little girl?”
The hostility of the question surprised the inspector. “That little girl.” Not “the little one” or “my daughter,” or even “Natàlia.” That little girl.
Glòria didn’t bother to respond and took a seat beside her husband.
“Well, get on with it, Inspector. Are you going to tell us why you’ve come?” asked Castells.
Héctor stared at them. And then, before this couple who seemed to be living in a state of cold war, he said: “I have to tell you a story that goes back years, to the summer when Marc was six years old. The summer a little girl called Iris Alonso died.”
By the expression on Enric’s face, Héctor gathered that he too had read Marc’s blog. He didn’t know how he’d learned of its existence, but it was clear that the name Iris was familiar to him. Salgado continued with his tale: he outlined the story of abuse and death to them, without giving more than the necessary details. He then went on to speak to them about Inés and Marc in Dublin, of his decision to bring the truth to light, and came to the plan devised to coerce Fèlix, who’d refused to reveal to his nephew the name he was demanding. He recounted the perverse trick for which he’d used Natàlia, and graphically described photos he hadn’t seen. Doing so, he watched the Castells’ expressions and saw what he had expected: his was a mixture of apprehension and interest; hers of disgust, hatred and surprise. He finished by telling them of Aleix’s intervention to prevent his brother’s name coming out. It was a succinct but clear summary.
“Inspector,” began Enric, who’d listened to Salgado attentively, “are you telling me my son was trying to blackmail my brother? He wouldn’t have done it. I’m sure of that. In the end he would have backed out.”
Héctor shook his head, with a doubtful air.
“That we’ll never know. Marc and Gina are dead.” He put his hand in his pocket and took out the USB Aleix had given him an hour before. “This is the USB that Gina took from here, the one she then gave to Aleix. But there are no photos on it. In fact, it’s not even Gina’s or Marc’s. It’s yours, isn’t it, Glòria?”
She didn’t answer. Her right hand was clenched on the arm of the sofa.
“It has your notes from university on it. Haven’t you missed it?”
Enric raised his head slowly, not understanding.
“I haven’t had much time for studying lately, Inspector,” replied Glòria.
“I believe you. You’ve been fairly busy with other things.”
“What are you suggesting?” Enric’s voice had recovered some of its characteristic strength, that of the lord who doesn’t allow anyone to attack his family in his own home.
Héctor continued. He spoke in a calm, almost friendly voice.
“I’m suggesting that fate has played a dirty trick on everyone. The USB with the photos was here for a few days before Gina took it. And Natàlia, innocent and playful, did something that’s fun for her these days. You said it yourself to Agent Castro when we were here. Natàlia took the USB with the photos and left it beside her mother’s computer, and took the one you had, with the notes of the correspondencecourse degree you are studying for, to Marc’s room. And he, not wanting to have those photos on the computer again, gave it to Gina without realizing the error. But you . . . you opened what you shouldn’t have opened. And saw those photos of Natàlia: photos of your daughter naked, photos suggesting a whole world of horror. You knew Marc had confessed to having posted that video of a schoolmate on the internet. You didn’t trust him, or love him. After all, you weren’t his mother . . .”
Glòria went red. She said nothing; she tried her utmost to stay calm. Her hand had become a claw clinging to the arm of the sofa.
“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.

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

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