The Summer of Dead Toys (5 page)

accent.
“Sit down. Please.”
He does. They are separated by an antique wooden desk,

which must be the best thing in that run-down, slightly stuffy flat.
“I was expecting you.”
The shadow moves forward and the light from the floor lamp fully covers him. On seeing him Héctor is surprised: he’s older than he remembered from that day he’d interrogated him at the station. Black, thin, an almost fragile appearance, and the eyes of a beaten dog who has learned that there is a daily ration of blows and waits resignedly for the moment to arrive.
“How did you do it?”
The doctor smiles, but Héctor could swear that deep down there is something like fear. Good. He has good reason to fear him.
“How did I do what?”
Héctor contains the desire to grab him by the neck and slam his face against the desk. Instead he clenches his fist and simply says:
“Kira is dead.”
He feels a chill on saying her name. The sweet smell is beginning to make him nauseated.
“A pity, isn’t it? Such a pretty girl,” the other says, as if he’s speaking of a gift, an object. “You know something? Her parents gave her that absurd name to prepare her for a life in Europe. Or in America. They sold her without the least remorse, convinced that anything was better than what she could expect in their village. They were brainwashing her from birth. A pity they did not teach her to keep her mouth shut as well.”
Héctor swallows. Suddenly the walls advance toward them, reducing the already small room to the size of a cell. The cold light falls on the doctor’s hands then: fine, with long fingers like serpents.
“How did you do it?” he repeats. His voice sounds hoarse, as if he has spent hours without speaking to anyone.
“Do you really think I could do anything?” He guffaws and leans forward again so the light focuses on his face. “You pleasantly surprise me, Inspector. The Western world usually makes fun of our old superstitions. What cannot be seen or touched does not exist. They have closed the door to a whole universe and live happily beyond it. Feeling superior. Poor fools.”
The oppressive feeling grows. Héctor cannot take his eyes from the other man’s hands, which are relaxed now, lying still on the desk. Offensively languid.
“You are a very interesting man, Inspector. Much more so than most police officers. In fact, you never thought you would end up as an officer of the law. I am sure of that.”
“Cut the crap. I came looking for answers, not to listen to your nonsense.”
“Answers, answers . . . Deep down you already know them, although you do not believe them. I am afraid I cannot help you in that.”
“How did you threaten her?” He struggles to stay calm. “How did you scare her so much that she did that to herself?” He can’t even describe it.
The other man leans back, hides in the shadows, but his voice continues, coming out of nowhere.
“Do you believe in dreams, Inspector? No, I suppose not. Curious how all of you are capable of believing in things as abstract as atoms and then dismiss something that happens every night. Because we all dream, do we not?”
Héctor bites his lip so as not to interrupt. It’s clear that this bastard is going to tell it in his own time; the doctor lowers his voice so he has to strain to hear him.
“Children are clever. They have nightmares and fear them. But as they grow up they are taught that they should not be scared. Did you have nightmares, Inspector? I can already see that you did. Night terrors, perhaps? I see you have not thought about them for a while. Although you still do not sleep well, correct? But tell me something, how else could I have put myself in her head and told her what she had to do? Take the scissors, caress your stomach with them. Up to those little breasts and stick them in . . .”
And that’s where his memories stop. Next thing he remembers is his fist ceaselessly punching the face of that son-of-a-bitch.

Martina’s dry voice brought him back to the present. Disconcerted, he didn’t have time to respond.
“Doesn’t matter, no need to answer. I knew you’d come. This is disgusting.”
Héctor advanced down the corridor.
“Don’t come in here, you’ll have to look from the door.”
It was the same office, but in daylight it looked like a squalid room, not at all ghostly.
“I’ve seen nicer piggies, to tell the truth,” the sergeant said at his shoulder.
What was on the table, presented like a sculpture, wasn’t the head of a piglet, but that of a good-sized boar. They had already put it into a black bag, from which a piece of the face poked out, bloated, as if boiled, the wrinkled ears and fleshy snout a repugnant pink.
“Oh, and the blood isn’t the pig’s. Look, it hasn’t bled anywhere.”
It was true. There was no blood on the desk, but there was on the walls and the floor.
“I think that’s it. I won’t be eating ham for the next month,” Andreu said, turning to the man inside the office equipped with gloves. “Take that and bring it to . . .”
For a moment she was quiet, as if she didn’t know where a pig’s head should be taken.
“Yes, Sergeant. Don’t worry.”
“And we haven’t seen Inspector Salgado, have we?”
The man smiled.
“I don’t even know who he is.”

They went to eat at a nearby bar. A set menu for eleven euros, including dessert or coffee and paper napkins matching the tablecloths. Withered salad, cuttlefish in a sea of oil and a sad fruit salad.

“Awful.” The answer was sharp. “Savall’s been unbearable and taken his bad mood out on everyone.”
“Because of me?”
“Well, because of you, because of that asshole’s lawyer, because of the minister, because of the press . . . Truth is you left us in the shit, Salgado.”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “It pisses me off that you’ve had to deal with this. Truly.”
“I know.” She shrugged. “There was nothing you could have done. Better this way. Anyway, Savall has been brilliant. Anyone else would have thrown you to the wolves. And you know it.”
She knew Héctor hated owing favors, but she told herself it was right that he knew the truth.
“Fortunately,” Andreu continued, “for once almost everyone is happy to bury the subject: the press preferred the photos of the mutilated girl, the minister didn’t want anything to endanger an operation that up to then had gone well, and the lawyer only wanted to use it to save his client from the pending charges against him. If he was being bugged too much, then there wouldn’t be a way of dropping the charges against you in exchange for . . . Well, you get me, one favor for another. You know how these things work.”
There was a brief silence. Héctor could tell that his colleague hadn’t finished. He awaited the question with his eyes halfclosed, like someone waiting for the firework he’s seen lit to explode. And, as usual, Andreu got straight to the point.
“What the fuck happened to you, Salgado? Everything was going brilliantly! We had the principals, we’d dismantled the network’s brothels. A European-scale operation where we’d all worked ourselves into the ground . . . And just when everything is tied up, when the news has appeared in every paper, when the minister is drooling with satisfaction, you go and start whacking the only one we haven’t managed to nab yet.”
Héctor didn’t answer. He took a gulp of water and shrugged his shoulders. He was beginning to get sick of that question, so he changed the subject.
“Listen, did you find anything? Inside there.”
She shook her head.
“Andreu. Please,” he pleaded, lowering his voice.
“Very little, to tell the truth. Maybe the strangest thing was a hidden camera. It seems Dr. Omar liked to keep recordings of his appointments. And then there’s the blood. I’d say it’s human. I’ve sent it to be analysed and we’ll have the results tomorrow. And the pig’s head was clearly a message. What I don’t know is who it’s for and what it means.” She poured her coffee over the ice in her glass without spilling a single drop. “I’m going to tell you something else, but promise me you’ll stay out of it.”
Héctor nodded mechanically.
“No. I’m serious, Héctor. I give you my word that I’ll keep you informed if you promise not to interfere. Whatever I tell you. Understood?”
He raised his hand to his chest and put on a solemn face.
“I swear.”
“The heart’s on the other side, idiot.” She almost laughed. “Listen, this doctor had a filing cabinet. It was empty. Well, almost. There was a file with your name on it.”
He stared at her in surprise.
“Containing what?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” He didn’t believe her. “Who’s lying now?”
Martina exhaled.
“There were just two photos. A recent one of you. The other . . . of Ruth with Guillermo, from years ago. When he was little. Nothing else.”
“Fucking bastard!”
“Héctor, there’s something I need to ask you.” Andreu’s eyes expressed slight sorrow and great determination. “Where were you yesterday?”
He backed away, as if something had just exploded on his plate.
“It’s routine, Héctor . . . don’t make it more difficult for me,” she almost begged.
“Let’s see . . . The plane touched down just after four. I spent a good while waiting for my bag to come out and when it didn’t arrive I had to go to Lost Luggage, where I was for at least an hour. Then I took a taxi and went home. I was wrecked.” Martina nodded.
“You didn’t go out again?”
“I stayed home alone, half asleep. You’ll have to take my word for that.”
She looked at him gravely.
“Your word’s enough for me. And you know it.”

The heat had decided to concede a truce that evening and some low clouds had covered the sun. Because of that, and because he couldn’t keep going over what Andreu had told him, Héctor put on tracksuit bottoms and went out running. Physical exercise was the only therapy that worked for him when his brain was too exhausted to operate efficiently. As he ran along the seafront, Héctor contemplated the sea. At this time only a few stragglers remained, small groups wanting to take maximum advantage of the summer, and one or two bathers with the sea almost completely to themselves. Urban beaches were different, he said to himself, trying to ignore the nagging pain in his left calf: they weren’t at all heavenly or relaxing, but catwalks with disco music on which wannabe models shone an intense bronze, with bouncing boobs and gymnastic abs. Sometimes he got the impression that they did castings before allowing them access to the beach. Or maybe it was more a thing of self-exclusion: whoever didn’t comply with the stereotype found some other more distant sand on which to exhibit their soft flesh. But if at dusk the beach was half empty, the same couldn’t be said for the esplanade: couples with children, boys and girls on bikes, runners like him who came out whenever the sun permitted, vendors on foot who came back each year with the same stuff, seeming not to have heard the maxim to adapt or die. Round here, the city in the summer acquired the air of a Californian television series, with the
manteros
— blanket-sellers—providing an ethnic touch. There were even those who tried to surf in a sea without waves.

Little by little, Héctor accelerated the rhythm as his legs adapted to the exercise. He hadn’t done anything for almost two months: the Buenos Aires winter wasn’t conducive to running, and in fact he’d grown accustomed to running with that marine depth on one side and the two tall towers as a reference. The sea wasn’t one of turquoise waters, or anything like it, but it was there: immense, tranquillizing, the promise of endless space in which to submerge his thoughts, let them leave with the waves. A slight twinge in his calf made him slow his pace and he was overtaken by a kid with a cap, dressed entirely in black clothes two sizes too big, riding a noisy skateboard. The image reminded him suddenly of the file Savall had given him of that boy who’d fallen from the window, and the sea seemed to bring him back different worries to those it had carried away. They stayed with him. The photos of Marc Castells: some taken the previous summer, when he wore his hair longer and curly, and he was riding some inline skates on this very esplanade; the next from the spring, his hair closely shaven, more serious and no skates. And the last, forensic photos of a body that appeared tense, even when dead. He hadn’t had a peaceful death at all, though it was instantaneous, according to the file. He’d fallen sideways, from a height of at least forty feet, and the nape of his neck had slammed against the flagstones on the ground. A silly accident. A fall born of the lapse of concentration alcohol causes. A second’s distraction and everything goes to shit. According to this very file, Marc and two of his friends, a boy and a girl, friends of the victim since childhood, had had a little party in the Castells’ house, situated in the most uptown area, in every sense of the word, of Barcelona, taking advantage of the fact that the owners—Señor Enric Castells, his second wife and their adopted daughter—had gone to spend the long San Juan bank holiday in the chalet they had in Collbató, celebrating with friends. Around half two in the morning, the boy, Marc’s neighbor, had decided to go home; the girl, one Gina Martí, had “stayed over.” According to the file, she declared, practically on the verge of hysteria, that she had lain down in Marc’s bed “a little while after Aleix left.” The girl didn’t remember very much, and it wasn’t surprising: she’d been, by her own admission, the one who’d drunk the most. It seemed that she and Marc had had an argument when Aleix left, and, offended, she went to his bed, hoping he would follow her. She didn’t remember anything else: she must have fallen asleep shortly afterward and was woken by the cries of the cleaning lady, who found Marc’s body first thing on the floor of the courtyard around 8 a.m. the following day. It was supposed that, as he did most nights, the youth had opened the window and sat on the sill to smoke a cigarette. Some habit. As stated, he fell or jumped from there between three and four in the morning, while his girlfriend slept it off in the room below without hearing anything at all. Rather pathetic, but not very suspicious. Like Savall had said, no thread to unravel. Only one detail seemed to stand out from the scene: one of the panes in the back door was broken, and that—which on any other night might have been seen as an indication of something— had, in the absence of any other evidence, been regarded as just a typical occurrence on a night like San Juan, when kids throw fireworks and convert the city into something resembling a battlefield.

The esplanade was becoming emptier as Héctor moved away from the most popular beaches. His body was already beginning to show signs of fatigue, so he turned around and began the route back. It was after half past eight. He sped up in a long, painful sprint. He was out of breath when he arrived at his house, soaked in sweat. Someone seemed to be sticking an awl into his left calf, and he limped the last few metres separating him from the door of that old building on Pujades, the façade of which was crying out for urgent redecoration. Panting, he leaned against the door and took his keys from his tracksuit pocket.