The Whispering City (34 page)

‘Or because her death deprived him of what promised to be a good life, at least for a few years.’

‘You’re no romantic, Beatriz!’

‘I’m afraid not.’

She knew they could end up fighting again, yet she had no choice but to take that risk. She said, ‘Ana, I know I have the habit of telling people what to do, and that I can be somewhat demanding, but I have no alternative. Get yourself out of all this.’

‘Out of what?’

‘You don’t owe Abel Mendoza anything. You yourself realise that he set a trap for you when he said that Mariona valued your journalistic integrity. But don’t forget that he is a murderer. And what if he kills again? Or, even worse, imagine if the police arrest him and they find out that he spoke to you. You’ll be an accomplice.’

Ana chewed her lip. She got up and stuck her head out of the sitting-room window. Since her back was to her, Beatriz couldn’t see the effect her words had caused. After a brief silence she said, ‘You’re right. I have to talk to Castro. He isn’t going to like this.’

‘He’ll only like it less the longer you wait to tell him.’

‘Yes, but he thinks he has the case solved, that the killer is dead. He is pleased, the public prosecutor’s office is pleased, everyone is pleased. Even Abel Mendoza is pleased.’

‘But the case isn’t solved. Not really.’

‘You and your inconvenient truths, Beatriz.’ Ana turned around, smiling. ‘Tomorrow I’ll speak to Castro. It’s his business. This is too big for you and me.’

Those final words came as a huge relief. They meant that she and Beatriz were giving it up. That all of this was no longer hers to deal with. They would go back to their daily routines. For the first time in a long time, that last word glowed with positive implications.

45

Although Isidro claimed to read only the sports press, it was true that he read the newspapers – when, as was now the case, they were talking about him.

He wasn’t an experienced reader, or as touchy as some, which was why he had even enjoyed the mitigating features that had tempered Ana Martí’s first article on the resolution of the case, because they meant his name was featured more prominently: ‘According to declarations by Inspector Isidro Castro, who headed up the investigation’, and ‘In the opinion of the police officers investigating the case’, which was to say, his opinion and his alone.

‘Of all the deadly sins, pride is the least reprehensible because it is so very Spanish,’ he said to himself as he put down the newspaper with the new article on the table and gave it a few approving pats, like an obedient little dog. He was in a great mood.

Now all that was left was the paperwork.

They were going to bring the evidence they had gathered at the house in Martorell to the guys in the Social Brigade, who wanted to go over Abel Mendoza’s correspondence with the ladies to see if there were any paid carnal relations. He preferred not to know much about that, although he had trouble imagining how a man would do it – a male whore? It’s easier for the women, because they don’t have to do anything. But the men?

Several boxes were filled with letters, books, drafts… He was a real professional in his craft, that was clear. One of the slippery ones, like Boira, and maybe even better, because they didn’t have Mendoza in their records. Who knows how long he’d been carrying on that business, or other, similar ones, without them having the slightest clue? He was smart; he chose a type of victim who, mostly out of shame, wouldn’t turn him in. Maybe that was Señora Sobrerroca’s fatal mistake, threatening to shop him. They would never know. It was the sole blemish on an otherwise perfect investigation. Perfect? Something was keeping him from seeing it that way, the shadow of a doubt that he couldn’t manage to catch hold of, whose reason escaped him and which tinged the resolution with uncertainty. It wasn’t perfect, then, and not only because he owed one of the key clues to a rookie journalist.

‘Gratitude is a sign of a good upbringing.’

That was what his father had taught him, and he’d taught it to his children. Pride was a sin, gratitude a virtue. One compensated for the other. And the two went hand in hand a few minutes later, when he got a call.

‘Inspector Castro? This is Joaquín Grau.’

Castro sat up straight as a rod, as if the prosecutor could see him. They dispensed perfunctorily with the usual greetings and Grau got to the point.

‘Castro, we here at the public prosecutor’s office want to congratulate you on your excellent and prompt resolution of the Mariona Sobrerroca murder case.’

‘Thank you very much. It’s my job.’

‘Of course, and your duty, but it is only fitting to praise a job well done, to laud the fulfilment of duty, which is the foundation of the new Spain.’

‘…’

The good thing about receiving praise from a lawyer is that it contains more words, and goes on longer.

Isidro didn’t have the eloquence to offer in return.

‘Furthermore, I must commend you again, as I said, for the speed of your work at such an important and delicate moment, just before the Eucharistic Congress, when the eyes of the world will be on Spain and on Barcelona in particular. We want them to see a clean city.’

After Commissioner Goyanes had mentioned it, Isidro could no longer ignore the Eucharistic Congress. They talked about it on the radio, they mentioned it in bars, in newspapers, in the shops his wife went to. The guys over in the Social Brigade were going to be short-handed if they tried to get rid of all the indigents tarnishing the city’s image. But that wasn’t his problem. Because of the Congress, they had asked him to solve the case urgently. And now he was being congratulated for it. And still Grau wasn’t finished.

‘Castro, I consider you one of my best men, I’ve always trusted you and once again you have proved me right. Therefore, I want to express my deepest respect and my gratitude. Your sense of duty and your loyalty are worthy not only of praise, but of a tangible reward. Which is why I want you to know that I am going to nominate you for a promotion to Inspector, First Class. What do you say?’

‘Well… I… this… thank you so much, but…’

‘No buts allowed. You must accept.’

‘Of course. I am very honoured.’

‘That’s what I like to hear.’

Grau paused, cleared his throat and switched to a less solemn tone.

‘On a separate issue, I’ve read your preliminary report. Where is the material found in the house in Martorell currently located?’

‘Here, in an office.’

‘The prosecutor’s office is interested in inspecting it again. In a few hours, two of my assistants will come and pick it up.’

‘It’s just that Social have asked me for it as well.’

‘Social? What do they want it for? I’ll talk to them. Can I send my men right away?’

‘Yes, fine… But what is it you want?’

‘Well, as far as I’m concerned, mostly to be able to write a documented recommendation. I would also like to inspect the material found in Señora Sobrerroca’s home. Not all of it, only what’s there that has to do with her relationship with Mendoza.’

‘Of course; I will leave it ready for your men.’

‘One last thing. I suppose that Mariona Sobrerroca’s house is still sealed?’

‘Yes, of course, until the order comes…’

‘Well, I am going to inspect it this afternoon.’

‘But, is there a problem? Is something missing?’

‘No, there’s nothing. But you do realise that it’s a case with many facets, one of which has caused a stir in the higher echelons of Barcelona society, and we have to be careful. Even more so with the impending Eucharistic Congress. Do you understand?’

The truth was, he didn’t, but he didn’t want to answer back. Politics. His motto was, don’t get mixed up in politics.

‘You can have your men come and pick up the keys any time.’

‘Thank you, Castro. First-class Inspector Don Isidro Castro.’

But half an hour later, Isidro was knocking on Commissioner Goyanes’s door, not to tell him about his imminent promotion, but to give him the reason as to why it might not happen.

46

‘There’s material missing from the Sobrerroca files!’

‘What?’

‘Grau asked me to give him the documents, and when I went to look for them I saw that some things were missing.’

Goyanes stood up and went over to him. Even so, they couldn’t help practically shouting at each other.

‘Grau? What does he want them for?’

‘For his final report.’ Isidro didn’t dare mention his promotion, not under these circumstances.

Goyanes shot him a strange look. Isidro chose not to pursue that line of discussion.

‘But that’s not what’s important now; evidence has disappeared.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I checked carefully.’

‘What’s missing?’

‘The letters Mendoza wrote to Mariona Sobrerroca.’

‘Just those?’

‘No, mostly those, but also two packets of postcards and a bundle of family letters. I checked the inventory list.’

‘Where was the material?’

‘In my office the whole time.’

Goyanes looked increasingly worried.

‘Nasty business, someone stealing important papers out from under our noses. Best if this doesn’t get out. Not a word, not even to your trusted men, understand? We have to clear this up discreetly.’

‘And what do I say to Grau?’

‘I’ll take care of that.’ He paused before telling him, with a grin, ‘Don’t worry about your promotion.’

‘You knew about it?’

‘Of course. I’m not the Commissioner for nothing.’

With a hand on his back, he steered Castro towards the door.

‘Watch your men carefully. I will pull some strings, too. This looks like an inside job. Who would dare to come and burgle police headquarters?’

But as he walked down the stairs, Isidro remembered that there was someone who had had an opportunity to stay in his office, alone, and steal the papers: Ana Martí, while she was writing her articles.

He sent Sevilla to find her. ‘Go to her house, to the newspaper, wherever you have to, but bring her to me as soon as possible.’

‘Can I take a motorbike?’

‘Whatever you want, but get on with it.’

Sevilla rushed out of the door.

47

Blue sparks flew as the tramcar screeched to a halt on Balmes Street. First an elderly woman emerged, carrying a parcel from the Quilez grocery, one of the best in the city. She was followed by a young woman who looked like a maid and carried a shopping basket. Then the doorway was clear and Ana could get on. As she bought her ticket from the conductor, she spotted a seat free by the window and reserved it with a glance. Ticket in hand, she sprang over to it before some of the standing passengers noticed it. She sat down and smoothed her skirt. The tram got under way with a jolt. She looked out of the window, over the hats of the pedestrians walking by on the other side of the glass. Most of them went at a swift pace, as if they were trying to reach a better, safer, cleaner place.

She went over in her head what she wanted to say to Castro. It wouldn’t be easy to convince the policeman. And, if he did believe her, he most probably wouldn’t do anything about it. The case was solved, and they all seemed satisfied.

But Beatriz was right, what other option did she have besides talking to Castro?

At Plaza Cataluña, the tram braked abruptly. Ana had to hold onto the seat in front of her. Through the window she saw a boy running across the street with a pile of newspapers under his arm; that was what had made them stop short. The driver shouted at him angrily and the boy shot him a contemptuous look.

The tram took off again. Ana couldn’t help imagining Abel Mendoza putting a jacket on his dead brother before tossing his body into the river. ‘Cold is worse than hunger. Hunger makes us savages; the cold dehumanises us.’ Her father had told her that on one of the few occasions when he’d talked about being jailed on Montjuïc, knowing both hunger and cold. That was the root of his obsession with bundling the family up in warm clothes.

She alighted at Plaza Urquinaona and continued on foot to the police headquarters. Would she ever get used to that building? She wasn’t sure she wanted to.

She went up to the first floor where Isidro Castro’s office was. On the stairs she passed two men loaded with cardboard boxes that they held steady with their chins as they felt for the steps with the tips of their shoes.

She reached Castro’s office. The door was closed. Before knocking, she took in a deep breath, filling her lungs with smoke from Celtas cigarettes. She went in as soon as she heard the inspector’s voice. She was greeted by a look of fury.

‘Where were you? Sevilla is looking for you.’

‘I went to run some errands… Why is he looking for me?’

‘Close the door and sit down here.’ Castro pointed to the chair in front of his desk. She obeyed, somewhat frightened.

‘Is something wrong?’

‘Where are the letters?’

‘What letters?’

‘Mariona Sobrerroca’s letters. What other letters could I be referring to?’

‘In my house. What did you expect?’

Castro’s right hand began to quiver threateningly.

‘What are they doing there?’

The wrong reply in the wrong tone would surely earn her a slap, but Ana didn’t know which reply would be the correct one.

‘I have them carefully put away.’

Wrong answer, although the desk took the blow, a hard, heavy punch that preceded the inspector’s words: ‘How can you answer me with such impudence? Don’t you realise the situation you are in?’

‘What are you talking about?’

Castro looked at the ceiling impatiently.

‘I’m talking about the fact that you removed material from my office, evidence in a murder case, Mendoza’s letters to Mariona Sobrerroca, which, as you just confessed, you have in your house.’