“Impossible. Aráoz must be in his early thirties.”
“His father. He had the rank of captain in the army.”
Robson passed the cuttings over to Verónica, who studied them with amazement. There was the article from 1984 that linked Aráoz’s father with the murdered girl.
“There are no other articles about this case?”
“Aráoz is still being tried. The disappearance of the factory workers is part of a ‘mega case’ and no sentences have been handed down. But the girl’s murder wasn’t an act carried out as part of the repression of the dictatorship. Therefore, it is not considered a crime against humanity. In other words: it expired.”
“So he could still be sentenced for the other deaths, but not for the femicide.”
“Exactly.”
IV
That day, Verónica found four more incidents that had taken place in the last fifteen years. In most of the cases she and Robson separated out, the essential elements were the same: young women between fifteen and thirty-four whose bodies were left exposed to the elements – on the side of the road, on wasteland, in the undergrowth. Sexual assault was always the motive and the murders appeared to be criminis causae, murders committed to conceal the rape. There was definitely some improvement in the attitude of the press – and perhaps of the courts – in their treatment of these crimes. Coverage of the earlier cases included some tutting about the temerity of these young women in walking on their own or stirring the base instincts of men. More recent articles mentioned male aggression, although the word femicide was not yet used. In every case where the murderers had been found, the culprits were men.
But there was something else that linked these cases which Verónica couldn’t quite put her finger on. Reading over them all again she still couldn’t find the common denominator. Apart from the coincidence of the Aráozes, father and son. She could hear Patricia Beltrán’s voice saying You’ll know it when you see it. And that’s how she felt: that something obvious was right in front of her and she couldn’t see it.
She spent the whole day with Robson. When Federico came to get her in the evening, Robson invited him in. Federico told them that Aráoz was not the subject of any criminal proceedings, but he was facing a commercial suit: the fraudulent bankruptcy of a company exporting citrus fruits.
“You have to be pretty inept to sink an export company like that,” Robson observed.
“From what I could find out, he carried on trading but put everything in his wife’s name. So … nothing that the average Argentine with a bit of money doesn’t get up to.”
Just then Federico’s phone rang. Somebody was calling from the law courts to let him know Pae Daniel had been released on the grounds of lack of evidence.
“Pae Daniel suffers from severe lumbago. Luckily for him, on the night of the party he had to be taken urgently to hospital. What with all the waiting and his ongoing pain, he ended up spending the whole night in the emergency room. He didn’t go home until five o’clock in the morning. As you can imagine, there are lots of witnesses for all this. And there’s something else: according to the autopsy report, the marks on the girls’ bodies – which are part of a purification ritual in Umbanda – were made after their deaths.”
It made no sense that the DA didn’t know this about the marks, except in the context of a long-held antipathy between him and the judge, something Federico had learned about in the corridors of the Tucumán courts. Somebody had planted this false evidence to divert attention from the real culprits. What Federico couldn’t yet understand was why the people responsible had made the marks after the girls’ deaths and not before.
“Unless it wasn’t the murderers but someone else who had an interest in muddying the waters. Or who wanted to pin the crime on Pae Daniel.”
V
Once they were back at the house in Cerro San Javier, Verónica called Chief Superintendent Suárez. She wanted to know if he had been able to interview Guillermo Aráoz.
“Señorita, I’m a bit too old to be treated like a nincompoop.”
It wasn’t the answer Verónica had expected.
“I don’t understand —”
“Look, I’ve already said it would be helpful if you explained things better. And now you’re telling me that someone at the party was responsible for a similar crime committed a few years ago.”
“That’s exactly it. Guillermo Aráoz is suspected of having committed the rape and murder of Bibiana Ponce six years ago.”
“And he was at the party.”
“Yes.”
“You saw him there?”
“No, I don’t know him personally.”
“But you were at the party.”
“I wasn’t introduced to every single person there and I didn’t see Aráoz. But reliable sources have told me he was there.”
“He has a very strong alibi that refutes your assertion.”
“Alibis can be arranged, Chief Superintendent.”
“Don’t tell me how to do my job. Aráoz went on vacation to Europe with his wife and child a month ago. Unless he slipped back into the country without passing through Immigration, I think he has a very good alibi.”
Verónica was totally confused. She called Ramiro but his phone was either switched off or out of range. Several times she dialled the number again without reaching him. When she tried the gallery, the call went straight to voicemail. Verónica left him a message anyway, asking him to call her. Meanwhile, Federico was taking care of dinner: spaghetti with tomato and basil sauce. He had opened a bottle of wine and was stirring the pan where the sauce was cooking.
“Your cousin even has chopped onion in his freezer,” he said when he saw her come in. He poured a glass of wine, passed it to her and resumed his stirring.
“I didn’t know you could cook.”
“Only someone like you could think that making this sauce and boiling some spaghetti constitutes cooking. Have you spoken to the chief superintendent?”
“Aráoz is in Europe and Suárez thinks I’m full of shit.”
They ate at the kitchen table. When they had finished, Federico poured himself another glass of wine and walked out onto the veranda. Verónica tried Ramiro again, but the phone was still switched off. She washed the plates and tidied the kitchen before ringing him again. This time Ramiro picked up.
“You told me El Gringo Aráoz was at the party.”
“I told you that he could have been there. I don’t remember every guest.”
“But you knew this was too important to say the first thing that popped into your head.”
“Verónica, I told you what I thought. I didn’t realize it was so important.”
“Did you know El Gringo Aráoz’s father is also suspected of having raped and killed a girl?”
“People say a lot of things. I think you’re getting everything mixed up.”
Verónica hung up. She didn’t feel like speaking to him any longer. Ramiro called her back a couple of times, but she didn’t answer.
Walking out onto the veranda, she didn’t see Federico and turned round to go back inside. Then she heard steps behind her coming from the garden and spun round to see Federico appear, a glass of wine in hand.
“You bastard, you scared the life out of me.”
“Didn’t mean to.”
“I thought I was about to get shot. Look, my hands are still shaking.”
“Calm down and look at the sky. Tell me, which is your favourite moon?”
“Favourite? I don’t know – none of them. Isn’t there only one moon?”
“Phases of the moon. Mine is this one: the waxing crescent. Everyone loves a full moon, but I like the phase after the new moon when the curved sliver appears – the waxing crescent.”
“Fede, you wouldn’t be trying to seduce me by talking about the moon, would you? As a strategy, that’s roughly two hundred years out of date.”
“Did you know there’s a moon called the black moon?”
“Forgive me for cha
nging the subject. Why did Ramiro lie?”
“In what respect?”
“He obviously knew Aráoz wasn’t at the party. They’re friends, and he must have known Aráoz was on vacation in Europe. I appreciate he might not know if his friend had hopped over to Salta, but to Europe?”
“He might have lied to tell you what you wanted to hear.”
“I’m not convinced.”
“Maybe he lied because he wanted to send you in another direction. So you’d waste time and, bearing in mind what happened with the chief superintendent, so you’d lose credibility. Although he doesn’t strike me as someone who’s capable of planning anything much.”
“I obviously can’t trust him.”
“You sure know how to pick ’em.”
“Hey, Fede, there’s something I didn’t tell you.”
“When someone like you says that to me, I get butterflies.”
“Me too,” said Verónica, and fell silent. A few seconds passed before Federico asked:
“Weren’t you going to tell me something?”
“I had a thing with Frida.”
“What do you mean, a thing?”
“I liked her, we liked each other. What can I say. You know I’m not all that good when it comes to matters of the heart. Frida was an amazing girl. You would have loved her.”
“Aha.”
“I don’t know where things might have ended up if we’d had more time. All I know is what happened was like a lightning bolt.”
“So you like girls now? What about Ramiro?”
“Falling in love with a man is complicated enough, so imagine the shock to my supposedly heterosexual heart. As for Ramiro … in another time and context – if I was already thirty-five and about to turn thirty-six, for example – perhaps we would have gone out for a time.”
“I’m actually lost for words.”
They stood for a while looking at the sky.
“There’s something I haven’t told you,” Federico added.
“Go on then.”
“I watch lawyer shows.”
“You’re a fool.”
“It’s relevant. There’s a series from a few years back, Ally McBeal, about a thirty-something single lawyer. In one episode they’re talking about a guy, and her friend tells her three questions you should ask yourself to work out if a man is the one for you: could you have children with him, can you imagine yourselves growing old together, and would you pluck a strawberry dipped in cream out of his navel with your mouth and eat it? Can you see yourself doing those three things with Ramiro?”
“You shouldn’t watch so much TV. I’m going to sleep. We have to leave early for Yacanto del Valle tomorrow.”
Before bed, she put on some mentholated talc she found in the bathroom cabinet. It wasn’t a cure, but at least it soothed the itching a bit. She had a rash on her stomach and arms now, but it had gone down on her legs and luckily had not spread to other parts of her body.
VI
They were in the car, driving without talking. On the radio an FM station was playing eighties music. They were relaxed but alert, staying within the speed limit and respecting all the traffic regulations so as not to attract the attention of any passing police car. They had put the guns underneath the seats. Three had a false ID and a new mobile phone given to him by Five. Doctor Zero hated his men to mess up through foolishness or carelessness. While they were on the road, the phone rang. Only one person could be calling him.
“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Do you know Chipi Barijho?”
“Is he a soccer player?”
“He was. I think he’s retired. When he was playing at Boca, the idiot used to sneak out of training camp to go and play soccer with his friends in the shanty town. And what happened? He went and injured himself, the prick. That’s what happened to you. Don’t bring your home life to work. Understand?”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“Find the money and pay someone else to do the job for you, end of story.”
“Whatever you say.”
“You’re lucky, because this job is to do exactly what you wanted.”
“There won’t be any mistakes this time.”
“Let the pro beat the amateur.”
“That’s how it will be.”
“It had better be. I didn’t get you out of this fix so you can follow your dreams, but so you can work.”
Five told him that this time they weren’t going to stay in the area. They didn’t know how hard the gendarmerie and federal penitential service were looking for them in Yacanto. It would be better to stay in Tafí del Valle, a larger town with a lot of tourism. Their presence there wouldn’t attract any attention.
When they arrived at the hotel, Five left him in the room and went out. It was more than an hour before he returned. Now Three knew exactly what bothered him about Five: he acted as though he were the boss. True enough, Five had saved his life – but only on the orders of Doctor Zero. At no point had Doctor Zero said Five was in charge of this operation, and yet he acted as though he was the one taking all the decisions. Moreover, he had kept him away from the people doing intelligence. Three was going to let Five do things his way, but if he spoke again to Doctor Zero, he’d make his thoughts clear.
“I hope there’s a nightclub in this shithole, because if not we’re going to die of boredom.”
“There are nightclubs everywhere.”
Five beckoned him over to the table in the room. He had spread out a sheet of paper with hand-drawn plans.
“We’re going to be here a few nights. We’re going to do the job around daybreak, at the hotel where the chick’s staying. We go into the room and shoot her in the head. Nothing else. No talking, no nothing. A clean, simple job. Get it?”
“Do you think I’m a moron?”
“Not at all, pal. But I don’t want you suddenly thinking you’re the hero, or the boyfriend. There’s no talking, no contact with her. Is that clear?”
Three didn’t answer but stared hard at the sheet of paper with the drawings on it.
“There are two ways to do it: taking out a bunch of people, or the bare minimum. Option two is always preferable.”
Why was Five explaining all this to him? He didn’t need a lecture on how to do his job. Nor to be told why he should do it in a particular way. Before Five continued with his beginners’ course for hitmen, Three interrupted.
“Just tell me what you’ve got planned.”
“The hotel has two entrances, one for guests and a gate at the back. The back entrance is locked with a key at night until six o’clock in the morning, which is when one of the kitchen staff comes in and the suppliers start to arrive: soda water man, the butcher, the grocer. They arrive, dump their stuff and go. As soon as the hotel employee is back in the kitchen, we have to go in and make our way over here, to the area where the bedrooms are. Our little bird flew away, but she’s back in the hotel today and they gave her the same room she had before: number twenty-four. We shoot the lock off. Going in and out shouldn’t take more than two minutes. From there we head to Salta. A van will be waiting there to take us back to Buenos Aires.”
Not long to go now. Soon he would be face to face with the woman who had tried to kill him. He would do everything Five said. He wouldn’t speak to her, wouldn’t touch her, but he wanted to look her in the eye. He wanted her to know he was the one who was going to shoot her. He wanted Verónica Rosenthal to see him smiling before he squeezed the trigger.
11 A Silent Funeral
I
Federico and Verónica returned to Yacanto del Valle and found everything the same as two days ago: the television and radio mobile broadcast units were still in town, and there was still speculation about who had killed the tourists and how. Meanwhile, the police and DA seemed as lost as they had on the first day of the investigation.
Verónica was in her room writing up her investigations and the most recent developm
ents. Had she been wrong about a possible link between El Gringo Aráoz and the new crimes? Pae Daniel had been released without charge, but somebody had planted the evidence of black magic. Could it have been someone known to the Brazilian? Another priest, another practitioner of Umbanda rites? One of his followers? What could the motive have been? Mechi’s grandmother had known immediately that it was a fake macumba rite. She must speak to her again. Besides, she wanted to speak to Mechi about her sister. Verónica called her and they arranged to meet at quarter past six in Bar Amigo. The telephone in her room rang. It was Luca, to say Frida’s parents were about to leave.
Verónica went down to the hotel lobby and found Herbjørg and Karl ready to depart. They stood holding their little suitcases, their shoulders hunched. They were also taking the rucksack Frida had used during her travels. Verónica walked over to them and bid each a tender farewell. They had taken possession of Frida’s body, and that night a plane was leaving that would take them all home to Oslo.
“I never imagined I would be taking my daughter home like this,” said Herbjørg, struggling to contain her grief. Her eyes filled with tears. Verónica embraced her and, feeling that contact with Frida’s mother, began to weep herself. Herbjørg pulled away, looked at her and spoke with a mother’s firmness:
“Go away from here, don’t stay. This place is cursed.”
Karl took out his business card and gave it to Verónica.
“We’d like you to come and visit us.”
Moments later they were gone, and Luca brought her something that tasted like ginger tea. Verónica didn’t like teas, especially not the exotic kind, but she took it from him without demur. At no point had she felt she ought to return Frida’s MP3 player. She considered it hers, as if her friend had left it to remain present in her life.
She called María and suggested they have lunch together, since her friend had no live broadcasts at that time of day. They went to the Italian restaurant and found various journalists from Buenos Aires already there. They said hello, chatted about the case. They discussed the release of Pae Daniel and everyone expressed disappointment that the Brazilian had refused to speak to the press. Some of them had offered him good money to do so and he had angrily rejected it. While they discussed the crime, Verónica kept up a professional front. Nobody seemed to suspect she had known the victims.
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