Verónica lit a cigarette and sat down in the square, observing the town’s growing hubbub. To one side, a little market of food and artisanal products was just beginning to open up, even though there were no potential customers yet. Her phone rang. It was Federico.
“I have news of Adriana Vázquez. Two of her sons work for Nicolás Menéndez Berti. As labourers.”
“Whoa.”
“They’re two boys in their twenties who live with their parents. The dad is also a farm labourer in the area. But the boys haven’t been home since the day before the bodies were found.”
“We have to go and see that woman.”
“No, we don’t have to go anywhere. I called Judge Amalfi and brought him up to speed. He told me he would bring her in to make a statement.”
“And how do we know the sons aren’t at home and that they’ve been missing since that day?”
“That comes from the judge, who’s a bit pissed off because he has to investigate the DA alongside these boys.”
“Is he Superman or what? When did he find that out?”
“I spoke to him a while ago. I gave him the lowdown about the woman yesterday.”
“And you’re only telling me now?”
“Vero, this isn’t a race for a journalistic scoop – which you have anyway. It’s to see justice done. And that’s what the judge is there for. I was going to tell you this morning but, what with everything that happened at the hotel, I didn’t get the opportunity and I wanted to press on.”
“The judge will screw it up. He’ll ruin everything.”
“Of course, whereas we’ll solve everything without a hitch.”
“And the DA?”
“Judicial infighting. If one says black, the other says white.”
“And Nicolás? Two of his workers could be implicated. What about him?”
“Good question. I don’t know the answer.”
Leaving aside the fact that Federico had gone to the judge first, Verónica felt for the first time that the case was beginning to move forward. They had found the loose thread in a ball of wool and now they just needed to pull it.
II
The relief of the last few hours evaporated when Federico heard what was happening with Peratta and his accomplice. They weren’t going to be moved to San Miguel until Monday. From there Peratta would be transferred to Buenos Aires to serve out the rest of his sentence, with more time added for his latest misdeeds. Until then the two criminals would be kept in the police station in Coronel Berti which, although a bit bigger than the one in Yacanto, was hardly a maximum-security prison.
While giving his statement about what had happened at the hotel, he took the opportunity to talk to the chief superintendent about the danger posed by the two criminals. Suárez insisted that every precaution had been taken to ensure the prisoners did not escape. On Monday he would hand them over to the National Guard to be transferred. There was no danger.
Even so, Federico was worried. A criminal fugitive, shot and gravely wounded, had reappeared with precise intelligence and an accomplice. This wasn’t a simple case of personal revenge. It looked like organized crime. And when one professional assassin fails, another is sent in their place. Who had ordered the murder of Verónica, and why?
III
Ramiro surprised her by arriving a few minutes before their date, looking happy. He told her that he had been taken aback by her call, that he had been planning to get in touch but was frightened she would reject him. That he thought they should pick up where they had left off and proceed slowly but implacably.
“Implacably,” Verónica repeated, trying to understand what the word meant in the context of what Ramiro was saying.
They arrived at the club. Verónica suggested they drop by the restaurant, where they had a gin and tonic because it was still early for lunch. She observed the other members of the club. None of them was the Captain Aráoz from the photos Federico had shown her the previous night. Ramiro asked how the investigation was going, but Verónica told him nothing. She was beginning to regard Ramiro as someone not to be trusted.
They went to the boathouse and had the boat brought out. On the lake, Ramiro let Verónica take the wheel. They didn’t stay out long because Verónica wanted to have lunch.
They returned to shore and went to the restaurant. Ramiro was hungry and she a little uneasy. They ordered a plate of Gruyère and prosciutto, followed by cannelloni alla rossini and a bottle of Navarro Correas red. Verónica picked at her food while looking round the restaurant: no sign of Aráoz. Perhaps this time he wouldn’t come? Had Federico been misinformed? She was asking herself these questions when Aráoz walked in with three other older men. They greeted the occupants of some of the other tables as they passed, then sat down at one beside a large window looking onto the lake. She had expected him to be taller, more imposing. But Aráoz was of average height, slim but with a belly. He was wearing a light blue sweater tucked into brown trousers and boat shoes a shade darker than the trousers.
At that moment the waiter brought their coffee. Ramiro started telling her something about the gallery. Verónica interrupted him:
“That’s El Gringo Aráoz’s father, right?” She pointed out the man in the blue jumper.
“Yes, do you know him?”
“I still haven’t had the pleasure.”
Verónica put the napkin that had been lying across her lap beside her plate. She stood up and walked over to the table beside the window.
“Excuse me, are you Captain Guillermo Aráoz?” she asked.
“Retired Captain,” he confirmed with a smile. His four companions watched her.
“My name is Verónica Rosenthal.”
“Rosenthal,” Aráoz repeated.
“Yes. I’m a journalist for Nuestro Tiempo magazine.”
Aráoz’s smile became a rictus. It was clear he was making an effort to appear calm.
“You’re wasting your time, Señorita. I’m not going to talk about a case that unfairly persecutes men who fought for their country.”
“Forgive me, Captain, that’s not the case I wanted to ask you about.”
“Ah, very well. Then tell me how I can help you.” Aráoz looked at her with a mixture of paternalism and a certain lascivious intent. The other three watched expectantly.
“I hope you can help. Do you remember Claudia Rinaldi?”
For a few seconds Aráoz seemed to be searching his memory.
“I don’t know the name.”
“That’s understandable. A lot of years have passed. What was your relationship with Claudia Rinaldi?”
“I’ve just told you I don’t know who that person is.”
“What I’m not sure about is whether you knew her as a child or a little before Claudia was found, raped and murdered, on the outskirts of Yacanto del Valle in 1982. Do you remember?”
“Please leave us now.”
“Did you take her to a party? Were some of these gentlemen also there?”
“Leave now, Señora,” said one of the other men in a voice loud enough to draw attention from diners at other tables.
“Did you rape her alone or were other men involved? Does your wife know that you used to rape women?”
Aráoz stood up, his fists clenched. Ramiro had also got to his feet but stayed standing beside his chair, not daring to approach the table. The restaurant had fallen completely silent.
“One last question, Captain Aráoz: how did you manage to avoid an investigation?”
“Go away immediately. I’m going to call security to have you removed from the club,” said one of the other men at the table and tried to take her arm, but Verónica briskly shrugged him off.
“Don’t bother, I’m already leaving. I recommend the cannelloni. They’re very good.”
IV
Ramiro and Verónica had never seemed more like a couple than on the journey home from lunch at Club Náutico. Ramiro was furious and Verónica, her mind racing, was trying to fend off his attacks.
“You’re out of your mind.”
“Ramiro, it’s OK. We left.”
“That isn’t El Gringo, that’s his father.”
“I know. Do you think I’m stupid?”
“So why did you pick a fight with him?”
“Because he probably killed and raped a girl in 1982. And if that’s not enough, he’s a royal bastard who’s only now facing justice.”
“What are you, a communist?”
“Ha ha. Everything’s fine, Ramiro.”
“So now you’re laughing at me on top of everything else.”
“No. I’m definitely not laughing. The other girls were killed the same way Frida and Petra were. If there’s no investigation, all these crimes will go unpunished.”
“I don’t understand you. You spent barely a week with those girls and now you won’t let it go. I understand that you’re upset, but you’ve been way out of line with what you’re doing from day one.”
“What am I doing?”
“Digging in the shit. As though you enjoyed it.”
“I’m not going to argue with you. I apologize if I made you look bad at the club.”
“You need to find a calmer way of dealing with all this.”
“Perhaps, but I’m not going to stop until I see the men responsible behind bars.”
Verónica was thinking of ringing Patricia. She had an article in mind. In fact, she was so focussed on the idea that when she got out of the car she gave Ramiro a kiss on the mouth. A short kiss, a peck, but enough to leave him confused as he watched Verónica disappear into the hotel.
Walking past the reception desk, she saw Luca.
“Since I’m no longer in any danger, can I go back to the room I had before?”
“As you wish. You’re welcome both in our house and in the hotel.”
Luca passed her the key to her old room and Verónica moved her things over, along with Petra’s rucksack and guitar. She still hadn’t decided what to do with her friend’s belongings. Once she had settled into the room, she called Patricia Beltrán.
“You’d better be ringing about something important, because you’re interrupting my day off.”
“God, of course, it’s a Saturday. That’s the problem with being on vacation – you lose track of the days.”
“I spent ten years working Saturdays or Sundays at the newspaper. I can assure you nobody in their right mind would do it willingly.”
“Look, do you have a double or a triple free? I have a piece that might fill it nicely.”
“I can pull the article on famous people’s pets.”
“What’s your opinion on dachshunds?”
“Dachshunds?”
“Yes.”
“Is that your piece?”
“Seriously, what do you think of them?”
“That they’re horrible.”
“OK. Anyway. I’m in Yacanto del Valle. My investigation has thrown up at least twelve similar crimes in the area in the last fifty years. Almost all of them seem calculated: a young woman between fifteen and thirty-five, sexually assaulted then murdered, her body discovered later lying in an open space: roads, wasteland, etc.”
“They’re all unsolved femicides?”
“In some cases the men responsible went to prison, in others people were arrested but it was never clear if they were the actual criminals or stooges, and half of them walked free.”
“OK, it sounds good, but I imagine there’s more to this than the body count.”
“Imagine a town divided by a dangerous road that has to be crossed every day. What’s the statistical probability of being hit by a car?”
“Well … high.” “However careful you are, however many times you look both ways, there’s a chance you’ll get hit and, in fact, there will always be someone who gets run over. So what probability is there of being raped and murdered in a place like Yacanto del Valle if you’re a woman moving around on her own?”
“I don’t know, but it’s certainly much higher than if you’re a man.”
“Exactly. Do you know what the most dangerous road a woman has to cross is? Impunity. The social impunity that sees these crimes as a fact of life, accepted by everyone.”
Patricia liked the pitch.
“Oh, and I’ve also got material for a sidebar. There’s an ex-military man here who’s being prosecuted for crimes against humanity during the dictatorship.”
“In the Tucumán mega-trial?”
“Yes. The same man was identified as being responsible for the rape and murder of a girl. But since that had nothing to do with his criminal activity in the military, nobody investigated it. There’s nothing to go on.”
“Let’s give him the benefit of the doubt.”
“He tortured, raped and murdered political activists. Let’s just say there’s a pattern of behaviour that could have spilled over into his civilian life.”
“Write your sidebar, but end it with what you said: his previous history, the possibility he may have reoffended outside the political sphere.”
“How long?”
“Nineteen hundred words. Including the sidebar. Are there any pictures?”
“Robson has copies of the original articles.”
“That won’t work. Leave this with me. Send me the list of cases on Monday morning. And the piece first thing Tuesday.”
There were days when Verónica thanked her lucky stars she had Patricia Beltrán as an editor. With Beltrán it was always yes or no. She hated hesitant editors, the kind who accepted an idea for a piece then started changing it. Another editor might recast this article she was proposing to Patricia as a piece on the insecurity of life in small towns, or fifty years of rapists loose in Tucumán, or Argentina’s ten most horrific crimes. Hesitant editors cast doubt on the journalist’s ability to write the article, the editor-in-chief’s capacity to understand it and the public’s desire to read it. They ended up asking for the same piece that had been published a year ago in the same magazine, or the previous week in a rival publication, or that morning in the Spanish newspaper they read to signal their cosmopolitanism. Patricia, on the other hand, was clear about what she wanted and what she could get out of her writers. And she always had something to contribute. She really listened to the pitch and, even at the ideas stage, was beginning to edit the article. Verónica, knowing that her editor always made useful suggestions, noted down some of her thoughts.
She called Roxana, who had been a friend of Bibiana’s. It wasn’t hard to arrange a meeting, doubtless because Mechi had already used her powers of persuasion. But she couldn’t meet Verónica until Tuesday. She lived in Banda del Río Salí, on the outskirts of San Miguel de Tucumán. Verónica thought that perhaps she shouldn’t put too many details about the Bibiana Ponce case in her article. She didn’t want to reveal too much for fear that someone would start leaning on Roxana. Better not to show all her cards.
V
Saturday afternoons and Sundays were just for her. Mechi might help her grandmother around the house and with the animals, but the rest of the time she could do as she pleased. That Sunday, around midday, she found a corner at the back of the property where she wouldn’t be seen by her grandmother. She had bought a packet of cigarettes and was thinking of smoking. It was the first time she had done it. Mechi lit the cigarette with some difficulty and drew on it. She coughed, pulled on the cigarette again and, even though the smoke went in her face, it was better than the first time. The taste wasn’t that great, but she didn’t hate it. When she had finished the first cigarette, she lit another one. Now she tried to imitate the style of Verónica when lighting it. She put the end in her mouth, lowered her head a little, glanced up and tried to speak with the cigarette between her lips as she lit it.
“Tell me, Mechi, how do you manage to be so intelligent and beautiful at the same time?”
And removing the cigarette she answered herself:
“I was born like that, Verónica. It’s a pity no one in this shithole ha
s noticed.”
She took a long drag and this time managed to blow the smoke out and up almost as well as Verónica.
“They haven’t noticed that you’re beautiful, or that you’re intelligent?”
Mechi began to feel slightly nauseous and put out the cigarette with her shoe. When she got paid she was going to buy some sandals like the ones Verónica wore, although she probably wouldn’t be able to get them in Yacanto del Valle. She wondered if Verónica had a boyfriend and what a boyfriend from Buenos Aires would be like. One day she would leave this town for the capital and she too would have a Buenos Aires boyfriend, handsome and with a wild beard.
Her grandmother had told her that Pae Daniel had said the person behind the cockerel sacrifice was a crazy old woman who lived on the road to Los Cercos. There were a lot of weirdos round here. She needed to get out.
Mechi hid the cigarettes and matches under some bricks. If it rained, as forecast, they might get wet, but she didn’t want to take them inside the house. On the way to her room, she remembered the crazy old woman who had made Rosalía’s life impossible. Her friend was going out with a very handsome boy called Sebastián. Rosalía was striking and seductive, with lots of men in her past and now Sebastián under her spell, and the boy’s mother didn’t like her one bit. The old bat started putting lots of hexes on her. She threw salt in the doorway to her house and left her a doll with broken legs and no head. Once, as Rosalía was coming out of school, the woman threw a strange dust over her. Rosalía ran after her that time. If she had caught the old woman, she would have killed her. But the truth was that Rosalía did start to feel unwell. She kept getting diarrhoea. Her head hurt. There were days she thought she might be going blind. And one day she confessed to Mechi that her body had started to smell really bad. That she had to use masses of deodorant, loads of soap. When she finished with Sebastián, all her problems disappeared. Never mind how handsome he was, she wasn’t going to go out with the son of a madwoman for all the gold in the world.
And what if it was the same old madwoman?
The Foreign Girls Page 24
