The Ripper

by Carmelo Anaya

  32

  It wasn't a field trip for Radu. It was a business bringing in big money. So he wouldn't have gone alone.

  Bogdan is waiting in an office next to a big picture window. The sun's going down, red glowing along the horizon, the sun lighting up the greenhouses. Dirty yellow walls. Cheap desks and filing cabinets. Ancient computers. Un ambiente áspero.

  He's sitting on a chair in the middle of the room, two bored-looking civil servants with him.

  He stares at me warily. He looked better when he sunbathed and tortured women. Now he's aged ten years. He's gaunt and pallid. His paid holiday in the nick hasn't done him much good.

  I ask the two civil servants to leave

  and Bogdan sizes me up. Relief crosses his face when he realizes Malasana isn't coming.

  - 'He's waiting outside,' I lie slyly. 'He'll be coming in if I say so.'

  That wipes the relief right off his face.

  - 'What do you want?'

  - 'I've got some questions. I want answers. If I don't like them, he comes in. I only left him outside so you'd see I've come to see you in good faith.'

  I look around for an ashtray, but all I find is a leafy pot plant. I pull up a chair and sit facing him, the plant next to me. Pulling the photos out of my jacket pocket, I take care not to show them to him yet as I light both of us a cigarette.

  - 'The night of the video. When Radu drove Cristiana Stoicescu out to that house. You were with him, weren't you?'

  Bogdan looks taken aback at this line of questioning now, several weeks after we had him in the station. No one asked him about it then. He takes his time, shifts cautiously in his chair.

  - 'It's not about you. If you play nice, I'll speak to the prosecutor.'

  He looks at me questioningly.

  - 'Get it?'

  - 'You'll talk to him?'

  - 'That depends on you.'

  - 'What do you want to know?'

  - 'Were you there?'

  He nods his head, once.

  - 'Did you stay outside?'

  - 'Yes. In the car.'

  - 'Did you see these men?'

  I show him a photograph of Robot.

  - 'He opened the door. With another guy, he paid. Then this one took Cristiana inside to get ready.'

  - 'Did you beat him up for going too hard on Cristiana?'

  He laughs.

  - 'Not as tough as he looks,' he says, smirking.

  I show him a photo of Javier Macias.

  - 'Do you know him?'

  He sucks on his cigarette and purses his lips.

  - 'Whoremonger. I know him from El Garfio. But he wasn't at the house that night.'

  I show him the final photograph, not saying anything, watching his reaction. He looks up and stares at me. Then looks down at the photograph again.

  - 'I'm not sure.'

  We stick out cigarette ends into the dry earth of the pot plan and light up again.

  - 'It was dark. A guy drove up on a motorbike and went inside the house, he still had his helmet on. He was there for a long time. Then he left. He was wearing a cape and hat.'

  - 'What kind of hat?'

  I describe a top hat.

  - 'Yeah. One of those. But he had a mask on too. He went up to the bike, took off the cape and hat and mask and put on his helmet. I saw him from far off. Like I said, it was dark.'

  - 'Was it him?'

  - 'Could've been. If you want me to say it was him for sure in front of a judge, I'll do it.'

  Bogdan's calmed down a lot since we first met. Eager to cooperate now he thinks he's made a friend. He doesn't know I'm not going to put in a good word for him with the prosecutor. Exploiting and raping women makes me feel sick. He makes me sick.

  He hasn't identified the man, but I know it was him.

  I put the photos back in my pocket.

  - 'See ya.'

  - 'Dont forget about me, Commissioner. I'll do whatever you want.'

  I walk back through the lonely, shadowy corridors and jog down the stairs. I practically run to the car, start the engine and drive off, pondering my next next move. Another step forward in this sudden chain of events, the facts that refused to fall into place just a few days ago now lining up obediently, clearly pointing the way forward so all I've got to do is follow the path, leading me to... somewhere I'm not very sure about yet.

  I've decided not to overthink it. As I drive, the questions flit through my mind. What does this all mean? Is this going anywhere? Or is this just a wild goose chase? Ghosts from a nightmare, a flight of fancy turning my head?

  I decide not to assume, deduce or infer. Not to think, plain and simple. Keep my mind blank and let the facts speak for themselves, taking me where I need to go.

  Scared the garage will be closed and I won't be able to find it, I drive into the industrial estate and peel my eyes for the right unit. I ask a lorry driver, busy slamming shut his huge lorry. Three streets down, then turn right. A small unit at the back of the estate,

  the lights still on. I park next to some bodywork covered in rusty scratches. A man in his early twenties in grease-stained overalls comes out and says hello. A girl with glasses around the same age is sitting in a glass-walled office. She says Rosendo is at the back of the unit as she gets up and slings her bag over her shoulder. I thank her and walk through rows of cars awaiting their turn.

  A man in his late thirties, medium build, comes out of a paint room, dressed in overalls and protective goggles he leaves to one side.

  - 'What do you want?' he asks, his back to me.

  His voice is standoffish, and when he finally turns and looks at me there's a sneer on his face.

  - 'We're closing,' he says peevishly.

  - 'Not for me.'

  His ears prick up at my bristly response and he spins round, not missing a beat, used to being challenged.

  He smiles mockingly. Both front teeth missing. Bony face, stubble. Dark circles and unwashed, messy hair. He doesn't say anything, just pulls out a pair of mirrored yellow sunglasses and sticks them on his head. Just like his profile picture. Almost uncannily so. The heat rises to my cheeks and I know I'm not going to let him get off lightly. I miss Malasana, efficient as he is at solving these matters.

  But I stay calm long enough to show him my badge.

  - 'I'm going to ask you a few questions and I want clear answers. No beating around the bush. Is that clear?'

  - 'Not without my lawy-'

  But before he can finish his jokey sentence I smash my fist into his throat, grab him by the scruff of the neck and throw him against a nearby car. He bounces off it like rubber and falls to the floor, looking bewildered.

  I walk up to him and light up while he writhes around and then sits up, gasping for breath.

  - 'I won't say it again. What happened on the night of September thirtieth?'

  He lifts a hand to his throat and tries to swallow several times. He finally manages it, breathing so deep it seems he's sucking every last drop of oxygen in the unit into his lungs.

  - 'When... What?'

  - 'Up!'

  I haul him up and steer him to the office the girl has already left, throwing him into a chair and leaning over him.

  - 'What happened?'

  - 'You can't....'

  Some aren't too quick on the uptake. I aim a kick straight at his chest and Rosendo goes flying, crashing into the wall chair and all. The whole unit shakes. My blood is boiling and now I'm hungrier than ever for the truth, after all these weeks of frustration and humiliation. I'm drunk on the violence.

  He lifts a limp hand, pleading for a truce, then opens his mouth and starts talking.

  - 'I was in a car accident that night.' 'What the fuck is this?

  - What time? Who was the other guy? His car? What happened? Who were you with? Thirty seconds before I smash you again.'

  He lifts both palms this time, shoulders
heaving. His fingers are stained with paint.

  - 'We were at this bar...'

  - 'I don't care if you were drunk. Just tell me the truth.'

  He nods.

  - 'I'd had a few. Then that freak came out of nowhere.'

  - 'Where?'

  - 'Leaving Baria, the old Murcia road.'

  He could have been heading to the scene of one of the crimes, I think.

  - 'Go on.'

  - 'He was off his face, practically in a trance. Sleepwalking. Sleep driving, heh.'

  - 'Drunk?'

  - 'Nah. Like a maniac.'

  He touches his chest and winces.

  - 'It was a white Hyundai i40.'

  - 'Where did you hit him?'

  - 'He crashed into me.'

  - 'I don't care. What part of the car?'

  - 'His or mine?'

  I lift a hand in warning again, but I don't need to hit him this time. He curls into a ball and goes on.

  - 'The back left part of the Hyundai.'

  - 'Then what?'

  - 'The guy looked like a real weirdo. Retarded or mental. He wanted to leave. Big time. Said he didn't care.'

  - 'But you kept him there. Did you sign anything?'

  - 'Yeah. A contract. He took the blame.'

  - 'Have you got it?'

  He rummages in a drawer and hands it to me.

  - 'What else?'

  He sizes me up, eyes narrowed. But the thought of what I might do to him if he hides anything must cross his mind, because he says,

  - 'I took him to a cashpoint so he could give me the money. Thought it was best since he was special and all that.'

  - 'What time was that?'

  - 'Dunno.'

  I take a half-step towards him.

  - 'Half gone twelve, more or less. Yeah.'

  I look at him. 'One AM,' I say calmly.

  - 'Well. Later by the time we got to the cashpoint.'

  - 'Did he say anything?' 'Why was he in a rush?'

  - 'No. But he was almost in tears cos I wouldn't let him go.'

  - 'Do you know who he is? Did you know him?'

  - 'No,' he shrugs.

  I believe it. He's not the kind of guy who keeps abreast of current affairs.

  - 'Was he alone? Anyone with him?'

  - 'He was alone.'

  - 'You sure?'

  - 'Sure.'

  - 'Did he open the boot at any point?'

  - 'Course. He was looking for a torch, something else too, I don't remember what. Oh, yeah. La llave de la rueda de recambio para tirar de la chapa que tocaba la goma por el golpe.The jack so he could get the new tyre on.'

  I sit down opposite Rosendo now, thinking hard.

  - 'Which cashpoint did you take him to?'

  - 'The Santander one on Calvache Street.'

  Something to look into tomorrow morning. I light a cigarette.

  - 'Shut it,' I say when he tries to say something.

  Taking in the information, I smoke slowly. Very slowly. Trying to recall the timeframe, the possibility of being on Calvache Street at 1 AM and at the two crime scenes an hour later.

  - 'I was never here. If you tell anyone I was here I'll be back.'

  I get in the car, already knowing I'm on my way to Calvache. Then out to the gloomy spots I drove out to that night, staring powerlessly down at the dead bodies of two innocent women.

  I stop the car where Rosendo said the crash happened. Only a drunk and a madman could crash here, an intersection with enough room for four vehicles. I imagine Rosendo drunk and enraged, intimidating the crazed madman, hysterical with the task ahead. Maybe Rosendo had an epiphany there. Maybe Abdon Pascua thought about killing him. Or maybe Abdon Pascua was going to...

  I look around: my car in the middle of the intersection, emergency lights on, the other cars honking as they drive round it; many more than at the scene of the crime that night, the police stationed in every corner of the city.

  I start the stopwatch on my phone and take off for Devil's Mark. The city is mapped out in my brain and I take the fastest route. I need to know how long it would have taken Abdon Pascua to reach the scene of the first crime if he left this place at 1 AM. I even cut through along a dirt track outside the suburbs, onto the city bypass before taking another dirt track that leads out to Devil's Mark. As I approach Devil's Mark, shivers run down my spine, under the cold light of the lamp on the wall of the irrigating shed. Seventeen minutes. On the fastest route. He couldn't have got there in less time.

  But that night there were checks at every exit of the city, practically on every road. Could Abdon Pascua really have driven through the city at that time without being stopped, get onto the bypass unnoticed by the hundreds of police officers stationed along there and then pick up the kidnapped women and get out to Devil's Mark in under half an hour?

  I get back in the car and reset the stopwatch. Drive out to the Caravan Hotel. Twenty minutes.

  Abdon Pascua must have driven like a maniac to kill those two women that night. Raced over to where he'd hidden them. Left the car and got both of them in the van. Driven to Devil's Mark. Killed Naima Medari. Driven to the Caravan Hotel. Killed Sandra Okeke. Driven away in the van. Set it on fire. Escape on the motorbike. Got back to the safe house. And all of that without being noticed.

  Could he have? Maybe. Just a hypothesis, for now. No specific timeframe. But... even if it were possible. How did he do it? How could he drive around the city without being stopped?

  I get in the car again and sit there smoking for a while. Turning the new facts, the vents, the possible coincidences, sensations and gut feelings over in my mind. A potent mixture that threatens to blow up in my face. Because none of this is getting me anywhere. They're just vague ideas, conjurings, crazy hypotheses spinning through my imagination. It's been in overdrive since this all began.

  A WhatsApp message alert jerks me out of my reverie. Since the Ripper started sending me them, every alert on my phone feels like torture. They're waiting for me at Baria City Blues.

  I suppose I saw it coming. I can't just hide away.

  When I get there, the jury is waiting. Lopez and Malasana have already wolfed down a good number of sandwiches and now they sit looking solemn as I squeeze in between them, in my favourite corner, back to the wall. Without saying a word, Mike brings me over a beer and something to eat. I eat silently as Lopez and Malasana make conversation, giving me some time to settle in.

  When I finally have a G&T in my hand, they go for the kill.

  - 'Boss, what's going on? Whatever it is, we deserve to know.'

  Malasana doesn't bother with the niceties. I so enjoy it when he does that to other people.

  - 'We want the best for you, always. We want you to be protected,' adds Lopez.

  I take a gulp of my drink and plaster a fake smile across my face, trying to pretend everything is fine.

  - 'Nothing's going on. Everything's fine.'

  I shrug, but obviously don't pull off the innocent look, because Malasana raises his voice.

  - 'Like fuck it is! D'you think we were born yesterday?'

  - 'If I thought that, you wouldn't be sitting here.'

  Mike sits down with us, lighting up and shooting me a playful look.

  - 'Boss,' pleads Lopez. 'Please tell us what's going on.'

  - 'What have you been up to today?' asks Malasana, jaw clenched so tight I fear he's on the verge of throwing me one of those punches that left Macias out for the count.

  I pretend I don't notice.

  - 'Ran a few errands. Didn't do much. It's not my police station till the Madrid experts leave. Might as well have a break. And I'm suspended, don't you remember?'

  - 'Did you go out and see anything?' asks Malasana slyly.

  Fuck's sake. There's no way of doing anything in this town without someone finding out.

  - 'Did you forget something out at the jail. Co
mmissioner? Or are you shopping around for a new home?'

  Mike guffaws, enjoying the show.

  - 'Pigs! Trying to get the truth out of you but not one that knows how to lie,' he says.

  - 'You're investigating on your own, aren't you, boss?' says Lopez, attempting puppy-dog eyes.

  - 'Fine. I went out to see Pascua's psychiatrist. Wanted to hear his take on things, but he didn't tell me anything we don't already know. Pascua's a nutter. That's the big scoop.'

  - 'Sure. And then you went and had a beer. End of story.'

  Malasana's clutching his glass so tight it nearly shatters.

  - 'You don't believe Pascua is the killer,' says Lopez, the pained look on his face intensifying, his eyes practically misting over with tears.

  - 'I wanted to get a better idea of things, that's all.'

  - 'So why don't you explain that better idea, big shot?'

  Malasana and I stare daggers at each other. But Malasana refuses to back down. His dark, deep-set eyes bore into mine.

  - 'This isn't personal, Commissioner. You should share your thoughts with us,' says Mike placidly.

  Then he gets up, stretches and casually leans between us, as if we were about to pounce.

  - 'Peace, please.'

  And he whisks away our glasses to bring us fresh drinks. Lopez, visibly discomfited at the thought of a brawl between Malasana and I, tries to ease some of the tension.

  - 'Boss, we just want to know what's going on with you.'

  - 'Like we haven't been there by his side all along. Like he's done everything himself. Like we're nothing but a pair of useless shits,' spits Malasana.