The Whispering City

by Sara Moliner

  ‘My husband isn’t here. He’s at work.’

  ‘Surely you can be of help to us,’ said Ana, sitting on the opposite sofa. Castro followed suit. Claudia Pons gazed at her questioningly.

  ‘We met at Mariló Fígol’s coming-out,’ Ana explained to her. ‘I wrote it up for ¡Hola!’ Claudia Pons seemed to relax a bit. Ana hoped that Castro had noticed.

  ‘Poor Mariona!’ she said suddenly. ‘Who could have imagined it, that day?’

  ‘She was also at the coming-out,’ Ana explained to Castro before he had a chance to ask.

  Then she addressed Claudia Pons. ‘Terrible. Just as it seemed she was starting to get over the loss of her husband.’

  ‘Yes, poor thing. She’d stopped mourning a few months ago, although I must say black suited her, with that pale, porcelain skin, which she still had despite her age.’

  Ana avoided looking at Castro, to keep him from interrupting.

  ‘The last time I saw her it seemed that she was doing very well; she was quite rejuvenated,’ said Ana, making Conchita Comamala’s words her own.

  ‘Indeed. Even Anselmo, my husband, said so. He’s at work.’

  The last part was said in a tone reminiscent of children justifying a missed day of school.

  ‘That makes her death even sadder. Do you know of any reason that might explain this “rejuvenation”?’

  ‘Reasons, reasons… We’re always looking for reasons and motives. Why isn’t it enough to know that we are alive, healthy, have a roof over our heads and our daily bread?’

  ‘Do you know or not?’ interrupted Castro.

  He scared her with his impatient bark. Before she retreated like a snail into its shell, Ana intervened like a protective shield.

  ‘Forgive Inspector Castro’s somewhat brusque tone, but resolving this matter is the police’s top priority, and all information is of the utmost importance.’

  Claudia Pons looked at them, unable to decide which one she should address. She opted for Ana.

  ‘I didn’t want to seem like a gossipmonger, but I would say that poor Mariona had a beau. I think she wanted to hide it, because at her age, and being a widow… well, you understand. But she was invited to my middle girl’s First Communion celebration, and she said she wouldn’t be coming alone.’

  ‘When is it to be held?’

  ‘Next Sunday. Anselmo would have liked her to do it at the end of the month, during the Congress. He is very into symbols and these things, but I don’t want it to be during a mass event, where you can’t see her, and since the priest at San Justo church is a friend of the family’s, a cousin of…’

  Ana chose to interrupt her. Castro wouldn’t be able to stand too many digressions. ‘And Mariona didn’t say who she was planning to attend it with?’

  ‘No. I was dying of curiosity, because I hadn’t seen her in the company of a man since Jerónimo’s death. She only survived him by two short years,’ said Claudia Pons after a sigh. ‘I hope the same doesn’t happen to me.’

  Seeing the surprised expression on the faces of both visitors seated in front of her on the sofa, she added, ‘My husband is more than twenty years older than me. It wouldn’t be fair, would it?’

  After an hour of conversation, they left Claudia Pons grateful for the three hundred square metres of roof over her head and much more than daily bread for her supper.

  When they reached the bottom of the stairs, the doorman limped into the lift, closed the outer grille, shut the glazed inner doors and pressed a button. He ascended, very upright, and ignored their farewell waves.

  ‘You offended him,’ Ana said to Castro.

  The inspector shrugged. They left the building. Then she decided that now was the moment to analyse the conversation they’d had in the flat.

  ‘You see?’ she said triumphantly. ‘I’m not the only one who thinks Mariona must have been in a romantic relationship.’

  ‘You were very pushy about it. Why did you insist so?’

  ‘Well, because I think she had a date with him the night she was killed.’

  ‘Where’d you get that idea from?’

  ‘From the dress she was wearing.’

  ‘Maybe she was returning from somewhere when she surprised the thief in her house.’

  ‘The thief? If the culprit is a thief, he’s a very shoddy one.’

  They had reached the car. Castro stared at her with the key already inside the lock on the driver’s side door.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because for one thing, he didn’t take Mariona’s earrings. Maybe they fought because she didn’t want to give them up, and that was how he ripped her earlobe. But then, after all that, he left it behind.’

  Castro didn’t respond. He opened the door, climbed into the car and unlocked the other door so she could get in. He indicated she should sit down with a couple of pats on the seat.

  He started the car and pulled away.

  ‘And now?’ she asked.

  ‘One more. The last one.’

  In the station Castro had mentioned Isabel Mira.

  ‘Where does she live?’

  ‘Paseo de San Juan.’

  The mention of the street where she used to live was like a punch to the stomach.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  Castro drove slowly. She lowered the window, this time without difficulty. She appreciated the fresh air on her face as she contemplated the streets bustling with people. Where were they going? Why were they walking so quickly? There was no place to go; the entire city was the same, a uniform grey mass. Even the sea was grey.

  ‘Why didn’t he take the earring?’ insisted Ana.

  ‘He must have had a scare. He wasn’t expecting her to be at home. She surprised him, they fought and he killed her without meaning to.’

  ‘But once she was dead, why not take such easy booty?’

  ‘I told you, he got scared. A fight like that makes a lot of noise.’

  ‘But you won’t deny that what Conchita Comamala insinuated and Claudia Pons conjectured reinforces the idea of a relationship? And if so, why didn’t anyone appear after her death?’

  ‘He must be ashamed. The rumours…’

  ‘And you don’t want to know who it might be?’

  ‘Why? He’ll show up if he wants to.’

  Why was the inspector closing off that theory so categorically? Why was he insisting that it had to be a break-in? Convenience? A thief was less difficult than a possible lover who, given his silence, was perhaps a member of society who could cause problems for them.

  Castro’s voice to her left gave her a start.

  ‘I deduce from your silence that you’re wondering why I’m not following up on the lover hypothesis.’

  ‘But how can you —’

  The policeman cut off her show of astonishment.

  ‘Look, I’m not following it up because for the moment nothing points in that direction. Over the years I’ve seen enough to recognise a break-in and the traces left by a crime of passion, even when the killer tries to make it look like a break-in. You can tell by the way the drawers are gone through and how the contents are scattered, in the knocked-over furniture… Let me try to explain it to you, in case you haven’t read about it in some American book. When they fake a break-in, they knock down chairs. Why would a thief do that? To make noise? Somebody was looking for something in Sobrerroca’s home.’

  They reached Isabel Mira’s house. Around sixty years old, she received them dressed with the simplicity seen only in people who know that their lineage exempts them from social convention.

  Castro barely opened his mouth during the conversation with the patron of the arts. Ana wondered if it was because he understood that it was better that she spoke, or because he was already bored and didn’t want to have anything to do with whatever might be said. Either way, the image they formed of Mariona was very similar: she didn’t have great friends or, therefore, any real enemies, only a few people who d
idn’t like her much. To Ana’s disappointment, Isabel Mira didn’t mention, or even hint at, the existence of a new man in Mariona’s life.

  They headed back to police headquarters. On the way, Castro began to list the things that she could put in her article.

  ‘We are on the trail of a thief. We will soon find him, thanks to the collaboration of citizens who have given us valuable information.’

  ‘Is that true?’

  ‘That they’ve given us information is. Put that after speaking with several people close to the victim, they have all emphasised what a great loss her death is, and…’

  ‘You don’t have to dictate it to me. You’re going to read it anyway.’

  Ana couldn’t get the mention of that unknown boyfriend out of her head. Waiting at traffic lights, Castro turned to her and said, ‘Not a word about the story of the supposed lover.’

  She looked at him in surprise.

  ‘How do you do it?’

  ‘How do I do what?’

  ‘Know what other people are thinking… and choosing not to tell you.’

  Castro focused his gaze back on the traffic.

  ‘I’m from Galicia,’ was all he said before turning right on to Balmes Street. ‘So not a word. Understood?’

  ‘OK.’

  For the rest of the journey Ana stared out of the window.

  Soon they reached headquarters. On a table in the inspector’s office she saw several cardboard boxes and files piled up. Castro noticed her curious gaze.

  ‘Yes, they are documents on the case.’

  Ana was barely able to keep herself from stepping towards them.

  ‘The dead woman’s personal papers.’

  ‘Can I…? It would help me to build up a picture of Mariona Sobrerroca.’

  She didn’t want to tell him that she had learned from the American press that there was a particularly attractive component for readers, something they called ‘human interest’. His reaction to her quoting Raymond Chandler had already shown her that he wouldn’t appreciate it.

  ‘I would only mention things that would help readers get to know the victim a little better…’

  The inspector looked at her with an amused expression, although he tried to show annoyance. ‘You’re as insistent as Chinese water torture! But I don’t want you to think that I’m ungrateful. You helped me a lot this afternoon. If you want, have a look at the things in that box. Sevilla’s already been through them. But if you find the solution to the case, don’t hesitate to let me know.’

  He laughed half-heartedly at his own joke and, before leaving the office, said, ‘I’ll tell Sevilla to bring in the typewriter so you can write the article.’

  While she was waiting for the officer to arrive, she started to look at the material. Mariona Sobrerroca’s life passed before her eyes in no particular order: photos of winter holidays, a furrier’s receipt, postcards from friends, invitations, letters, brochures, magazines, press cuttings. She had made a small album of her appearances in the society pages. Ana found many of her own articles there. Mariona also saved all the invitations she had received: a collection of large cards that were a chronicle of Barcelonian social life over the last few years. There was also another packet with postcards; Ana could have used them to make a guide to her favourite places, from San Sebastián to the Swiss Alps. In an album of sorts, she had saved the condolence cards she’d received after her husband’s death. A professional letter writer such as herself couldn’t help noticing how formulaic almost all of them were. She set aside the few where she thought she could make out a hint of real grief.

  All of a sudden some handwritten letters caught her eye. She read them. They were love letters. So it was true that Mariona had – what was it Claudia Pons had said? – a beau. She had been right. She smiled triumphantly. She had to tell Castro, show him that bundle of letters. Then suddenly she realised that the inspector already knew, since they had examined the material. So she hadn’t discovered anything; at least, nothing that the police didn’t know and hadn’t already deemed irrelevant. It seemed Castro was quite convinced about his break-in theory.

  A voice behind her made her jump.

  ‘Here’s the typewriter. What are you doing, looking at those things?’

  ‘Inspector Castro gave me permission.’

  ‘What a chore! I had to read all that crap, pardon me. It’s all just precious nonsense. Well, maybe you’ll like it.’

  ‘Goodness, thanks. Can I copy some of the documents?’

  ‘What did the boss say?’

  ‘That I can look at all I want.’

  ‘But he didn’t say anything about writing, did he? I’d better ask.’

  He returned shortly.

  ‘He says that you can copy what you want, but to remember that you can’t publish a single line about any of it without his permission.’

  That said, he stood in the doorway.

  ‘It’s hard for me to concentrate with someone watching.’

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  He left.

  Ana put paper into the carriage and started to copy some of the documents: the letters from the boyfriend; the less stereotypical of the condolence letters; also a few of the bills demanding payment from a furrier, a dressmaker. She didn’t have a very clear idea of what she wanted to do with them, just the vague impression that Mariona Sobrerroca’s papers could help her understand the dead woman’s life better. María Eugenia de las Mercedes Sobrerroca i Salvat, according to a birth certificate she also copied.

  She copied it all word for word. She typed very quickly, but still had trouble stifling the occasional giggle at the obvious affectation of some passages of the love letters signed by a person calling himself ‘Octavian’. When she had finished, she put the copies in her bag so Castro wouldn’t see them and regret his generosity.

  Then she began to write her article.

  When Castro returned, she was still writing.

  ‘I’ve almost finished.’

  Castro didn’t have a chance to answer; the office door opened after a few knocks. A policeman entered followed by a whiff of alcohol and tobacco.

  ‘What do you want, Burguillos?’

  ‘Commissioner Goyanes wants to see you, Castro.’

  Ana turned; the man’s lisp had caught her attention. He must have been around forty; his thinning hair made it hard to be more specific. He wore a narrow pencil moustache that failed to hide the disproportionate thickness of his upper lip compared to his lower one.

  ‘Again?’

  Just then Ana pulled the paper out of the typewriter carriage. She handed it to Castro, but he waved it away, saying, ‘I trust you. Don’t let me down.’

  Castro left without closing the door. Burguillos stayed in the office as she gathered her things. He had approached the small table that held the information on the Sobrerroca case and was openly browsing the papers in front of Ana, who didn’t dare say anything to a policeman. She stepped out of the office and closed the door behind her. Sevilla was at the end of the hallway talking to another policeman. He broke off his conversation and approached her.

  ‘Is that it? Can I take the typewriter?’

  ‘Yes.’

  He went into the office without saying goodbye to her.

  She hadn’t taken even a single step further before she heard angry voices from inside.

  ‘What are you doing here, Burguillos?’

  ‘Well, if it isn’t Sevilla…’

  ‘Come on, get out. If the inspector finds you’ve been snooping around in his things, he’s going to haul you over the coals.’

  ‘Fuck’s sake! I was just having a quick look.’

  ‘Get out. I hope you haven’t messed all this up.’

  Ana slipped away so that they wouldn’t catch her snooping as well. She pressed the bag with her article and the copied documents close to her side and walked swiftly out of the headquarters.

  17

  It held up. Beatriz went over all the steps one mo
re time. When she was at that point in her work, she always imagined it as a rope ladder. She had to control each rung. Would it break with the next step? She climbed it again in her mind. Every once in a while she looked down at the books on her desk. The argumentation was solid; Beatriz tensed the ropes, thinking of possible counter-arguments and jotting down those that seemed particularly cogent. But she could refute those, too. No, there was nothing more to say; her thesis was well constructed. And the best part was that she would give a conference about it in Tours, then she’d write her article and publish it in a prestigious French journal specialising in the subject. It wasn’t just going to sit in a drawer. She would write it up and people would read it.

  Satisfied, she leaned back in her chair.

  Then Encarni came through the door.

  ‘Can I make you a coffee, Professor?’

  Why not?

  ‘Sure. I’ll be there in a moment.’

  She emerged from her office. When she sat down at the kitchen table, her eye was drawn to a tin of powdered milk that Encarni had put there.

  ‘Why have you bought that?’

  ‘Because of the refrigerator, ma’am.’

  Encarni looked at her as if she were from a distant planet and generously put three heaped spoonfuls of powdered milk into the cup of hot water.

  The refrigerator was made of wood, painted white and had to be filled regularly with blocks of ice. Encarni hated it with all her soul. She opened the drawer that held the ice with noisy tugs and shoved it back into the old contraption with the same aversion and no less noise. Every time she turned the spigot to let out the thawed water, she spoke to it like a nurse bringing a bedpan to an annoying patient.

  ‘Come on, now we’re going to do a little wee-wee, we’re very old and not good for much, just for pissing in the chamber pot. Come on, let’s see you do it.’ The spigot creaked when she turned it and the water started to come out. ‘Good job. Look at you go.’