Water-Blue Eyes

by Villar, Domingo

  ‘The conference started on the seventh,’ she read, placing it on the desk. ‘The doctor left the previous day, if I remember correctly.’

  That ruled out Doctor Alonso, as he was several hours away by plane at the moment of the crime.

  ‘You can come by next Wednesday or Thursday, inspector. The doctor will be back by then.’

  ‘It won’t be necessary.’

  Leo Caldas and Rafael Estévez stood up to leave.

  ‘One last thing, doctor,’ said Caldas. ‘Are there any other areas where formaldehyde is used?’

  She looked at him once again like his yellow-toothed teacher.

  ‘Of course, inspector. It’s used in operating theatres. They need to preserve tissue during many procedures, for example in biopsies, to name a simple one that you can understand. However, as I’ve already explained, we’re not talking about cyanide. Anyone who may need formaldehyde, be it a doctor, a nurse or a laboratory assistant, can come along and take any quantity they need without giving any explanation.’

  14 May felt autumnal from the moment the sun rose. A cloak of fog had come in from the mouth of the ría during the night, and it threatened to linger well into the morning.

  After their visit to the General Hospital, the two policemen went over to the Policlinic in their search for suspects, where they met with similar success. The attending who received them could not think of someone familiar with formaldehyde who matched the characteristics that Caldas secretly attributed to Luis Reigosa’s murderer. As for the list of male staff working in operating theatres, it comprised upward of two hundred and fifty people in those two hospitals alone. At least for now, Caldas decided to focus on the pathology departments, where the real experts worked. As Guzmán Barrio had said in the autopsy room, one needed quite a bit of specialised knowledge to inject formaldehyde into someone’s genitals.

  From the list Isidro Freire had given them, they still had to visit the Zuriaga Foundation, but Caldas wasn’t expecting much there either. He was beginning to realise that the health sector was a close order, a far cry from those areas where malicious gossip is an everyday thing. No doubt the recent barrage of lawsuits filed against hospitals for negligence had forced health professionals to watch over each other’s backs. It wasn’t that odd; something similar was happening in the police force.

  They got into the car and Caldas told his assistant to head for the Zuriaga Foundation on Monte del Castro.

  ‘That’s the hill up there, right?’

  Caldas confirmed this was so.

  ‘We have to go up in the direction of the park. After that, I’ll guide you.’

  Monte Castro was an elevation that dropped all the way to the sea. At the top were a castle and a park with a belvedere. The panoramic view of the city and its ría was a must on the tourist circuit, and the guides told legends of naval battles and sunken treasures. The Castro owed its name to an important archaeological discovery made many years ago in the area. In the first century AD, the Celts had built a fort or castrum, taking advantage of the drop and the unevenness of the terrain for their protection. They had never understood, those Celts, that a town could be built on those steep hillsides. Many centuries later, the new inhabitants still questioned the idea, but in any case Vigo had been erected precisely on these hills.

  Caldas approached the service desk. The spacious lobby blended glass and granite, as did the other five storeys of the building. The Zuriaga maternity clinic, a small concern founded seven decades ago, had been successively renovated until it had become the most important private hospital in the city. It still delivered the children of the best families in Vigo, but several years ago it had also become a Foundation with many other interests. On its welcome sign, Caldas counted sixteen medical specialisms.

  The second of these, in alphabetical order, was anatomopathology. The inspector asked after the head of the department.

  ‘The head doctor is a woman,’ specified the receptionist, and gave him her name. Then, pointing to the lifts: ‘Third floor.’

  Third floor and third woman, thought Caldas, hoping that this one would treat him better than the one at the General Hospital.

  She listened to him attentively before she spoke.

  ‘We do indeed work with formaldehyde. We store it in the next room. Please come with me.’

  The doctor showed them a few boxes stacked up in a room adjoining her office. Caldas could see that the Zuriaga Foundation didn’t have any security measures in place for it either.

  ‘Most of it is used in our department. The rest in operating theatres.’

  ‘Of course, for biopsies.’ Caldas didn’t need another lecture. ‘Are there any men in your department? Any doctors or nurses?’

  ‘No, we’re two women doctors and three female nurses.’

  ‘I should have thought so,’ said Caldas tersely, resigning himself to getting only a register of the staff who worked in the operating theatre. He’d been hoping for a male specialist, a homosexual one if possible, to materialise right there and then, but he was reconciling himself to the idea that he’d have to work on a list of hundreds of names.

  ‘Could you point me in the direction of management?’ he asked, in order to get that list and leave as soon as possible.

  Inspector Caldas and Officer Estévez walked into the top-floor offices. Through the glass wall they could see the westernmost side of the ría, which was still enveloped in fog. Had it not been for the fog, Caldas thought, they might have seen the twenty floors of the Toralla tower.

  Across from the lifts, on the granite wall, hung a huge oil portrait of an old man with white hair and a prominent nose. His name was on the bottom of the canvas, along with a date and an inscription: ‘Happiness lies in health, Gonzalo Zuriaga, 1976’.

  They asked the girl at the desk for the list of surgeons, nurses and assistants, personal information included.

  ‘I’ll have to check,’ she said. ‘Just a moment.’

  The girl withdrew to a back room to make a call. There were a dozen people working in the other offices, but no one else in the management area.

  Estévez asked his boss what they were going to do once they had the list of staff who had access to operating theatres:

  ‘What do you have in mind, inspector – call in the quacks one by one and check which team they play for?’

  ‘I thought of locking them up with you and arresting whoever offers to give you a foot massage.’

  ‘I’m being serious, inspector.’

  ‘Have you got a better idea?’

  The girl, who’d left her headset on the table, came back with an answer.

  ‘Would you mind showing me your ID?’

  ‘Of course, I’m Inspector Caldas,’ he said, showing his badge.

  ‘Inspector Caldas? Are you the one from the radio?’

  ‘Yes, from the radio,’ his confirmation sounded like a lamentation. ‘And this is Officer Rafael Estévez.’

  ‘You’ll see how it’s all plain sailing from now on,’ whispered Estévez when the young woman went to relay the information to her interlocutor at the other end of the line.

  ‘Sure,’ replied Caldas.

  When the girl returned, she looked more relaxed.

  ‘Doctor Zuriaga asked me to make anything you might need available to you,’ she announced. ‘He also says he’s sorry for not being able to see you in person, Inspector Caldas, but he hasn’t been well the last couple of days and is resting at home. If I understood correctly, you’d like a list of all the staff with access to the operating room, is that right?’

  Estévez smiled as he saw the turn the inquiry was taking once the girl had learned the identity of his superior.

  ‘Would that be possible?’ asked Leo Caldas.

  ‘Is it OK if I print out the list of all the doctors and I point out the surgeons?’

  ‘That would be perfect,’ confirmed the inspector, ‘but we also need a list of the nurses and any assistant that may have access to the op
erating rooms.’

  ‘Only the male staff,’ qualified Estévez.

  The girl took a seat at a nearby computer.

  ‘The system doesn’t distinguish gender,’ she explained. ‘I think we’d better print the whole thing and then mark the men.’

  She then pressed a key, and a dot-matrix printer loaded the first page at the other end of the office.

  ‘It’s a pleasure to find people as kind as you,’ added Rafael Estévez winking at the girl, who smiled and stood up to go and collect the printout.

  Caldas found it difficult to recognise his assistant in this flatterer with the beaming smile. He’d thought Estévez’s inclination to barbaric acts would have kept him away from the roads to love.

  ‘Rafa, are you flirting?’ he asked in a low voice.

  Estévez spoke into his superior’s ear.

  ‘Now I know why you became inspector so fast,’ he whispered, ‘you’re a real Sherlock.’

  Caldas didn’t reply. He deserved Estévez’s mocking answer.

  The girl came back with the printout and a highlighter.

  ‘Here’s the list. We are all on it, from the first to the last in alphabetical order. This is me, see?’ she announced happily, placing the highlighter on the page. ‘But I’m afraid I’m not a man.’

  Next to the fluorescent yellow dot, the policemen read: ‘Diana Alonso Zuriaga. It couldn’t be a coincidence.’

  ‘Are you related?’ asked the inspector, looking at the enormous painting on the wall.

  ‘He was my grandfather on my mother’s side,’ she replied.

  ‘You’re lucky not to have his nose,’ joked Estévez.

  ‘It was a close brush,’ said Diana cheerfully. ‘The nose passed down to my uncle Dimas.’

  ‘Dimas Zuriaga?’ asked Caldas, who’d heard that name on many occasions.

  ‘Yes,’ she answered, ‘Doctor Zuriaga is my uncle. He inherited grandfather’s nose, and his hair.’

  And his clinic, thought Caldas while looking at the painting. Old man Zuriaga’s hair was as white as the dressing gown in which he had sat for the painting. The inspector, for the first time in two days, had the feeling he was on the right track.

  Estévez joked again about hereditary traits and the girl laughed heartily. Caldas couldn’t remember the last time one of his comments had made a woman burst out laughing.

  ‘If you like I’ll start underlining the names of the people who have access to the operating theatres,’ she offered, waving the highlighter around.

  ‘Yes please,’ agreed Caldas, flicking to the last page. ‘But just let me see one thing.’ The name he was looking for was on it. He gave the printout back to the girl.

  Sense

  The noonday sun, quickly dispelling the fog, heralded another hot summer day. At the ría, through the remaining mist, one could make out the flat-bottomed boats lined up like a fleet of ghost ships.

  Inspector Caldas was sunk in the passenger seat with his eyes closed. The shrill ring of his mobile brought him back to reality.

  ‘Two things – is that animal you call your assistant there with you?’ asked Superintendent Soto at the other end of the line. He didn’t sound too cheerful.

  ‘Yes,’ answered Caldas dryly.

  ‘Do you know what he did last night?’

  Caldas would rather the superintendent told him.

  ‘Last night?’

  ‘Leo, don’t beat about the bush. If you know, just own up.’

  ‘No idea, sir.’

  ‘It seems he went out hunting.’

  ‘Hunting?’ asked Caldas, as if he hadn’t understood.

  ‘Hunting. Your assistant went to a gay bar on Arenal, sat in provocative poses, and kicked the first guy who went near him. Apparently, he kicked him so bad that he hurt his foot, because soon enough he had taken off his shoe and was bashing him in the face with its heel. He’s a complete lunatic. It seems that, meanwhile, he threatened people with his gun, so no one dared approach as he finished the job.’

  As always when they talked about Estévez, there was an element of truth and a lot of fantasy.

  ‘A couple of lawyers from one of those poncey firms left my office only a half-hour ago,’ went on Superintendent Soto agitatedly. ‘They want to file a lawsuit for injuries. Today.’

  ‘I can’t make head nor tail of what you’re telling me. Couldn’t they have mistaken him for someone else? Perhaps it wasn’t him.’

  ‘I don’t care if it was him or not,’ roared Soto through the receiver. ‘Estévez is a barbarian. He’s clocked up fourteen complaints in only a few months. Do you think that’s normal?’ Caldas tactfully fell silent, and the superintendent went on yelling. ‘Well I don’t, Leo. We’re the police force, have you not read what it says on your badge? The police, the good guys, the guys who go after the bad guys. We’re in charge of keeping public order. That’s what they pay us for, not to let seven-feet tall aggressive psychopaths out on the loose, armed with handcuffs and a regulation gun. What the hell’s the matter with you? Can’t you at least control him?’

  Caldas thought it wasn’t the moment to explain he couldn’t.

  ‘Are you sure of what you say, sir? I was with Rafael all night and I didn’t see him attack anyone. But since he’s here I’ll ask him. Just a moment.’ He moved the mouthpiece away and addressed his assistant: ‘Rafa, were you at a gay bar yesterday beating anyone up?’

  Estévez looked at him in consternation, and Caldas had to point to the road for the car not to end in a ditch.

  ‘He says “no”, sir. I think on this occasion it’s a mistake.’

  ‘Leo, I do hope, for the good of us all, that you know nothing about this.’ The superintendent took a moment to calm down. ‘The other reason I was calling is that Reigosa’s car has turned up.’

  ‘Where?’ asked Caldas. He hated his superior’s habit of telling him the good news last.

  ‘On a hill, on the other side of the ría.’

  ‘Is forensics there?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve already sent Ferro over, though I’m not sure it’ll be worth it. They set fire to the car before abandoning it and it’s completely burned out. If I’m not mistaken, you can kiss that line of inquiry goodbye.’

  ‘One less,’ muttered Caldas before ringing off.

  The house was surrounded by a stone wall, the thick branches of a hundred-year-old yew tree jutting out. Estévez parked the car at the entrance. Leo got out, rang the bell and announced himself to the maid. He had to insist, saying he’d only take a few minutes of the doctor’s precious time.

  The huge mechanical gate slid open, revealing a paved driveway. Once inside, the car was flanked by the kinds of trees which had covered the Galician hills before the invasion of the eucalyptus: yew and pine trees, strong oaks, haughty birches, two enormous chestnut trees with twisted trunks, and the odd weeping willow.

  A bit further down, the driveway took the shape of a circle, which went all the way up to the front door, so that vehicles could approach the foot of the stately steps anticlockwise and carry on in the same direction on their way out. By the side of the road were camellia shrubs and rhododendrons, which gave plenty of flowers all year round. Caldas remembered seeing an entrance like this one, even if considerably larger, at a castle he had once visited with Alba on a trip to the Loire valley.

  The maid, dressed in a cap and apron, waited at the door, and asked them to follow her to the back of the house. They walked past a number of open windows, which aired an enormous dining room and a library with wood-panelled walls crammed with books. They also caught a glance of the imposing stone staircase leading up to the top floor.

  The doctor’s employee led them to a back porch.

  ‘You may wait here,’ she said tersely, pointing to some wicker chairs around a rustic table under the porch. Its slate roof was overhung with voluptuous purple bougainvillea flowers.

  In contrast with the forest at the front of the house, a thick blanket of grass extended before them,
a green peninsula jutting into the ría. The yard ended in rocks on all sides, and the sea whipped up its white foam against them. A sailboat was moored to a stone quay protected by a breakwater. A path cut across the grass slope like a scar, passing by an old pond turned into a pool, and descending through the azaleas to the quay. Caldas reckoned the property’s waterfront must be nearly a kilometre wide.

  According to an old Galician proverb, ‘If it has a chapel, a dovecot and a cypress, it really is an ancestral home.’ Caldas didn’t know whether or not Zuriaga’s place housed either of the first two, but it had plenty of nobility.

  ‘Nice gaff they’ve got here!’ exclaimed Estévez when the maid had left them. ‘Who is this guy anyway, a maharajah?’

  ‘In a way,’ replied Caldas.

  Although he hadn’t reached the title of maharajah, Doctor Zuriaga was an important personage, and the Foundation he directed was hardly your run-of-the-mill health institute.

  Dimas Zuriaga’s father, Don Gonzalo Zuriaga, had devoted a room on the ground floor of his maternity clinic to his collection of Galician painting. Following in his footsteps, the son had channelled some of the Foundation’s funds towards the sponsorship of the arts, until it became the main cultural driving force in the city. In its modern exhibition salon, which housed the permanent collection in the centre of Vigo, one could find most of the avant-garde figures of European art. The special exhibitions were often mentioned in the Sunday papers and the culture supplements of the broadsheets, which gave the Foundation an air of distinction. Artistic patronage aside, the fame of the Zuriaga Foundation as a health centre kept growing, and in the last few years it had seen a boost in revenues.

  Doctor Zuriaga watched over all these activities. He’d given up his work as a surgeon quite some time ago in order to devote himself entirely to the management of the institution.

  He had turned the small maternity clinic into one of the economic and cultural engines of Galicia, but he did not give interviews and refused to make public appearances. Called to explain his reluctance to take centre stage, he claimed the Zuriaga Foundation was not the fruit of his personal work but the responsibility of a whole team.