“You look on the pale side, Maria del Mar,” her colleague insisted.
“Deputy-Inspector Alsina-Graells, if you don’t mind, Serra. And stop getting on my nerves.”
“Hell, I’m really sorry. It’s just that everyone calls you Maria del Mar…”
The aspiring mosso Marc Serra decided it would be better to shut up and concentrate on his driving. The Deputy-Inspector was clearly not having a good day. Better not harass her. If she wanted him quiet, he’d keep quiet, but for heaven’s sake it wouldn’t do any harm if she told him what the hell they were going to investigate in Vic when they had Marina Dolç’s murderer locked up in the Model.
“Mrs… I mean, Deputy-Inspector, at least you could tell me why we’re going to Vic,” he asked just as they were almost there.
“Serra, I’m sorry, I’ve got a very bad headache today.” That seemed like an apology. “You’re right, I should tell you what it’s all about.”
She paused, wondering how to angle her explanation. She didn’t want to frighten her colleague, but sooner or later he would have to know the kind of monster they were after in Vic. She knew that Serra had been assigned to her for two reasons: first, because he’d studied Catalan literature, since both victim and suspect were writers; second (and this was her assumption), because he was as tall as a lamp post with a useful physique if anyone tried to mix it.
“Don’t get into a state,” the Deputy-Inspector began, “but there are rumours going around that this isn’t the first murder committed by the suspect. Moreover, the rumours point to him having rather strange eating habits.”
“You mean he’s vegetarian? That he prefers a macrobiotic menu?” suggested Serra, for whom a jamón serrano roll or Majorcan spicy meat were pure ambrosia.
“No, Serra, by strange, I mean strange. Cannibalistic, to be precise.”
“Fuck!… I mean, heavens!”
“It’s important not to alarm anyone, right? We’ve got to approach the matter with the utmost tact. Imagine the panic that might spread through Vic if this news got out.”
“Count on me,” Serra assured her. “I give you my word.”
Suddenly, as if the news the Deputy-Inspector had given him had hit home, Serra gave a start.
“But we won’t find anything nasty in Vic, will we? I did what the psychologist told me and went to see lots of films full of blood and guts, but I still can’t get used to…” he said anxiously, beginning to sweat.
“Serra, if you faint like last time, I swear I’ll put in a complaint and get you expelled from the force. Who’s ever heard of a mosso who’s afraid of a drop of blood?”
“Doña, if it’s a small wound… But I really can’t stand mutilated bodies or corpses that have been opened up down the middle. I told the shrink that.”
“Psychologist, Serra, psychologist!”
“Sorry, Deputy-Inspector. Do you want me to park here?”
Deputy-Inspector Alsina-Graells had decided they would first visit Amadeu Cabestany’s home to talk to his wife. It was half-past ten and she knew Mrs Cabestany didn’t go out to work. She hoped she’d not gone shopping or taken her daughters for a walk.
“Don’t you think it would be better to ring first?” asked Serra, who wasn’t as dim-witted as the Deputy-Inspector thought.
“I’d rather catch her by surprise and not give her time to think… Serra, not a word about the cannibalism business, right?”
“Don’t you worry, boss.”
After checking it was the right address, the Deputy-Inspector knocked at the door. Mrs Cabestany – Clara to her friends – opened it immediately, and as soon as she saw a couple of mossos in uniform, she looked even more stressed. She was wearing no make-up, had bags under her eyes and looked tired. She seemed to have lost several kilos in a few days, because the clothes she was wearing – jeans and a crumpled, short-sleeved blouse – looked big on her. Her hair was dyed brown but a closer look revealed a number of grey roots. She’d obviously not been to the hairdresser’s or bothered to see to her hair herself, so she looked both down and dowdy. The Deputy-Inspector, who’d attended a course on the subject, realized she was thoroughly depressed and made a mental note of her state of mind. After introducing herself and showing her badge, she politely enquired whether she could ask a few questions, but didn’t seem to leave her any option.
“Come in, if you wish, I don’t know what else I can tell you…” she said nervously as she ushered them into her living room. “Are there any developments? Have they let him go?”
The Deputy-Inspector shook her head. The Cabestanys lived in a smallish, very central flat that was modestly but tastefully decorated. In the living room there were a couple of ashtrays full of butts and a number of strategically scattered boxes of tissues. The walls were lined with bookshelves, mostly poetry written or translated into Catalan, while the smell of stew from the kitchen made Serra feel peckish.
“The girls are on a school trip. They’ll be back this evening…” she explained as she invited them to sit down and made every effort not to burst into tears. “Well, if there are no developments, you must tell me what you want to know.”
“This is a routine check,” began the Deputy-Inspector, trying to use a light touch. “I know your husband is currently the main suspect, but that doesn’t mean we can’t find new evidence that could lead us to rethink our investigation,” she declared as if she were quite convinced of that.
“But do you think he did it?” piped up Clara as she dried her eyes with a tissue.
“Do you think he is capable of doing such a thing, Mrs Cabestany?” asked the Deputy-Inspector, intelligently firing her question back at her.
Tears streamed down Clara’s cheeks again, but she tried to stay strong. Her world had collapsed on her eleven days ago, and she’d been trying to answer that question ever since. Could her husband, who was so sensitive and vulnerable, smash a woman’s head in? She should have said: “Of course not! My Amadeu couldn’t kill a fly! You’re crazy!” But she didn’t. In fact, Clara was absolutely beside herself.
“I… would never have imagined he could do such a thing,” she mumbled, “but if the police are so certain… he’d set so much store by that prize!…”
“So you did know about it.”
“Not exactly. I knew he’d been acting strange for days, but he’d not said anything to me about entering for a prize. He told me just before going to Barcelona.” She seemed slightly resentful. “When he did so, he told me he knew for sure that he’d won and made me promise not to tell anyone. Poor fellow! He seemed so sure he’d get it!…”
“And had you noticed anything strange recently? I mean, were you having any problems, was he spending lots of time away from home or did he seem unusually hungry?…” she asked tactfully.
“‘Did he seem unusually hungry?…’ What do you mean?” The question not only sounded stupid, it was stupid.
“Mrs Cabestany.” The effect of the painkiller the Deputy-Inspector had taken was beginning to wear off and she was on the verge of showing her foul temper. “We are the ones asking the questions, if you don’t mind. Now, does your husband like cooking?”
“Does he like cooking? How the hell is that relevant?”
“Just please give me your answer,” said Deputy-Inspector Maria del Mar, getting increasingly agitated. “Any small detail can be vital.”
“Well, he sometimes cooks, when his friends or the family come for lunch…” she admitted, rather put out. “He always cooks the paella. And his pasta dishes are always very good. But why do you need to know?”
“And is he a hearty eater? Does he like gutting chickens or chopping up rabbits?” the Deputy-Inspector persisted, unable to think of any better way of broaching the suspect’s culinary preferences.
“Look, miss, I don’t know what all this is leading up to, but—” Clara was beginning to think, quite reasonably, that these mossos were making fun of her.
“Deputy-Inspector. I am a Deputy-Inspector. Ple
ase answer the question or—”
“I know these questions may seem strange, Mrs Cabestany,” intervened Serra diplomatically, “but we are trying to assess your husband’s personality using the latest test from the United States to determine whether he’s the kind of person who is capable of committing a crime.”
On this occasion, the Deputy-Inspector gave her colleague a look of gratitude. She was conscious her foul mood had been about to divert the conversation down a cul-de-sac. All in all, that boy wasn’t perhaps as simple as she’d thought.
“All right then… If it’s a test from the US… Amadeu never cleans anything, chicken, rabbit or whatever. He likes to cook, but he’s one of those men who needs helpers, if you know what I mean…” she added, trying to smile through her tears.
“And has your husband been coming home later than usual or behaving strangely?” continued the Deputy-Inspector, making an effort to soften her tone of voice.
“You mean is he having an affair?” The Deputy-Inspector hadn’t in fact been thinking of that possibility, but rather whether he disappeared now and then to go down to the woods or elsewhere to prepare a carpaccio of human flesh. “Well, I’m not entirely sure there isn’t something going on with Clàudia what’s-her-name, the woman who acts as his agent.” She paused to smile her long-suffering smile. “You know what it’s like being married to a writer… The fact is, I prefer not to know. We have two daughters, and I’m not… I wasn’t prepared to break up my marriage if I found out he was carrying on with someone. If it was just an affair…” she shrugged her shoulders and wiped her eyes again.
Most conveniently, the telephone rang at that moment. Clara Cabestany whispered, “Excuse me,” and went to pick the phone up. From the one side of the conversation she could hear, the Deputy-Inspector deduced it was a relative or friend who wanted to know how she was or if she had any news. Clara ended the conversation with the excuse that someone was knocking at the door. She didn’t want to have to embark on explanations about the fact that two mossos were interrogating her about her husband’s culinary preferences or his little bit on the side.
“That’s a really nice smell coming from the kitchen,” said the Deputy-Inspector. “Have you by any chance got one of those freezers that are the size of a wardrobe?” she asked, trying to make her question sound innocent enough, but it didn’t work.
“A freezer the size of a wardrobe? You must be joking!… I don’t know how we’d fit one into this flat.” Mrs Cabestany was beginning to think Deputy-Inspector Alsina-Graells wasn’t right in the head. “Why on earth do you ask such a question?”
“The Deputy-Inspector is thinking of buying one and can’t make her mind up about which make…” lied Serra.
They all went silent, not knowing what to say next. As Deputy-Inspector Alsina-Graells couldn’t ask Amadeu Cabestany’s wife to her face whether her husband was in the habit of keeping human organs in their refrigerator or had any favourite cut for a Sapiens sapiens steak, she was at a loss about how to proceed. She was livid, and to a point it was justified. It was absurd what she had been asked to do! Her superiors had sent her to Vic to investigate whether there was any truth in the rumour relating to the suspect in the Marina Dolç case and cannibalistic practices, but what the hell did they expect her to do? The Deputy-Inspector knew there was someone behind that order who simply wanted to cover their backs in case they came under fire in the future. Someone who could put on record that he’d sent a couple of mossos to Vic to investigate and spare himself any responsibility if the shit hit the fan.
“We’ll leave you in peace now.” The Deputy-Inspector began to head for the door. “By the way, how old are your daughters?” she asked, looking tenderly at the photo of the two girls in the entrance hall.
“Eulàlia will be eight next month and Lara five in October,” Clara said, bursting into tears again. “I do hope this turns out to be one big mistake. Just imagine, having to live in this place, with their father on murder charges…”
Deputy-Inspector Maria del Mar, who was from Cardedeu, preferred not to imagine what that would be like. She knew from experience how quickly towns and small cities could become hellish. If she’d not been in uniform, she’d have advised her to change city, to go to Barcelona, as she had, or to any city where no one knew her and where people had better things to do than interfere in other people’s lives. But she didn’t say a word. Vic was a small city, a wealthy, conservative city, and the honest locals wouldn’t forget a homicidal neighbour overnight. What’s more, if the rumours about Amadeu Cabestany’s cannibalistic tendencies were confirmed, those girls and their distraught mother they had just questioned would soon need good psychological support and a place where they could start afresh. The Deputy-Inspector sympathized mentally with Clara Cabestany, while she wondered, wracked by doubt, if bringing children into the world was really worthwhile: a world packed with violent murderers, pederasts, rapists and now even… cannibals. Not to mention drugs and prostitutes. What was the statistical probability her son or daughter, if she finally did manage to procreate, would bump into one such felon before his or her eighth birthday. One in a thousand? In two thousand? In a hundred thousand? Deputy-Inspector Maria del Mar decided she’d consult the statistics as soon as she was back at the station.
“Where are we heading now?” asked Serra when they were back in the car.
“To the suspect’s school. They’re expecting us at twelve thirty,” she said, looking at her watch and seeing they only had fifteen minutes.
They were there in five. They were met by a tall, thin, fair-haired man with a beard, who introduced himself as the Director of Studies. Joan Tamariu was forty-two and a maths teacher. He was wearing old jeans, a faded sky-blue T-shirt imprinted with an image from a comic and red Old Star shoes. From behind his spectacles, his deep blue eyes made the Deputy-Inspector flip. It had been a long time since anyone had looked at her like that and she felt weak at the knees.
By that stage in June, classes and exams were over and hardly anyone was at the school. The headmaster was on a training course in Barcelona and there were only two porters about. Not a single pupil was to be seen. The Director of Studies explained he was getting next year’s timetables ready, took them to his office and asked them to sit down.
“Reconciling timetables is a sight more difficult than solving a murder case, I can tell you…” he smiled as he moved aside the rocky piles of paper heaped on his desk.
“You’re the Director of Studies, so I assume you must be well acquainted with Amadeu Cabestany?” began the Deputy-Inspector.
“The fact is that I’m in Social Sciences and don’t really have much contact with Cabestany,” he said, still staring deep into her eyes. “I’m really sorry, but I’ve not been able to track down a single one of his colleagues from the literature department now classes have finished…”
“I’m fucked if I’m going to the school on Tuesday to talk to the police about that shit Cabestany” and “I don’t care a fuck about that stuck-up sod Cabestany and besides I’ve got an appointment with my depilator tomorrow” had more or less been the responses he’d got from teachers in the department when he rang to ask them to drop by the school on Tuesday.
“What we’d really like to know is what kind of person Amadeu Cabestany is,” said the Deputy-Inspector, taking the initiative. “If he’s liked by his colleagues, if he’s peculiar in any way…”
“Well, he’s quite withdrawn. We call him ‘The Marquis’ in private.”
“Marquis de Sade… sadism,” reflected the Deputy-Inspector. “I suppose,” added the Director of Studies, shrugging his shoulders, “that he thinks he’s a literary genius, condemned to earn his bread teaching a collection of ignoramuses. But I wouldn’t say he’s any more peculiar than the others. This school has its fair share of eccentrics.”
“What do you mean exactly?”
“Well, the philosophy teacher talks to himself in the corridors… The Latin master washes his hands in t
he lavatories at least thirty times a day… The English teacher sometimes turns up dressed as a drag queen…”
“In other words, you’re the only normal guy around here?” commented the Deputy-Inspector, ironically returning his look.
“I teach maths. That automatically makes me a baddie,” he smiled. Serra got the impression the Director of Studies liked Deputy-Inspector Maria del Mar a lot.
“What about Amadeu Cabestany? Does he do strange things too?” continued the Deputy-Inspector.
“Well, Amadeu avoids his pupils like the plague and locks his office door as soon as he can. But he’s a man who doesn’t want any problems. He always passes everyone, even those who don’t turn up for the exam. When the boys in his class are playing up, he lets them get on with it and simply starts reading. Reading his own stuff, I mean. We’ve had to warn him a couple of times on that count.”
“Has he ever had problems with young pupils? I’m just asking, you know. I’m not suggesting anything,” added the Deputy-Inspector.
“Well” – the Director of Studies shrugged his shoulders – “I don’t know if he has ever had that kind of problem, but I can tell you if Amadeu had ever tried it on with a girl student, he’d have stopped after getting a good slap in the face. I mean, I can’t imagine any of our students has ever felt the least attraction for someone like Amadeu, and, on the other hand, Amadeu is no Adonis physically speaking. Besides, I think the snide jokes (to put it politely) the students would crack in such a situation would soon come to the attention of the teachers. I have no memory of any complaints of this nature.”
A Shortcut to Paradise Page 11
