by Chris Lloyd
'Hi, Pujol,' Elisenda greeted the dog, which wagged its tail once. It was named for its squat little legs after a diminutive former president of the Catalan government. 'You're up early, Xiscu.'
The slight young man in front of her looked surprised at that. He didn't have a watch on his wrist. Elisenda knew he never wore one.
'No,' he said doubtfully. 'Late. I don't think I've been home.'
Elisenda smiled at him. 'You're probably right. How's Joan?'
Joan, Xiscu's older brother and Elisenda's contemporary at school, lived on the coast, where he owned a successful restaurant, a small yacht and a share in a vineyard. Xiscu sculpted clown figures out of coat hangers for tourists and spent most of what he earned on Pujol and coke.
'Doing all right.' He wobbled as he spoke, his eyes looking tired. 'You were always the coolest friend Joan had.'
'Things change, Xiscu.'
'You don't, Elisenda. Not at heart.' He suddenly brightened. 'See you finally got that Masó.'
'We didn't get him, Xiscu. Someone killed him.'
'Bet you're pleased, though. The Mossos. Someone doing it for you. Makes your job easier.'
'Not really,' she told him wearily, turning away. 'Take care of yourself.'
She left him looking uncertainly at the road and ran home for a shower and a quick breakfast before the walk to Vista Alegre.
She just had time for a second cup of coffee before the meeting started. Standing in front of them, she considered the members of her team. They were all relatively new to each other and she was just beginning to know their strengths.
'Daniel Masó,' she announced. 'Surprisingly, no one has come forward to confess to the crime and claim their star prize. Josep and Montse, you were out and about in Salt yesterday. How many people have rushed forward to help you find who killed him?'
'None,' Montse told her.
'Anyone abusive?'
'A few.'
'Anyone physically attack you for trying to find his killer?'
'No. No one.'
'I'd say you've come out on top so far then.'
'No one yet,' Montse clarified.
'Strong community spirit,' she told her. 'Give them time. They will.'
'Have you seen the morning's paper, Sotsinspectora?' Josep asked her.
'Yes. I don't think our friends in the press are too worried about our finding whoever did it, are they? Until we don't find them, that is, then they'll be on our backs. Anyway, what's your gut feeling about it?'
Josep thought for a moment. 'I'm not sure we're looking in the right place. All his victims are obviously happy he's gone, and no one wants to talk about it to us, but I don't get the feeling that there is anything they actually know that they're hiding. I think there's something else going on here.'
Elisenda looked at the other three people in the room. 'Are we all agreed on that?'
'I don't think we should rule out the idea of one of his victims killing him in a fight,' Àlex pointed out. 'I think it's still there in the mix, even if no one's talking about it.'
'True. No one in their right mind would talk about it if they were involved, so I think we need to follow that up. Montse, you've been looking into victims, can you take care of that?'
'Yes, Sotsinspectora. Following on from victims, it stands to reason that we should also consider some sort of vigilante action.'
'I was hoping you wouldn't say that,' Elisenda commented. 'You're perfectly right. And it's the one explanation we really don't want. Everyone will be on our backs then.'
'Logically, any vigilantes who start by targeting Daniel Masó would be most likely to be victims of his,' Àlex said.
'True. Keep an open mind on that when you check them out, Montse. Other possibilities?'
'Gang war,' Josep offered.
'That's the other one we really don't want,' Elisenda muttered. 'Can you look into that, Josep? The usual suspects. Anyone moving into Masó's old business. I suspect if there is anyone trying to muscle in, they'll be doing it through Santa Eugènia and Sant Narcís first, before attempting anything in Salt itself. I hate to say it, but you will have to check out the foreign gangs.'
Pau spoke up. 'And there's the Masó family, of course.'
'Indeed there is.' Elisenda explained to the rest of the team what she'd learned from Siset and about her visit with Àlex to Salt. 'Àlex, I want you to check out Joaquim Masó. He's the individual most clearly in the frame right now. Pau, you help Àlex with the background searches. Also, I want you to collate all the information from the rest of the team. Besides that, all co-ordination goes through me. Montse, I'll be coming with you to Salt this morning. I want to see what people are saying. Any questions?'
No one had anything to ask, each one silently taking it in.
'Good, so go and investigate.'
Chapter Six
Elisenda had never seen so many hangovers.
Everywhere she and Montse looked.
From the greengrocer to the DVD club owner. The guy in the estanc to the woman in the internet café. Old ladies in the queue for bread and young men in overalls in greasy garage workshops. Young, old. Men, women. Poor, poorer. Everywhere.
She'd never seen so many.
And she'd certainly never seen any with broad, helpless grins shining through them.
Parking the car on Carrer Major in Salt, their last stop was an estanc, one of the state-run tobacconist's shops that sold cigarettes, stamps, official papers and lottery tickets. All the country's guilty pleasures under one roof, Elisenda reflected: smoking, bureaucracy and gambling.
Inside, they waited for the shopkeeper, a tall, gloomy man with thick-rimmed glasses and a permanent five o'clock shadow, to finish serving a young woman with a child in a pushchair and then showed him their badges. An elderly woman was standing to one side of the shop, clutching half a dozen lottery forms and sorting through her purse.
'Nice you finally came around now,' the man greeted them testily. 'Nothing from the Mossos for years, and now you suddenly all show up.'
'I think there's some misunderstanding here, sir,' Montse replied. 'We're inquiring into the death of a local man.'
'I know you are. Daniel Masó. That's who you're asking about.' At the sound of his name, the elderly lady stopped searching for coins. 'Where were you when he was alive? That's what I want to know. We got precious few visits from your lot then.'
'I'm afraid I know nothing about that. I'm looking into his death.'
'Well, you're wasting your time coming here, then. I wouldn't tell you anything even if I knew.'
'I heard they sliced his face off,' the elderly woman butted in.
'Good,' the shopkeeper commented. 'I hope they made the bastard suffer the way he made us suffer for years.'
The young woman with the child nodded in agreement.
'He was an evil little shit,' the elderly woman added. Elisenda looked away, coughing to hide a laugh. 'I only wish my mother, God rest her soul, were here to see this day.'
'And the only time your lot comes round this neighbourhood,' the shopkeeper grumbled on, 'was when we all celebrated last night, and you sent two cars to tell us to keep quiet. I tell you, Caporal whatever your name is, whoever did for him is a hero round here. You won't find anyone wanting to help you find them.'
The young mother finally spoke. 'I can buy all the food I want today, without having to worry about whether I have enough money to pay Masó what I owe him.' A broad grin illuminated her face. For the first time, Elisenda saw the red eyes and open pores of her hangover shining through. 'And it was a hell of a party,' she added.
The shopkeeper nodded in agreement, a smile finally breaking through his features.
'Look at this,' the elderly woman insisted to the two Mossos, waving the sheaf of lottery forms in Montse's face. 'We're all playing the lottery today. If some good soul has got rid of Daniel Masó for us, then this has got to be our lucky day.'
Outside the estanc, Montse stared glumly at the town carryin
g on its business in a happy alcohol haze. Immigrants and locals rarely united in celebration.
'That's what I'm finding across the board, Sotsinspectora,' she told Elisenda.
Elisenda, too, looked at the renewed spirit of the humble town. 'I don't think we're going to get much help from anyone in this investigation.'
Chapter Seven
On the drive back to Girona, Elisenda's mobile chimed with a text message. It was from Àlex, to remind her that he'd be meeting her in court at four o'clock.
'Damn,' she muttered to herself. She'd forgotten.
She opened the inbox on her phone and reread the mail sent to her the previous evening by Laura Puigmal from the Fiscalia.
'And damn again,' she said when she'd finished.
The hearing at four wasn't her unit's case, but both she and Àlex wanted to be there. It was an appeal. Unfortunately, it was an appeal that was likely to prosper, according to Laura Puigmal's e-mail.
A discrepancy, Laura had written. Between police reports. The Policia Municipal gave one time for the facts and the Mossos gave another. And no one had noticed until yesterday. That was until the defendants' lawyer, Gerard Bellsolà, had spotted it. Laura's take was that there was a strong possibility that Bellsolà would be able to get them off because of the discrepancy.
Elisenda scanned the attached medical report and swore at the thought of the four thugs who'd brutally beaten an elderly man for a handful of euros getting off. And not for the first time. One of Àlex's first – and few – failures on arriving in his new post in Girona from Barcelona had been not to put them away for an attack that had ended in a vagrant being beaten to death. Everyone knew they'd done it but there wasn't enough evidence to bring it to court. It still ate at Àlex, Elisenda knew. And it was going to happen again. All because of an inconsistency between the reporting of the two police forces who patrolled the city: the local Policia Municipal, run by the city council, and the regional Mossos d'Esquadra, under the auspices of the Department of the Interior of the Catalan government. Nothing ever changed, Elisenda thought. Despite the politicians' best efforts. Or because of them.
*
Elisenda found Àlex already outside the court when Montse dropped her off on the small cobbled square in the shadow of the cathedral steps. She didn't even have to ask him how it had gone. For the outwardly most laid-back guy she'd ever met, his face was capable of showing quite shocking rage.
'Bastards,' he spat when she walked up to him, 'bastards, bastards, bastards.'
'I'm sensing a definite theme here,' she told him.
'Technicality,' he replied. 'What about the technicality of an elderly man too frail to have reconstructive surgery to his face?'
'So tell me what happened.'
He explained to Elisenda about the different times recorded by the two police forces. 'And that creep Bellsolà completely resisted any attempts to allow the medical report to be considered. Reckoned the extent of an elderly man's injuries had no bearing on guilt or procedure. And I am quoting here.'
'Hasn't the judge called for more evidence?'
'No. Thrown out. No further avenues.'
'Bastards,' Elisenda finally agreed with her sergent.
They were dislodged from their place in the doorway by a commotion from inside. Bellsolà, the defence lawyer, was first out, scuttling past them, heading for the haven of his office, an ancient leather pouch clutched to his chest.
'Pleased with the result, Senyor Bellsolà?' Àlex asked him. Elisenda signalled him to keep calm.
The lawyer turned to face him. 'Yes,' he said, pulling himself up to his fullest height. 'Yes. As a matter of fact I am, Sergent. Or would you prefer a return to the days when people like you were judge, jury and executioner? You want justice in Catalonia, then you work within that justice.'
'Justice?' Àlex spat, but Elisenda silenced him.
'I think you'd better go, lawyer,' she told Bellsolà.
'Threatening me, Sotsinspectora?'
Elisenda cocked her head. 'No, not at all. But if you listen, you might just hear the victim's family coming out and they might have a slightly altered view of justice thanks to you.'
'Then it would be your job to protect me.'
'Wouldn't it just? But I imagine I'd be far too busy making sure I was recording the time of the incident exactly right to ensure that justice was done.'
The hubbub from inside the building rose and the lawyer thought better of replying, hurrying away instead to the top of Carrer de la Força, where he stopped to look back for a moment before carrying on slowly down the steep road to his office.
'Lawyers,' Elisenda told Àlex. 'Always stay on their good side.'
The elderly victim shuffled out, visibly aged since the last time Elisenda had seen him, supported on one side by his wife and on the other by his son, both also worn down by the morning's trial. They were followed by a small group of shaken and red-eyed family members. Too defeated and too appalled ever to have launched any attack on Bellsolà. Elisenda could sense Àlex stiffen next to her. The small group walked wordlessly past the two police officers, equally silent, equally impotent.
Finally, the erstwhile defendants made their exit. All four of them looked and acted like the latest freaks from all these reality shows clogging up the national television networks these days, Elisenda thought, with that overwhelming and unwarranted arrogance in their cruelty and ignorance. They liked to call themselves by their first name and the two initials of their surnames. It was their trademark. A conceit brought about by the press not being allowed to print anything but that information about detainees before they were tried, and since the four of them were constantly in the papers for some offence or other, that was more often than not how they saw their own names.
One of the four, the leader, peeled off and swaggered up to Àlex, his face barely centimetres from the sergent's. Àlex pushed him back, his forefinger pressing lightly against the man's chest. A crowd had gathered around the doorway and at the foot of the cathedral steps. Past Àlex and the thug, Elisenda could see Laura Puigmal looking on intently.
'Chema Guijarro Martín,' she heard Àlex say to the figure leaning towards him, his eyes expressionless.
'Chema GM to you,' the young man growled back, pushing Àlex's hand away. 'You're a useless son of a whore.'
'Is that right?' Àlex replied. Elisenda was always amazed at how Àlex could soak this up without letting loose. He'd calmed down instantly from his anger of a few moments ago, but she knew that it was all being filed away for another day.
'Fuck you.' Chema GM let out a loud belch and sloped off to rejoin his friends. Another of the gang, Juan Serrano Prieto, Juan SP in his world, flicked the finger at Àlex, and the four of them walked away through the Portal de Sobreportes, staring down anyone not getting out of their way.
'No,' Elisenda heard Àlex reply under his breath, as he watched the four young men go. 'I will fuck you.'
*
Elisenda put down her heavy, white coffee cup. Her second large milky café amb llet in five minutes. She couldn't decide if it was to calm her nerves or to keep the rush going. Oddly, it seemed to be doing both. Her head and shoulders rocked gently back and forth. Hidden under the table, one leg was crossed over the other, the foot briskly shaking. She knew Àlex could sense the movement. His own pose was in counterpoint to hers, leaning lightly back against the uncomfortable upright of the wood and raffia chair, both feet resting on the crossbar under the table. Laid back, Elisenda reminded herself. But the constant tapping on the table leg told her that one of his knees was jiggling in nervous tension the way she'd seen so many times, sending shock waves through his feet on the crossbar and making the table vibrate slightly. She stared at the blurred circles lapping back and forth in her glass of water. Outwardly laid back, she corrected herself.
They were in L'Arc, at the top of Carrer de la Força, taking a coffee to quell the anger each knew the other was feeling. One of the city's earliest bars, L'Arc was sti
ll held in veneration by a dynasty of fading bohemians who once eagerly and inactively plotted Franco's downfall over hot brandy and chocolate milk. Àlex grunted and finished his tiny cup of treacly black coffee. Ready to go. He always said he could never see the point of the large white coffees that Elisenda always drank, more often than not needing two to get the right adrenaline intake. He preferred his in one short, single caffeine rush. Over and gone in a moment. Elisenda finished her second coffee and took a sip from her glass of mineral water. Another of her routines. Àlex's knee jiggled even more impatiently.
'I will have them,' he suddenly said out loud. Not so much a comment to Elisenda as a voiced thought. She simply stared back at him.
They were disturbed by a figure approaching their table. 'Elisenda,' the man greeted her. He glanced in Àlex's direction. 'Sergent Albiol.'
'Carles,' Elisenda greeted him coolly.
'Any comments you'd care to make about the overturned conviction? Yet another failure by the Mossos.'
Àlex opened his mouth, but Elisenda hushed him. 'If you want to know anything, ask David to call me,' she replied.
The journalist recoiled. David Costa was Carles Font's boss at the local paper, whom Font was steadfastly undermining. David Costa, a few years above Elisenda at school and a member of the same rambling club when she was in her teens. Carles Font, the shiny young incomer, eager to make his mark and then make his move. Destined no doubt for bigger and better things.
'Modern police,' Font commented. 'You're supposed to be working with the press.'
'And as soon as we can find a press that works with us, we will,' Elisenda promised. They stared at each other.
'Back to Vista Alegre?' Àlex finally spoke in Elisenda's direction, breaking the impasse.
'Sounds good,' Elisenda agreed, getting up.
They paid and left the bar, climbing the steep street to the right of the cathedral steps, winding through the tight mediaeval lanes to Plaça Sant Domènec, the large and enclosed cobbled square in front of the main university building, where Àlex had left the unmarked Mossos car he'd taken from the pool.
