by Antonio Hill
ON SALE 6/18/2013
CROWN
HARDCOVER
978-0-7704-3587-5
$26.00
Category: Fiction - Mystery & Detective
BISAC Cat: Fiction - Mystery & Detective - General Order Form Cat: MYSTERY
Page Count: 368 Trim Size: 6-1/8 x 9-1/4 Spine/Depth: 37/32 Carton Count: 12
Format Description: HARDCOVER
Load Group: 0204
Prod Type: Crown HC Fiction
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The Summer of Dead Toys
A Novel
Antonio Hill
A gripping murder mystery set during a sultry summer in Barcelona, introducing Inspector Hector Salgado
Inspector Hector Salgado is a transplanted Argentine living in Barcelona. He's got a fiery temper, a runaway wife, and would rather be watching his beloved films than interacting with people. He's also a brilliant cop.
When a young boy falls to his death from a balcony in one of Barcelona's ritzier neighborhoods, Salgado is brought on to investigate, despite having been on probation for an unfortunate moment of violence. As he begins to piece together the life and world of the victim, Salgado is thrust into the seedy underbelly of Spain's most popular city where he's brought face-to-face with human trafficking, voodoo, and shady characters that send shivers down even the most weathered cops. But Hector lives for this kind of case--dark, violent, and seemingly unsolvable. Whether or not this fierce, complex detective can withstand all of that as well as the hot Barcelona sun is the ultimate test.
Key Points/Quotes
INTERNATIONAL SENSATION: This novel--Antonio Hill's first--was a huge bestseller in Spain and has sold in 10 European countries so far. It will be published in the UK by Transworld in May 2012.
EVERYONE LOVES A CRANKY DETECTIVE: Inspector Hector Salgado is mean, violent . . . and brilliant. He joins the ranks of such favorites as Henning Mankell's Kurt Wallander, Jo Nesbo's Harry Hole, Neil Cross's Luther, and Kate Atkinson's Jackson Brodie.
SULTRY LOCALE: Hill's depiction of Barcelona is enough to sell this one alone: sexy, colorful, and full of life. He'll do for Barcelona what John Burdett has done for Bangkok and Donna Leon for Venice.
HOUSE AUTHOR: We have two books featuring Salgado, the second one coming in 2014.
About the Author/Illustrator
Author Residence: Barcelona, Spain
ANTONIO HILL lives in Barcelona. He is a professional translator of English-language fiction into Spanish and speaks fluent English.
Rights
Territories: US only Audio: Yes
British: No
Restriction: US Only
Comp Titles
*The Snowman/Nesbo, Jo/HC
Snowman, The (Ebk)/Nesbo, Jo/EL *The Troubled Man/Mankell, Henning/HC Troubled Man, The (Ebk)/Mankell, Henning/EL 9780307595379 3/11 Vintage $9.99 Bangkok 8/Burdett, John/HC 9781400040445 6/03 Knopf $24.00/$36.00 Can. Bangkok 8 (Ebk)/Burdett, John/EL 9781400040919 6/03 Vintage $11.99/$12.99 Can.
Return indicator: Full copies only Reprint: Yes Book Club: Yes 1st Serial: Yes Translation: No Special Markets: Agency: Agent:
ISBN On sale Publisher Price
9780307595867 5/11 Knopf $25.95
9780307599575 5/11 Vintage $9.99/$25.95 Can.
9780307593498 3/11 Knopf $26.95
TH E S U M M ER OF
DEAD TOYS
Hill_9780770435875_1p_all_r1.indd i 9/28/12 3:09 PM Hill_9780770435875_1p_all_r1.indd ii 9/28/12 3:09 PM
A N O V E L
ANTONIO HILL
CROWN PUBLISHERS New York
Hill_9780770435875_1p_all_r1.indd iii 9/28/12 3:09 PM
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Translation copyright
©
2012 by Laura McGloughlin
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Crown Publishers, an imprint of the Crown Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
www.crownpublishing.com
Originally published in hardcover in the UK by Doubleday, an imprint of Transworld Publishers, London, in 2012.
Copyright© 2012 by Antonio Hill.
CROWN and the Crown colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
[CIP data TK]
ISBN 978-0-7704-3587-5 eISBN 978-0-7704-3588-2
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
Book design by Jaclyn Reyes Jacket design by TK Jacket photographs: TK Author photograph: TK
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
First U.S. Edition
To my father, for everything
Hill_9780770435875_1p_all_r1.indd v 9/28/12 3:09 PM
It’s been a long time since I thought of Iris or the summer she died. I suppose I tried to forget it all, in the same way I overcame nightmares and childhood fears. And now, when I want to remember her, all that comes to mind is the last day, as if these images have erased all the previous ones. I close my eyes and bring myself to that big old house, this dormitory of deserted beds awaiting the arrival of the next group of children. I’m six years old, I’m at camp and I can’t sleep because I’m scared. No, I lie. That very early morning I behaved like a brave boy: I disobeyed my uncle’s rules and faced the darkness just to see Iris. But I found her drowned, floating in the pool, surrounded by a cortège of dead dolls.
WEDNESDAY
1
He turned off the alarm clock at the first buzz. Eight a.m. Although he’d been awake for hours a sudden heaviness overcame his limbs and he had to force himself to get out of bed and go to the shower. The stream of water cleared his sluggishness and along with it some of the effects of jet lag. He had arrived only hours before, after an interminable Buenos Aires–Barcelona flight which was prolonged further in the Lost Luggage office at the airport. The assistant, who had definitely been one of those sadistic British schoolmistresses in a previous life, consumed his last shred of patience, looking at him as if the suitcase were a being with free will and had opted to trade in this owner for one less moody-looking.
He dried himself vigorously and noticed with annoyance that sweat was already appearing on his brow: that was summer in Barcelona. Humid and sticky as a melted ice-cream. With the towel wrapped round his waist he looked at himself in the mirror. He should shave. Fuck it. He went back to the bedroom and rummaged in the half-empty wardrobe for some underwear. Luckily the clothes in the lost suitcase were winter ones, so he had no problems finding a short-sleeved shirt and trousers. Barefoot, he sat on the bed. He took a deep breath. The long journey was taking its toll and he was tempted to lie back down, close his eyes and forget about the meeting he had at ten o’clock sharp, although deep down he knew he was incapable of doing so. Héctor Salgado never missed a meeting. Even if it might be with his executioner, he said to himself and smiled ironically.
> His right hand searched for his mobile phone on the nightstand. Very little battery life remained and he remembered that the charger was in the damn suitcase. The day before he’d felt too wrecked to speak to anyone. He looked up Ruth’s number in the phonebook and stayed looking at the screen for a few seconds before pressing the green button. He always called her on her mobile, surely in an attempt to ignore the fact that she had another landline. Another house. Another partner. Her voice, somewhat hoarse, just awake, whispered in his ear:
“Héctor . . .”
“Did I wake you?”
“No . . . Well, a bit.” He heard a stifled laugh in the background. “But I had to get up anyway. When did you get back?”
“Sorry. I arrived yesterday morning, but those idiots lost my bag and I was in the airport for half the day. My mobile is about to run out of battery. I just wanted you to know that I’d arrived safely.”
Suddenly he felt stupid. Like a child talking too much. “How was the flight?”
“Calm,” he lied. “Listen, is Guillermo asleep?”
Ruth laughed.
“Your accent always changes when you come back from Buenos Aires. Guillermo’s not here, didn’t I tell you? He’s spending a few days at the beach, at a friend’s house. But I’m sure he’ll be sleeping at this time,” she added immediately.
“Yeah.” A pause; lately their conversations stalled continually. “And how’s it going?”
“He’s good, but I swear if pre-adolescence lasts much longer I’m sending him back to you, postage paid.” Ruth smiled. He remembered the shape of her smile and that sudden light in her eyes. Her tone changed. “Héctor? Hey, have you heard about your thing?”
“I have to see Savall at ten.”
“OK, let me know how it goes afterward.”
Another pause.
“We could have lunch together?” Héctor had lowered his voice. She took a little longer than necessary to answer.
“Sorry, I already have plans.” For a moment he thought the battery had run out completely, although finally the voice continued. “But we’ll talk later. We could have a coffee . . .”
Then it did. Before he could respond, the phone had become a lump of dead metal. He looked at it with hatred. Then his eyes went toward his bare feet. And with a jump, as if the brief chat had given him the necessary impulse, he rose and walked once again toward that accusatory wardrobe full of empty hangers.
Héctor lived in a three-story building, on the third floor. Nothing special, one of many such buildings in Poblenou, close to the metro station and a couple of blocks from the other rambla that didn’t appear in tourist guidebooks. The only notable features of his flat were the rent, which hadn’t risen when the area took on the airs of a privileged place near the beach, and a flat roof, which, for all practical purposes, had become his private terrace. The second floor was vacant, awaiting a tenant who never arrived, and the landlady lived on the first floor, a woman of almost seventy who hadn’t the least interest in climbing two flights of stairs. He and Ruth had fixed up the old roof, covering part of it and installing various potted plants, now withered, as well as a table and chairs for eating outside on summer nights. He’d hardly gone back up there since Ruth left.
The door of the first-floor apartment opened just as he was passing and Carmen, the owner of the building, came out to greet him.
“Héctor.” She was smiling. As always, he told himself that when he was old he wanted to be like this good woman. Even better, to have one like her by his side. He stopped and gave her a kiss on the cheek, a little awkwardly. Affectionate gestures had never been his strong point. “Yesterday I heard noises upstairs, but I thought you’d be tired. Want a coffee? I’ve just made some.”
“Are you spoiling me?”
“Nonsense,” she replied decidedly. “Men must go out well fed. Come to the kitchen.”
Héctor followed her obediently. The house smelled of freshly made coffee.
“I missed your coffee, Carmen.”
She observed him with a frown as he helped himself to a generous cup of coffee, then added a drop of milk.
“Well fed and well shaved,” the woman added pointedly.
“Don’t be hard on me, Carmen, I’ve only just arrived,” he pleaded.
“Don’t you play the victim. How are you?” She looked at him affectionately. “How did it go in your native land? Ah, smoke a cigarette, I know you want one.”
“You’re the best, Carmen.” He took out a packet of cigarettes and lit one. “I don’t understand how you haven’t been snared by some granddad made of money.”
“Because I don’t like granddads! When I turned sixty-five, I looked around and said to myself, Carmen, enough’s enough— close up shop. Spend your time watching films at home . . . By the way, the ones you lent me are over there. I’ve watched them all,” she said proudly.
Héctor’s film collection would have turned more than one cinephile green with envy: from Hollywood classics—Carmen’s favorites—to the latest releases. All placed on wall-to-wall shelves, with no apparent order. One of his greatest pleasures on sleepless nights was to pull out a few and lie down on the sofa to watch them.
“Marvellous,” continued Carmen. She was an avid fan of Grace Kelly, whom she was said to have resembled when she was young. “But don’t try to distract me. How are you?”
He exhaled slowly and finished his coffee. The woman’s gaze didn’t falter: those blue eyes must have been true man-eaters. Carmen wasn’t one of those old women who enjoy evoking the past but thanks to Ruth, Héctor knew there had been at least two husbands (“easily forgotten, poor things,” in Carmen’s own words) and a lover (“a swine of the kind you don’t forget’). But in the end there’d been one last one, who had secured her old age by leaving her that three-story building, in which she could live even better were she not saving one of the apartments for a son who’d left years before and never returned.
Héctor poured himself a little more coffee before answering.
“I can’t deceive you, Carmen.” He tried to smile, but his exhausted expression and sad eyes ruined the effort. “Everything is shit. I beg your pardon. For a long time everything has seemed like shit.”
Investigation 1231-R H. Salgado
Resolution Pending
Three short lines noted in black felt-tip pen on a yellow post-it note attached to a file of the same color. So as not to see them, Superintendent Savall opened the file and looked over its contents. As if he didn’t already know them by heart. Statements. Affidavit. Medical reports. Police brutality. Photographs of that scumbag’s injuries. Photographs of that unfortunate young Nigerian girl. Photographs of the flat in the Raval where they had the girls corralled. Even various newspaper cuttings, some—very few, thank God—deliberately narrating their own version of the facts, emphasizing concepts like injustice, racism and abuse of power. He slammed the file shut and looked at the clock on his desk. Ten past nine. Fifty minutes. He was moving his chair back to stretch out his legs when someone knocked on the door and opened it almost simultaneously.
“Is he here?” he asked.
The woman entering the office shook her head without asking to whom the question referred and, very quietly, leaned both hands on the back of the chair facing the desk. She looked him in the eyes and spoke.
“What will you say to him?” The question sounded like an accusation, a burst of gunfire in six words.
Savall shrugged his shoulders, almost imperceptibly.
“What I have to. What do you want me to say to him?”
“Fine. Great.”
“Martina . . .” He tried to be brusque, but he was too fond of her to get truly angry. He lowered his voice. “Fuck it, my hands are tied.”
She didn’t give up. She moved the chair back a little, sat down and drew it back up to the desk.
“What else do they need? That guy is out of hospital. He’s at home, cool as can be, reorganizing his business while—”
&n
bsp; “Give it a rest, Martina!” Sweat broke out on his forehead and for once he lost his temper. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t when he got up that morning. But he was human. He opened the yellow file and took out the photos; he scattered them across the desk like uncovered playing cards showing a poker of aces. “Broken jaw. Two fractured ribs. Contusions to the skull and abdomen. A face like a fucking map. All because Héctor lost his head and planted himself in this shit’s house. The guy was lucky not to have internal injuries. He beat him half to death.” She knew all this. She also knew that had she been sitting in the chair opposite, she would have said exactly the same. But if there was something that defined Sergeant Martina Andreu it was her unswerving loyalty to her own: her family, her colleagues and her friends. For her the world was split into two distinct groups: her people, and everyone else, and without doubt Héctor Salgado fell into the first. So, in a loud and deliberately disdainful voice, one that irritated her boss more than seeing those photos, she counter-attacked.
“Why don’t you take out the others? The ones of the girl. Why don’t we see what that evil black quack did to that poor young girl?”
Savall took a deep breath. “Watch it with that black stuff.” Martina gestured impatiently. “That’s all we need. And the thing with the girl doesn’t justify aggression. You know it, I know it, Héctor knows it. And what’s worse, so does that asshole’s lawyer.” He lowered his voice: he’d worked with Andreu for years and trusted her more than any of his other subordinates. “He was here the day before yesterday.” Martina raised an eyebrow.
“Yes, What’shisname’s lawyer. I put things very clearly to him. Withdraw the charges against Salgado or his client will have a cop following him until he goes to his fucking grave.”
“And?” she asked, looking at her boss with renewed respect.
“He said he had to consult him. I pushed him as much as I could. Off the record. We left it that he’d ring me this morning before ten.”
“And if he agrees? What did you promise him in return?”
Savall didn’t have time to respond. The telephone on the desk rang like an alarm. He asked the sergeant to be quiet with a finger to his lips then picked up.
