The Summer of Dead Toys
Page 6
“Hmmm. It was your father’s decision, then?”
“More or less. He was Galician . . . Spanish; he always wanted to return to his native country but couldn’t. So he sent me here.”
“And how did you feel?”
The inspector made a gesture of indifference, as if that wasn’t the pertinent question.
“Excuse me, but I can see you’re young . . . My father decided I had to continue studying in Spain and that was it. No one asked me.” He cleared his throat a little. “Things were like that then.”
“You didn’t have any opinion on the matter? At the end of the day you were made to leave your family, your friends and your life there behind. Didn’t it matter to you?”
“Of course. But I never thought it would be permanent. Besides, I repeat: they didn’t ask me.”
“Ah-ha. Do you have siblings, Inspector?”
“Yes, one brother. Older than me.”
“And he didn’t come to Spain to study?”
“No.”
The silence following his answer was denser than before. There was a question working its way to the surface. Héctor crossed his legs and looked away. The “kid” seemed in doubt and, finally, decided to change the subject.
“In your file it says you separated from your wife less than a year ago. Was she the reason you stayed in Spain?”
“Among others.” He corrected himself. “Yes. I stayed here for Ruth. With Ruth. But . . .” Héctor looked at him, surprised he didn’t know: these details would also be in the files. The feeling that his whole life, at least the most recent facts, could be in a dossier within reach of anyone who had the authority to examine it bothered him. “Sorry.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I don’t want to be rude, but can you tell me where this is going? Look, I’m perfectly aware that I made a mistake and that it could—can—cost me my job. If it means anything, I don’t think I did a good thing, and I’m not proud of it, but . . . But I’m not going to discuss all the details of my private life, nor do I believe you have a right to meddle in it.”
The other man listened to his speech without turning a hair and took his time before adding anything. When he did, there wasn’t the least condescension in his tone: he spoke with composure and without the slightest hesitation.
“I think I should make some things clear. Perhaps I should have done so at the beginning. Look, Inspector, I’m not here to judge you for what you did, or to decide whether or not you should continue working. That’s a matter for your superiors. My interest lies solely in you finding out what it was that provoked this loss of control, learning to recognize it and react in time in another similar situation. And for that I need your cooperation, or the task will be impossible. Do you understand?”
Of course he understood. Liking it was another matter altogether. But he had no option but to agree.
“If you say so.” He leaned back and stretched his legs out a little. “In answer to your previous question, I will say yes. We separated less than a year ago. And before you continue, no, I don’t feel an uncontrollable hatred or wild anger toward my wife,” he added.
The psychologist allowed himself a smile.
“Your ex-wife.”
“Pardon. It was subconscious . . . you know . . .”
“Then I take it that it was a mutual separation.”
It was Héctor who laughed this time.
“With respect, what you just described is practically nonexistent. There’s always someone who leaves someone. The mutual aspect consists of the other person accepting it and shutting up.”
“And in your case?”
“In my case, it was Ruth who left me. Don’t you have that information in your papers?”
“No.” He looked at the clock. “We have very little time left, Inspector. But for the next session, I’d like you to do something.”
“Are you giving me homework?”
“Something like that. I want you to think about the rage you felt the day of the assault, and try to remember other times you experienced a similar emotion. As a child, as an adolescent, as an adult.”
“Fine. Can I go now?”
“We have a few minutes. Is there anything you want to ask me? Any query?”
“Yes.” He looked him directly in the eyes. “Do you not think there are occasions when rage is the appropriate reaction? That feeling something else would be unnatural when facing a . . . demon?” Even he was surprised by the word and his questioner seemed interested in it.
“I’ll answer you in a moment, but let me ask you something first. Do you believe in God?”
“The truth is, no. But I do believe in evil. I’ve seen a lot of bad people. Like all police officers, I suppose. Would you mind answering my question?”
The “kid” thought for a few moments.
“That would lead us to a lengthy debate. But in short, yes, there are times when the natural response to a stimulus is rage. Equally fear. Or aversion. It’s about managing that emotion, containing it so as not to provoke a greater evil. Fury can be acceptable in this society; to act motivated by it is more arguable. We’d end up justifying anything, don’t you think?”
There was no way of rebutting that argument, so Héctor got up, said good-bye and left. While he was going down in the lift, cigarette packet in hand, he told himself that the shrink might be young and read comics, but he wasn’t a complete fool. Which, truly, at that moment seemed to him more inconvenient than helpful.
7
“I believe we’re boring Agent Castro.” It was Superintendent Savall’s tone of voice, dry and ironic, accompanied by a direct gaze, that made Leire Castro aware he was speaking to her. More accurately, it got her attention. “I’m very sorry to pull you away from your passionate inner life for a matter so irrelevant as the one we’re discussing, but we need your opinion. Whenever you think it convenient, of course.”
Leire blushed up to her hairline and tried to find an apology. It would be difficult to come up with a coherent answer to a question she hadn’t heard because she was immersed in her worries.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was, I was thinking . . .”
Savall realized, as did Salgado and Andreu, that his question, still hanging in the air, had gone unnoticed by Agent Castro. All four were in the superintendent’s office, behind closed doors, with the Marc Castells case file on the desk. Leire desperately forced herself to find something adequate to say. The super had described the autopsy report, which she knew well. Alcohol levels slightly over the limit; the guy wouldn’t have passed a breathalyzer test, but he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t stand upright. The medical analysis hadn’t shown the smallest trace of any drugs in his blood which would allow them to deduce a delirium that might have made him fall into the void. The phrase “medical analysis” had thrown up a whirl of resolved doubts which led to others more difficult to resolve, a mental storm from which she awoke abruptly.
“We were discussing the matter of the broken door,” said Inspector Salgado, and she turned toward him brimming with gratitude.
“Yes,” she breathed, relieved. There she was on safe ground: her voice took on a concise, formal tone. “The problem is that no one was very clear on when it broke. The cleaner thought she’d seen it already broken when she left that evening, but she wasn’t sure. In any case, there were numerous fireworks in the rear part of the house, in all probability originating in the neighboring garden. Its owners have four sons, and the boys admitted they’d been throwing them part of the evening and the night.”
“Yeah. At the end of the day, it was San Juan,” interjected the superintendent. “God! I hate that night. At one time it used to be fun, but now those little monsters throw small bombs.”
Leire continued, “What is certain is that nothing in the house was missing and there was no meaningful sign that might indicate anyone having entered there. What’s more—”
“What’s more, the supposed burglar would’ve had to go up to the attic to push the boy. And for what? No
, it doesn’t make sense.” The super made an irritated gesture.
“With all due respect,” said Andreu, who’d kept quiet until then, “this boy fell. Or at worst, he jumped. Alcohol affects people differently.”
“Is there something that makes you think suicide?” asked
Héctor.
“Nothing significant,” answered Leire instantly. Then she
realized the question wasn’t directed at her. “Pardon.” “Since you’re so sure, explain why,” barked the super. “Well,” she took a few seconds to organize her thoughts,
“Marc Castells had come home a while ago after spending six
months in Dublin, learning English. According to his father,
the trip had done him good. Before leaving, he’d had problems at school: not attending, negative attitude, even a threeday suspension from the centre. He managed to pass Second
Baccalaureate, but he didn’t obtain the necessary marks to
study what he wanted. It seems he wasn’t very sure of what he
wanted to study really, so he deferred beginning a degree for
a year.”
“Yeah. And he was sent to Ireland to study English. In
my time, he would’ve been put to work.” The superintendent couldn’t help a sarcastic tone. He closed the file. “That’s
enough. This is like a school board. Go and talk to the parents
and the girl who slept in the house that night, and close the
case. If necessary, question the other boy, but watch it with
the Roviras. Dr. Rovira made it very clear that, given that his
son had left before the tragedy happened, he wasn’t inclined to
have anyone disrupt his life. And taking into account that he
attended the births of various ministers’ children, including
our own minister’s, it’s best not to get up his nose. In fact, I
don’t think any of them are hugely interested, I’m telling you
now. Enric Castells made it clear that if the investigation has
finished, he wants us to leave them in peace, and in a way I
can’t blame him for it.” His attention focused for an instant on
the photo of his daughters. “It must be hard enough to bury a
son, and then on top of that to have to put up with the press and the police poking their noses in every minute. I’ll see Joana next week and try to placate her. Anything else to add,
Castro?”
Leire started. She had certainly been thinking of contributing a detail he hadn’t mentioned.
“I’m not sure,” she said, although her tone suggested otherwise. “Maybe it’s just my impression, but the reaction of the
girl, Gina Martí, was . . . unexpected.”
“Unexpected? She’s eighteen, she goes to bed a bit drunk
and on waking up she finds out her boyfriend has killed himself. I think ‘on the verge of hysteria,’ as you describe her in
your report, is a more than expected reaction.”
“Of course. But . . .” She recovered her assuredness when
she found the right words. “The hysteria was logical, sir. But
Gina Martí wasn’t sad. She seemed more frightened.” The superintendent remained silent for a few moments. “All right,” he said finally. “Go to see her this afternoon,
Héctor. Unofficially—not too much pressure. I don’t want problems with the Castells and their friends,” he stressed. “Agent
Castro will accompany you. The girl already knows her and
adolescents tend to confide more in women. Castro, call the
Martís and tell them you’re coming.” The commissioner turned
to Andreu. “Wait a minute. We have to talk about these selfdefense courses for women at risk of domestic violence. I already know that they’re delighted, but can you really continue
giving them?”
Salgado and Castro looked at each other before leaving: they
had no doubt that Martina Andreu not only could but wanted
to continue teaching these courses.
You there?
Aleix, man, you there?
The little screen of the computer indicated that
I have to talk to you! answer.
Finally the answer appeared. A hello, accompanied by a smiley face winking at her. The sound of the door handle startled her. She just had time to minimize the screen before the scent of her mother’s perfume filled the air.
“Gina, sweetheart, I’m off.” The woman didn’t cross the threshold. She was carrying an open white bag, in which she was rummaging as she continued speaking. “Where the hell is the damn remote car key? Could they make them any smaller?” Finally she found it and flashed a triumphant smile. “Angel, are you sure you don’t want to come?” Her smile faded a little on seeing the rings under Gina’s eyes. “You can’t shut yourself up in here all summer, angel. It’s not good. Look what a lovely day it is! You need fresh air.”
“You’re going to L’Illa, Mama, ten minutes away,” grumbled Gina. “By car. Not running in the country.” If any doubt remained that the countryside didn’t feature in her mother’s plans, a look at her attire was all that was required: a white dress cinched at the waist with a belt of the same fabric; white sandals with a heel high enough to elevate her five-foot-five stature to a respectable five foot seven; hair, naturally blonde, shining, brushing her shoulders. Against a background of palm trees she would have been the perfect image for a shampoo ad.
Regina Ballester ignored the sarcasm. It had already been a while since she’d become hardened to the biting comments of this daughter, who, in pyjamas at half one in the afternoon, looked more like a little girl than ever. She went over and gave her a kiss on the head.
“You can’t go on like this, sweetheart. I’m not leaving with an easy mind . . .”
“Mama!” She didn’t want to start another fight: these days her mother barely left her alone and she had to talk to Aleix. Urgently. So, overcoming how that intense fragrance bothered her, she let herself be hugged, and even smiled. To think that there’d been a time when she sought those arms spontaneously; now she felt they were smothering her. Her mother had even put perfume on her breasts! She smiled, with more malice than inclination. “Are you going to the swimwear shop?” It didn’t fail: giving her mother something to do that included the words “shop” and “buy” was usually a sure route to peace. And although she couldn’t swear to it, the perfumed breasts indicated that the shopping centre was a secondary destination in her mother’s plans. “Get me the one we saw in the window.” Taking into account that she wasn’t planning on going to the beach all summer and the fucking swimsuit didn’t matter to her at all, she managed to give a fairly convincing ring to the request. She even pleaded in a spoiled-little-girl voice that she herself hated with all her heart. “Go on—please.”
“The other day you didn’t seem so enthusiastic. When we were both outside the shop,” replied Regina.
“I was bummed, Mama,” . . . “Bummed” was a phrase Regina Ballester hated deeply, because as well as sounding rather vulgar, it described any of her daughter’s moods: sad, worried, grouchy, bored . . . “Bummed” seemed to encompass them all, without distinction.
Gina fiddled with the computer mouse. Would she never go? She extricated herself smoothly from the embrace and played her trump card.
“Fine, don’t buy it for me. It’s not like I feel much like going to the beach this year—”
“Of course you’re going to the beach. Your father gets back from his promotional tour tomorrow and next week we’re going to Llafranc. Not for nothing have I taken holiday this month.” This was something Regina usually did: implicit reminders of how much she d
id for others. “I can’t stand Barcelona any more this summer! The heat is unbearable.” Regina looked discreetly at her silver watch: it was getting late. “I’m going or I won’t have time to do everything,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be back before five. If the Mossos get here before me, don’t say anything to them.”
“Can I open the door to them? Or would you prefer me to leave them out in the street?” asked Gina, with feigned innocence. She couldn’t help it: these days her mother drove her crazy.
“There’ll be no need. I’ll be here. I promise.”
The tap of her heels echoed on the stairs. Gina was about to maximize the Messenger screen when those same footsteps came back toward her, hurriedly.
“Have I left—?”
“Here’s the remote, Mama.” She picked it up from the table where Regina had left it to hug her, and threw it smoothly, without moving from the chair. Her mother caught it. “You should wear it around your neck.” And, when she was sure her mother could no longer hear her, she murmured, “Of course it would scramble in that stench.”
Click. The little screen shone before her once again.
gi, what’s up? u there???
okaaaay, im bored
see u babe, chat l8r!!!! :-)
No, no, no, no . . .
My mother was here, I couldn’t talk.
Fuck, answer, Aleix, please.
heyyyyy!!! thought so. still droning away then?
Gina exhaled. Minor relief. She launched herself at the keyboard at top speed. And not to criticize her mother.
Have the cops called you?
cops? no, y?
Shit, they’re coming to see me this afternoon. I don’t know what they want, seriously . . .
A pause of a few seconds.
definitely nothing. same as always. dont u worry. I’m scared . . . and what if they ask me about . . . they’re not going to ask anything, they dont have a clue. How do you know?
i just know. anyway, we didnt do it in the end, remember?
Gina’s frown signalled an intense mental effort.
What do you mean?
Gina could almost see Aleix’s annoyed face, the one he put on when he was forced to explain things that seemed obvious to him. An expression which, at times—sometimes—irritated her, and usually calmed her down. He was cleverer. That no one doubted. Having the school prodigy as a friend meant putting up with certain condescending looks.