The Summer of Dead Toys

by Antonio Hill

  Sometimes she wondered if this solitary morning pleasure was a sign of what awaited her in the future; ever more frequently she saw herself as a person inclined to independence— strange for someone who had actually never been without company. Her parents, her husband, her son and now Carol . . . She frowned, thinking she hadn’t succeeded in giving her a title other than her own: lover sounded vulgar, girlfriend was something she hadn’t yet managed to say, companion seemed false, a prudish euphemism to disguise the truth. While she smeared butter on the toast with exquisite care, and spread a thin layer of homemade apricot jam over it, she asked herself what Carol really was. It was the same question put to her by that same person the night before, after the argument with Héctor, and Ruth hadn’t been able to give a satisfactory answer, so the dinner for two had gone uneaten and Carol, her lover, her girlfriend, her companion or whatever she was, had left for her flat enveloped in a sullen silence without Ruth making the least attempt to stop her. She knew one word would have been enough, a simple squeeze of her hand to dispel her fit of impatience or jealousy, but she simply lacked the will to do so. And although they’d then spoken on the phone for almost an hour—fifty-three long minutes to be exact—and though Carol had a change of heart and apologized for her brusque departure and reiterated her understanding and unconditional love, the feeling of fatigue hadn’t diminished in the slightest. On the contrary, the whole scene had awoken a mad longing in her to escape, to go away for a weekend, this weekend, no hanging around, to somewhere she could be calm: no pressure, no apologies, no promises of love.

  What a damn night, Ruth said to herself. She’d arrived home in a good mood, ready to enjoy a lovely evening with Carol, and found her hysterical, shouting down the phone, insulting Héctor like a lunatic. Her expression demanded explanations and she’d finally managed to get her to hang up the phone and tell her how this surreal scene had come about. Carol only said: “Look at it yourself. This was inside the box your bastard of an ex gave you yesterday.” And after those words, she pressed a button on the remote. The screen had filled with images of her and Carol taken some days back: both of them on a nudist beach in Sant Pol, naked as night fell. Ruth remembered the day well, but seeing it in that way, seeing their kisses turned into a cheap and crude recording, generated a profound feeling of disgust in her. Their bodies caressing each other on that solitary beach aroused a sudden feeling of shame in her. From there, everything went from bad to worse. She’d tried to reason with Carol, tell her that Héctor was in Argentina when those images were recorded; and that, even if he had been here, he’d never have committed so . . . obscene an act. Carol had finally given up, although she kept arguing that there were private detectives to whom these things were entrusted, asking how that fucking DVD had arrived in that box of cakes that Héctor had given her, asking why she defended her ex-husband more than her, finally putting the key question to her: what the hell am I in your life? Questions with no answers, which had plunged Ruth into an exhausting vertigo. She just wanted to throw that film in the bin and forget all about it. But before she did so she thought she should call Héctor to speak to him, a short conversation to calm him, which of course Carol didn’t understand at all. When she hung up, she’d already gone, and all of a sudden Ruth felt relieved to be completely alone.

  She kept going over the same idea, although she was fully aware that Carol wouldn’t be happy, and not without reason: they’d planned things to do that weekend, taking advantage of the fact that Guillermo wasn’t coming back until Sunday night. According to Carol, they needed to spend more time together. Waking up, eating, having dinner and sleeping together like a real couple. Ruth had been left staring at her, not knowing how to explain herself: she couldn’t tell her that that string of common actions, stated in a tone more imperious than affectionate, sounded more like a sentence than anything else. I should have more patience with Carol, she told herself, while she attacked the second piece of toast. She was young, fierce and tended to be demanding when she wanted to show affection. That attitude, the extreme frankness that had managed to break down Ruth’s defenses when they’d met the year before, turned out to be exhausting day to day. Carol had the blackest eyes Ruth had ever seen, and a perfect body, strong yet still feminine, sculpted through hours of Pilates and strict dieting. She was without question a beautiful woman: not just good-looking but gorgeous. And on the other hand, her insecurity, her fear of the possibility that Ruth might renege on this new sexuality discovered at the age of thirty-seven, gave her a fragile air which, combined with her extreme characteristics, was irresistible. Nothing was calm with Carol, reflected Ruth: she exploded and regretted; she went from cool jealousy to unbridled passion; she roared with laughter or sobbed like a little girl at any tearjerker. A delight, but a delight that could be overwhelming.

  By her second coffee, she’d made a decision. She would call her parents, and if they weren’t going, she would spend the weekend at the apartment in Sitges. She didn’t usually go in summer because the crowds drove her crazy, but she needed a close, familiar refuge and this was better than nothing. All of a sudden the prospect of spending three days alone, doing whatever she felt like, sounded marvellous and in spite of it being early she rang her mother to find out if the apartment was free, crossing her fingers in the hope that the answer would be yes. It was, so without wasting a moment she sent Carol a message describing her plan—a short, succinct text that wouldn’t prompt a reply. However, she hesitated a moment before doing the same to Héctor: she didn’t have to inform him of her comings and goings, but the night before she’d noticed he was worried. His tone of voice was anxious and Héctor, for all his faults, wasn’t a man easily perturbed. She fiddled with her mobile until she finally decided to speak to him.

  “Hello?” he answered, almost before the phone rang. “Everything all right?”

  “Yes, yes,” she rushed to reassure him. “Listen, you had me worried last night. You have to tell me what’s going on.”

  He took a deep breath.

  “The truth is I have no idea.” Héctor told her more calmly what he’d said to her the previous night: that veiled threat that seemed to be hovering over him, and perhaps over his family. “I don’t think anything will happen, maybe they just want to make me nervous, create problems, but just in case . . . stay alert, OK? If you see anything strange or suspicious, tell me straight away.”

  “Of course. In fact I was ringing to tell you I’m going to Sitges this weekend. To my parents’ place. I’ll come back via Calafell and pick Guillermo up on Sunday night.”

  “Are you going alone?” He asked more for reasons of safety than anything else, but he immediately regretted it and Ruth’s tone confirmed it had been an ill-timed intrusion.

  “That’s none of your business.”

  “Sorry. I don’t . . . didn’t want to interfere in your life.”

  “Yeah.” Ruth bit her tongue so as not to be unpleasant. “Well, it sounded like it. Good-bye, Héctor, speak to you Monday.”

  “Yes, enjoy yourself. And Ruth . . .” He realized he didn’t know how to say it. “Like I said, if you see anything strange, call me immediately, OK?”

  “Bye, Héctor.” Ruth hung up straight away, and saw that she had two missed calls from Carol. The last thing she felt like doing was arguing, so she opted to ignore them and began to prepare the couple of things she wanted to take with her.

  Héctor didn’t waste any time either. He had slept very little and very badly as usual, but that morning the lack of sleep translated into hyperactivity. Apart from what he had said to Ruth, he was worried. Above all because, although he sensed the threat, he didn’t know from where it would come or what was really going on. Something told him it wasn’t just he who was at risk from this vague danger; the revenge, if that’s what it was, would extend to those around him. When he had finally managed to reach his son the night before, he’d let out a sigh of relief. Guillermo was loving it at his friend’s house and for a moment Héctor
was tempted to tell him to stay a few more days if possible, but he didn’t: he wanted to see him too badly. Between the event before his departure for Buenos Aires and the trip itself, it had been a month since the last time. And he missed him, more than he would ever have believed. In a way, his relationship with his son was stretching as he grew. Héctor couldn’t pretend to have been a model father: excessive working hours on one hand, and the inability to get excited by childish games on the other had made him an affectionate but vaguely absent father. However, recently he’d been surprised by the maturity with which Guillermo accepted the changes in his life. He was a rather introverted, yet not unsociable boy, who’d inherited his mother’s talent for drawing and his father’s ironic air, which made him seem older. Héctor had found himself thinking not only did he love his son, no doubt about that, but he also got on well with the boy and a relationship had begun to be established between them that was, if not one of friendship—which seemed absurd to him—then one that certainly had undertones of camaraderie. The separation and having to spend some full weekends alone together had contributed to improving the relationship between father and son instead of hindering it.

  But the night before, Héctor hadn’t only checked that his family was safe and sound. He’d worked on the case of the Nigerian girls. He’d made an appointment to meet Álvaro Santacruz, doctor of theology specializing in African religions who gave classes in the Faculty of History. His name had emerged as an expert in the subject during his previous inquiries but he hadn’t managed to speak to him. Now he felt the pressing need to obtain the help of someone who could shed a little light on the matter, someone who might be able to give a degree of clarity to his suspicions. Dr. Santacruz was expecting him and Martina Andreu at half past ten in his office at the History Faculty, and he headed there. He’d met Andreu a little beforehand so he could be brought up to date with the news, if there was any.

  There were still more questions than anything else. Sergeant Andreu, whose dark-circled eyes suggested she hadn’t slept well that night either, informed him of what they knew while they had breakfast in a café close to the faculty.

  “There’s definitely something weird about this Dr. Omar,” said Andreu. “Or at least, what little there is is quite strange. Let’s see, our dear Dr. Omar arrived in Spain eight years ago and settled in Barcelona five years ago. Before that he was in the south, although it’s not very clear what he was doing. We do know he arrived here with enough cash to buy that flat and start up his thing. And he either kept his money in a drawer at home or the businesses he was involved in didn’t pay much. His banking movements are few and he didn’t live in luxury, as you’ve seen. There’s always the possibility he sent the money abroad, but at the moment we have nothing. To all appearances, Dr. Omar, whose real name is Ibraim Okoronkwo by the way, lived modestly from his appointments. If it wasn’t for what that girl said—and she could have been confused—we’ve got nothing that connects him to the trafficking ring, or to any other crime apart from selling holy water to cure gastritis and banish evil spirits.”

  Héctor nodded.

  “And what about his disappearance?”

  “Nothing. The last person to see him was that lawyer of his,

  Damián Fernández. The blood on the wall and the floor points to a kidnapping, or worse. And the damn pig’s head seems to be a message, but directed at whom? Us? Omar?”

  Héctor got up to pay and Andreu joined him at the bar. They crossed the street and together they looked for Dr. Santacruz’s office.

  The history department was an ugly, unwelcoming building, and the wide corridors, half-empty in the middle of July, didn’t help either. Doctors of theology were somewhat intimidating for a confirmed atheist like Héctor, but Dr. Santacruz was a man with little resemblance to a mystic, closer to sixty than fifty, and his knowledge was based on a broad foundation of research. His books on culture and African religions were classics studied in anthropology departments all over Europe. Despite his age, Santacruz seemed to keep himself in good shape, which contributed to his six-foot-two figure, with shoulders like a Basque jai-alai player. He was the least likely looking theologian Héctor could imagine, and that made him feel more comfortable.

  Santacruz listened to what they put to him attentively and with absolute seriousness. Héctor went over the operation against the traffickers and Kira’s death, and went on to tell him the latest events, although he withheld the beating he’d doled out to Omar, as he did those mysterious DVDs that had appeared the night before and of which even Andreu didn’t know a thing. He spoke of the disappearance, the pig’s head and the file with his name. When he’d finished, the theologian remained quiet for a moment, pensive, as if something he’d heard didn’t quite convince him. He shook his head slightly before speaking.

  “I’m sorry.” Uncomfortable, he shifted in his chair. “Everything you’ve told me surprises me greatly. And worries me, to be honest.”

  “Something in particular?” asked Andreu.

  “Yes. Various things. Well, the part with the prostitutes is nothing new. Voodoo in its worst sense has been used as a tool of control. These rituals you’ve heard of are absolutely real and, for those who believe in them, greatly effective. These girls are convinced that their lives and those of their families are at risk and, in fact, in a way they are. I could describe various cases I witnessed during my studies in Africa and in certain parts of the South Caribbean. The condemned spends days plunged into the most profound terror, and it is this terror that causes death.”

  “Well?” asked Héctor, somewhat impatient.

  “Absolute terror is a difficult emotion to explain, Inspector. It doesn’t obey logic, nor can it be cured with reasoning. It’s more a case, as certainly happened in this instance, of the victim choosing an expedient way to die, to relieve panic and in doing so save her family. Don’t doubt that the poor girl sacrificed herself, to put it like that, convinced that it was the only way out. And, although it may seem absurd to you, for her it was.”

  “That I understand. At least, I think I understand it,” replied Héctor, “but what is it that surprises you?”

  “Everything that has happened since. This individual’s disappearance, the grotesque episode of the pig’s head, your photos in a file . . . This has nothing to do with voodoo in its purest form. It seems rather like a set. A mise en scène dedicated to someone.” He paused and looked closely at both of them. “I’m guessing there’s something you don’t want to tell me, but if you want me to help you, you must answer a question. Does this man have a score to settle with either of you?”

  There was a moment of hesitation before Salgado answered.

  “Maybe. No,” he corrected himself, “he has.”

  Dr. Santacruz could have smiled out of pure satisfaction, but his expression changed to express clear, frank worry.

  “That’s what I was afraid of. Look, you have to understand something. However powerful his magic—as they sometimes call it—is, it remains totally innocuous to those who don’t believe in it. Am I mistaken in thinking that you are rather skeptical, Inspector? Not only toward this subject, but toward anything related to the occult? No, I thought not. But you fear for your family, for the safety of your loved ones . . .”

  “Might they be in danger?”

  “I daren’t say so, and I don’t wish to alarm you. It’s just . . . how would I put it? They want you to feel afraid, unsettle you. Remove you from your rational, Western thinking and draw you toward theirs: more atavistic, subject to supernatural elements. And therefore they are using paraphernalia that anyone could understand.” He turned to Andreu. “Your colleague told me you searched this Omar’s clinic. Did you find anything that backs up what I’m saying?”

  Martina looked down, obviously uneasy.

  “He already said it. Some photos of Héctor and his family.” “Nothing else?”

  “Yes. Sorry, Héctor, I didn’t tell you because it seemed ridiculous: something had been burned
in a corner of the room. And the ashes were placed in an envelope, along with one of those grotesque dolls made of rope. All of it was inside the file with your photos, the ones of Ruth and Guillermo. I took it out before you arrived.”

  Dr. Santacruz intervened before Héctor could say anything.

  “I thought it strange you hadn’t found it, simply because it’s the most well-known ritual of voodoo: something we’ve all heard of.” He looked at Salgado and said frankly, “They want to scare you, Inspector. If there is no fear, their power is nil. But I’ll tell you something else: from what I can see they seem determined to awaken that fear in you, scaring you with things you do fear. Your family’s safety, the sanctity of your home. Even that of your close friends. If you play their game, if you start to believe that their threats can become real danger, then you are in their hands. Like that girl.”

  16

  As soon as they got to the station Héctor noticed that Leire had something to tell him, but before he had a chance to go over to her, Savall called him into his office. By his face, the meeting behind closed doors didn’t bode well, and Héctor mustered all his patience to get through the sermon, which he guessed related to Dr. Omar. However, he realized it wasn’t going in that direction on seeing that there was another person sitting in front of the super’s desk: a fair-haired woman, about fifty, who turned toward him and gazed at him intently. Héctor wasn’t surprised when Savall introduced them: he was sure she had to be Joana Vidal. She greeted him with a slight movement of her head and remained seated. Tense.