by Antonio Hill
“My wife wishes to speak to you, Inspector. Alone.”
Héctor nodded.
“Agent Castro will go through Gina’s room, in case we missed anything last night.”
Salvador Martí shrugged his shoulders.
“You know where it is. If anyone needs me I’ll be downstairs.” He stopped for a moment on the stairs and turned his head. “People keep calling. Some have already come. Regina doesn’t want to see anyone and I don’t know what to say to them.” He was the epitome of a defeated man, hunched shoulders and a weary expression. He shook his head, almost to himself, and began to descend slowly.
Regina received the inspector dressed in black and sitting in front of the window, next to a little table where a tray with an untouched breakfast lay. The contrast with the dazzling, boisterous, summery Regina of two days before was absolute. She seemed, none the less, possessed of a strange calm. The effect of the tranquillizers, Héctor said to himself.
“Señora Ballester, I am truly sorry to bother you under these circumstances.”
She looked at him as if she didn’t understand him and pointed to an empty chair, situated on the other side of the table.
“Your husband told me you wished to speak to me.” “Yes. I have something I must tell you.” She spoke slowly, as if it were difficult for her to find the words. “They think Gina killed Marc,” she said, with a note of questioning in her tone. “It’s very early to say something like that.”
Regina moved her head, in a gesture that could express anything. Fatigue, incredulity, acceptance.
“My Gina would never have killed anyone.” The phrase was adequate but it was absent of any emotion. “Whatever they say, I know it.”
“Who says so?”
“Everyone . . . I’m certain.”
“People talk for the sake of talking.” Héctor leaned toward her. “I’m interested in what you think.”
“My Gina didn’t kill anyone,” Regina repeated.
“Not even herself?” The question would have been brusque had it been formed in a less friendly tone.
Regina Ballester seemed to ponder her answer seriously.
“I don’t know,” she said finally. She closed her eyes and Héctor thought that he couldn’t continue pressuring her, so he made as if to get up. “Don’t go. I have something to tell you. And I must do it here, just the two of us. I don’t want to cause him any more pain.”
“Who?”
“Salvador,” she answered.
And then, with a trembling voice that Héctor remembered Gina using to answer his questions, Regina began to confess, as if he were a priest, everything that had happened between her and Aleix Rovira.
Aleix had arrived a few minutes after Leire and Héctor, and he now found himself in the lounge, under his father’s severe gaze. Salvador Martí was sitting on the sofa and silence, scarcely broken by Señora Rovira’s whispered questions, reigned over the gathering. There was no sign of Regina, thank God, and Aleix, who didn’t know the police were in the house, told himself she must be resting. When the bell rang again, Gina’s father’s expression was one of such intense irritation that it was Señora Rovira who went to open the door. Her husband took the opportunity to signal to his sons that it was time to go and stood up. Just then Enric Castells and his brother came into the room. Glòria was still at the door, whispering to Señora Rovira. It was clear she was asking about Regina, whom she’d come to see. Aleix said to himself that it was his last chance, and while Enric approached Gina’s father and Fèlix greeted his brother Edu, he slipped between his mother and Glòria, murmuring that he had to go to the bathroom.
He went upstairs and walked rapidly toward Gina’s bedroom. The door was closed and he opened it without thinking. He came to a standstill with surprise on seeing Agent Castro there.
“I’m sorry,” stammered Aleix. “I was looking for the bathroom . . .”
Leire’s stare rooted him to the floor.
“Come on, Aleix.” Her tone showed that she didn’t believe a single word. “You’ve been here a million times . . . What are you looking for?”
“Nothing.” He smiled at her. He assumed his sad smile, the one he saved for his mother, the nurses at the hospital and for any female in general who might have some authority. Cops are women too, aren’t they? “Well, I wanted to see Gina’s room. Remember her here.”
Sure, thought Leire. But since he was there, she had no intention of letting him go without a bit more.
“When did you last see her?”
“The afternoon you came.”
“You didn’t talk with her again?”
“On Messenger. The same night, I think.”
“Did she seem depressed to you? Sad?”
“Of course she was sad. But I never thought it would come to . . . this.”
“No?”
“No.”
“She was really in love with Marc, wasn’t she?”
He looked behind him and closed the door. He sat down on the bed and, involuntarily, his eyes fell on the box of teddies.
“Poor Gina, she kept the stuffed animals in the end.” His smile hadn’t fooled Leire, but she told herself Aleix’s affectionate expression couldn’t be a pose. And if it was, the boy deserved an Oscar.
“Yes,” he finally answered. “She was very much in love with Marc. Since forever.” His smile was genuine this time.
“But he didn’t feel the same?”
Aleix shook his head. She persisted: “He’d met another girl in Dublin, hadn’t he?”
“Yes. A Spanish girl studying there. Gina took it very badly.”
“Badly enough to push him out of the window?”
He shot her an impatient look.
“Gina was drunk that night, Agent. She’d have fallen herself first . . . It’s ridiculous to think so.”
The certainty with which he said it disarmed her. It was exactly what Leire thought.
“Then what do you think she was referring to when she wrote this on the computer?” Leire took out her notes and read aloud the last words Gina had left on the screen. She watched Aleix out of the corner of her eye as she read and made out a shadow of guilt in his expression.
“I have no idea,” he said. He rose from the bed and came over to her. “Can I see it?”
Leire showed him the transcript. Aleix’s expression went from surprise to disbelief, and from there to something like fear.
“She wrote it like this? Just as it is here?” he murmured.
“Yes. I took it down exactly as it was written.”
He was about to say something, but stayed silent. And then Dr. Rovira’s voice could be heard, calling him from downstairs.
“I must go.” He stopped at the door. “Do you still want to see me at the station? On Monday?” There was a challenge in his posture.
“Yes.”
“In that case, until Monday.”
He went out quickly, and Leire re-read the note, thoughtfully. Something was eluding them, she was sure. And she was dying to see Salgado to compare impressions.
27
After the previous day’s rain, the sun was taking revenge, beating down mercilessly on the city since the early morning. Even with the window and balcony open it’s too much, thought Carmen, as she wiped the sweat from her forehead with a paper towel. And this from someone who had liked summer since she was a girl, but not this: this fiery sun blazing on to the streets that kept her sweaty and bad-tempered all day long. She poured herself a glass of cold water from the jug and drank it in little sips, carefully, and then turned off the radio that was always in the kitchen. Even music made her feel hot. She should have paid attention to that friendly young man who turned up at her door a few weeks ago to convince her to install air conditioning. Carmen had listened attentively and even arranged another appointment with him, but in the end she hadn’t decided. Modern apparatuses worried her, but just then she scolded herself for not having taken his advice.
The cold water c
almed her a little and revived her enough to finish preparing the gazpacho. It was all she could have in summer: a cold glass of gazpacho. When she finished, she put it in the fridge and tidied the kitchen. That’s it, she thought with a touch of apathy. It’s all done. A long, long, muggy day lay before her. She moved to the balcony, but at this hour it was fully exposed to the sun and she held back from leaning out on to the street. How this barrio had changed . . . For good, she told herself. She’d never been prone to false nostalgia. No past time was better, although of course it had indeed been more entertaining. That was the worst of old age: these eternal hours not filled by television or magazines. Before she’d at least had Ruth and Guillermo upstairs. That child was an angel. Whenever she thought of him, that little one for whom she’d been a grandmother, Carmen recalled her son. How long had it been since she’d heard from him? Four years? Five? At least he hadn’t come back asking for money: Héctor had taken care of that. Héctor . . . Poor Héctor! And it’s not that she thought badly of Ruth, no. Every couple knew what went on inside their marriage and if that girl had left after so many years it was for a reason. But men didn’t know how to be alone. An honest-toGod truth, the same everywhere. In the twentieth century, and in the twenty-first. They didn’t even feed themselves as they should.
Then the idea came to her, and although it was something she wasn’t altogether comfortable with, she decided to carry it out. Surely Héctor wouldn’t mind her going into his home? She went to the kitchen, emptied half of the gazpacho into a clean jug, grabbed the keys of her neighbor’s flat and went to the door. Seeing the stairs she was tempted to turn back, but spurred on by goodwill, and partly out of boredom, she embarked on her journey with the jug in her hand. This staircase smelled strange, she told herself as she passed the next landing. Closed up, or rotten. She’d been losing her sense of smell for years, but something definitely smelled foul nearby. It had happened before: some little creature crept into the empty apartment and died there. She kept going up, slowly, because she wasn’t in a hurry, and arrived at the third-floor door. A second later, feeling a little like a nosy neighbor, she was inside the flat.
The layout was basically identical to that of her own flat, so although the blinds were lowered she moved in the direction of the kitchen without turning on the light. The fridge, empty as a brothel in Lent, received the jug with a purr of satisfaction. Carmen closed it and was already leaving the kitchen when she heard a noise coming from the master bedroom. As if the door had slammed due to the wind. But there was no draught, she told herself. There wasn’t the slightest breeze in this flat of closed windows. Out of curiosity, she crossed the dining room and stood in front of the large bedroom. The door was indeed closed. She turned the knob slowly and then pushed the door lightly. It opened wide.
She stumbled over something she couldn’t identify, a hard edge. Through the cracks in the blind a little light was coming in, so she pushed the switch to turn on the overhead light, but on touching it her fingers didn’t encounter the plastic expected, but a hand leaning on hers. She jumped backward, suddenly aware that someone was there, but at the same time frightened enough that the fear impeded her reactions. She remained still, seeing a dark silhouette emerge from the shadows. She would have screamed, however useless it might have been, if her voice would come out, but her vocal cords were paralysed. Like her.
A second later Carmen closed her eyes and raised her arm in a childish attempt to protect herself from that black figure brandishing some kind of long stick. The first blow fell on her shoulder and forced her to lower her arm with a groan of pain. The second plunged her into a bottomless abyss.
28
Héctor and Leire had left the Martís’ flat and were now facing the intense midday heat punishing the centre of Barcelona. There was no shade: it was a clear, stifling day. One of those days in which the city shone with untinted brilliance, like a Technicolor set inhabited almost exclusively by tourists in shorts and caps, armed with digital cameras and street maps. While they walked slowly down Rambla Catalunya, Héctor thought about the last moments in the Vía Augusta flat: the Roviras, including Aleix, had left before them and the Castells delayed very little before doing the same. It was clear no one felt comfortable. Salvador Martí was the only person who appeared not to understand the suspicions underlying every expression of condolence, every “I’m sorry,” the apprehension with which Enric Castells gave his hand, the sidelong glances between Glòria and Señora Rovira. Regina, for her part, had refused to come out of her room or receive anyone in it, despite the other two women knocking at her door.
The avenue’s terraces invited them to sit down, although deep inside they both knew air conditioning, at that time, was the only refuge from the heat. However, the street gave them privacy in which to discuss the latest details of the case. Once seated at a table, and with two iced coffees in front of them, Héctor brought Leire up to speed on his conversations with Fèlix Castells and Regina Ballester, although out of caution he kept the fact that Savall’s name had come up again to himself. She, for her part, recounted to Salgado her chat with Aleix Rovira and her renewed impression that this boy, like Gina before, was hiding something important from them.
“Notice how every thread in this case comes back to two names?” asked Héctor when she’d finished. “As if we were moving along parallel lines. On one hand Aleix, friend of everyone, Regina’s lover, born manipulator; and on the other this Iris . . . even though she’s dead.”
Leire nodded. Despite the heat, her brain was working at top speed.
“There’s something weird. Marc remembered all this while he was in Dublin. Why? And who sent this email to Joana Vidal?”
Héctor was starting to have vague suspicions relating to those questions.
“Iris Alonso had a younger sister. Inés, I think she’s called.” He let out an exasperated snort. “Tomorrow we’ll get rid of doubts. Today we must concentrate on the other lead.”
“Aleix.” Leire took a few seconds before continuing. “One thing is clear: if Regina was with him yesterday afternoon, according to what she told you herself just now, Aleix couldn’t have gone to Gina’s house.”
The inspector nodded.
“You know what? The worst thing about all this is that I can’t imagine anyone in this case as a killer. They’re all too educated, too proper, too worried about appearances. If one of them killed Marc and then Gina, it had to have been with a very powerful motive. A very deep hatred or an uncontrollable terror.”
“Which brings us back to Iris . . . If she simply drowned in the pool, if her death was an accident, none of this makes sense.” Leire remembered Father Castells’ face in the café. “But we only have the priest’s word on that.”
Héctor looked her in the eyes.
“I know what you’re thinking, but I think we shouldn’t get ahead of ourselves.”
“Have you read the rest of the blog, Inspector? In his last entries Marc keeps talking about justice, the end justifying the means, it not being long before the truth comes out.”
“And in his last email to his mother he commented that he had to take care of an important matter in Barcelona. Something he had to resolve. Something certainly linked to Iris’s death.”
“When you spoke of parallel lines, I think you forgot one, Inspector. The exact one which crosses in the middle. The only name that appears in both cases.” Leire’s voice took on a hard tone, devoid of any sympathy. “Father Fèlix Castells.”
No doubt she was right, thought Héctor. And his impression that the priest was hiding something came back even more forcefully.
“If that’s what we’re dealing with, the matter might take a very ugly turn.”
“Think about it. All the details about Iris, the anorexia, the sudden personality change, totally fit the profile of a victim of sexual abuse. Marc was only a child that summer, but maybe in Dublin he began to remember, for whatever reason, and came to the same conclusion as we have now.”
Héctor finished the reasoning.
“And returned to Barcelona ready to untangle the truth. But how? Did he openly accuse his uncle?”
“Maybe he did. Maybe he went to see him. Maybe Father Castells got frightened and decided to do away with his nephew.”
The argument had an overwhelming logic. But logic, as always, left feelings to one side.
“Let’s not forget they loved each other,” replied Salgado. “Marc had lived with a distant father—and believe me when I tell you I know what that is—and then found himself in a new family in which he was relegated to second place. His uncle had been a kind of ‘substitute mother.’ He must have been very sure of what he suspected to dare to betray him. And on the other hand, this man loved his nephew as a son. I’m sure of that. He’d cared for him, raised him . . . You can’t kill a son, whatever you do.”
“Not even to save yourself?”
“Not even for that.”
For an instant they were immersed in their own thoughts. Héctor knew he had to get rid of Agent Castro and speak to Savall. However, Leire’s mind was far away from the case just then. Distant father, the love between children and their parents . . . All this was starting to affect her too much and she felt a sudden need to see Tomás.
“Now I need to take care of a few personal matters,” said Héctor and she breathed a sigh of relief.
“Perfect. Me too,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“There’s something I’d like you to do this afternoon.” And, lowering his voice a little, Héctor explained his plan. Sergeant Andreu wasn’t enjoying this bright summer Saturday afternoon in the least. In fact, she’d already woken up in bad form after spending half the night going over her meeting with that jumpy woman in the Ciutadella. But her doubts hadn’t dissipated, and on waking they assaulted her even more vigorously. In the end she’d argued with her husband, something she detested and which usually didn’t occur, and, despite the pouts, she decided she had to resolve these questions as soon as possible. Although she was more fond of Héctor than of any other colleague, or perhaps precisely because of that, she needed to get to the bottom of the matter.
