The Summer of Dead Toys

by Antonio Hill

  It was best, he repeated almost aloud, convinced that, given the circumstances, he’d done what was right. The poor little girl was past all help, in the hands of the Lord, but everyone else, those who were still living, were his responsibility. He had to decide and he’d done so. He’d spent all day telling himself that, but as soon as his eyes fell on the blurry photo of Iris on his nephew’s blog, his self-assurance collapsed into a thousand pieces. Because he knew this claim of having done the right thing that summer was built on the unsound foundations of a lie. Iris’s little face reminded him of that.

  Tonight, opposite the image of that little blonde girl, Fèlix lowered his eyes and asked forgiveness. For his sins, his arrogance, his prejudices. While he prayed he recalled Joana’s words a few days before, when she said that blame wasn’t atoned for, it was carried. Maybe she was right. And maybe the moment had arrived to take a step back, to let justice take its course with all the consequences. Enough of playing God, he told himself. Let everyone take their share of the blame. Let the truth come to light. And may the Lord forgive my deeds and my omissions, and may the dead rest in peace.

  “RIP” read the note that appeared on the saddle of his bike that evening, stuck to the lifeless body of a kitten. Aleix had to overcome all his disgust to take it off, and hours afterward he could feel the touch and smell of that tiny creature on his fingers. Time was running out and his problems, his problem, was ever further from being solved. He didn’t have to be a genius to deduce who’d sent that message, or what it meant. There was little more than forty-eight hours left until Tuesday. He’d called Rubén several times with no answer. That in itself was another message, he thought. The rats were abandoning ship. He was facing the threat alone.

  Holed up in his room, Aleix went over all the possibilities. Fortunately, his brain still functioned at times of great stress, although a teeny line would have helped him dispel his doubts. Finally, as he contemplated the darkening sky, he realized he had only one option. Although it would be the hardest thing he’d ever done, although his stomach churned at the very thought, there was only one person to turn to. Edu would lend him the money. For better or for worse. He didn’t want to mull it over any more: he left his room and walked with quick, feverish steps toward his older brother’s room.

  35

  Leire picked the inspector up at the foot of the tower without asking questions, and tried not to notice his tired appearance. He was still wearing the same shirt she’d seen on him that morning and he spoke slowly, as if he had to make an effort to pay attention. But as she was bringing him up to date on Rubén’s statement, those tired eyes took on an interested gleam.

  “I’m sorry I acted off my own bat,” she said when she finished her tale.

  “It’s done now,” he replied.

  “See, Inspector? We have a witness, a stoned witness who believes he saw someone push Marc Castells. Not the testimony of the year, but I’d swear he was telling the truth.”

  Héctor tried to focus on the case, but it was difficult. Finally, when they reached the city centre, it occurred to him, not without a certain shyness, to invite her to dinner. If it seemed odd to her, she said nothing, probably because she was dying of hunger and had nothing at home she felt like eating. The thought of some duck dim sum, the speciality of a Chinese restaurant she knew, overcame all other considerations.

  “Do you like Chinese food?”

  “Yes,” he lied. “And don’t be so formal. At least for a while.” He smiled at her and continued in a low voice, thinking that by the following day he might no longer be an inspector but someone charged with murder. “Maybe forever.”

  She didn’t fully understand the phrase, but sensed that questions were out of place, so she bit her tongue.

  “Whatever you say. But, in that case, we split the bill.”

  “Never. My religion forbids it.”

  “I hope it doesn’t forbid you eating duck as well.”

  “I’m not sure about that. I’ll have to seek advice.”

  She laughed.

  “Well, seek it tomorrow . . . just in case.”

  Héctor’s decision to pay for dinner had been unyielding, so it was Leire who, in a fit of female equality, suggested going for a drink in a small bar nearby where they served “the best mojitos in Barcelona.” REC was a small space, decorated in white, gray and red, which was usually full in winter, when the customers preferred cosy interiors to street terraces. That night there were only a couple of people at the bar, chatting to the owner, a muscular guy who greeted Leire with two kisses.

  “From what I see you’re well known here,” commented Héctor, when they had sat down at a table.

  “I come a lot,” she replied. “With a friend.”

  “Leire, two mojitos?” asked the owner.

  “No. Just one. A virgin San Francisco for me.”

  He winked at her, with no comment; if Leire wanted to abstain that night in front of this companion, that was her business. He brought them the two drinks and returned to the bar.

  “Is it good?” she asked. She was actually dying to have one, but the image of a baby with three heads suppressed any temptation to try it.

  “Yes. Are you sure you don’t want one?”

  “I’m driving,” said Leire, grateful for once in her life for the hundreds of checkpoints scattered across the city on Saturday nights.

  “Good girl.” He stirred the sugar at the bottom of the glass and took another gulp. They’d been going over the case during dinner and come once again to a dead end: Iris, or, more accurately, Inés Alonso. They’d agreed that Leire would go to the airport to collect her and ensure that the young woman arrived safely at Joana Vidal’s flat, or wherever she wanted to go first. Obviously, en route she would talk to her about Marc. Héctor had opted to stay on the margin, though Leire didn’t know why. Nor could he tell her without getting Andreu into trouble. For the umpteenth time, he looked at his mobile, which remained insolently silent on the table. Not even Ruth had bothered to answer.

  “Expecting a call?” asked Leire. She hadn’t been drinking, but something in her impelled her to be forward. “A friend?”

  He smiled.

  “Something like that. And tell me, why is a girl like you free on a Saturday night?”

  Leire shrugged.

  “Mysteries of the city.”

  He looked at her with that old-dog irony, and all of a sudden she felt a huge wish to tell him everything: her conversation with Tomás, her fears.

  “I don’t think I can handle any more mysteries,” he replied. She took another sip and lowered her voice.

  “That’s easily resolved, really.” He was going to be the third person to know, after María and Tomás and before her parents. But she couldn’t take it any more. “Can I give you an exclusive piece of news? Not to Inspector Salgado from the morning but to Héctor from tonight?”

  “I love exclusives.”

  “I’m pregnant.” She smiled as she said it, as if she were confessing a major indiscretion.

  The words caught him mid-gulp. Smiling, he moved his glass to the San Francisco and touched it lightly.

  “Congratulations.” His smile was warm, and despite the wrinkles and the fatigue in his features, he seemed to be happy.

  “Don’t say anything, OK? I’m only a few weeks and everyone says not to announce it in case something happens, and—”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted her. “I know. And I’ll be as silent as the grave. An Egyptian grave. I promise. I’m getting another mojito. Another old-lady fruit juice for you?”

  “No. It’s awful. It must have kilos of sugar.”

  While she waited for him to return from the bar, she felt disappointed. Stupid, she scolded herself. What did you expect? He’s your boss, not a friend. And even as a boss you’ve known him for only four days. Héctor returned with his mojito and sat down again. The mobile remained silent.

  “I told you a secret,” she said. “It’s your turn.” />
  “When did we make that deal?”

  “Never. But it’s a craving . . .”

  “Oh no. My wife harped on at me with that for months until I found out it was completely untrue. My ex-wife,” he pointed out, before drinking.

  “Do you have children?”

  “Yes, one boy. They never become exes.” Unless they’re ashamed of a father convicted of murder, he told himself. He didn’t want to think about it. “I warn you, and tell your boyfriend too.”

  He realized he’d put his foot in it when he saw her face.

  “OK.” He took refuge in his mojito, which was tart and strong. “Fuck, your friend’s made this one strong.” He stirred it vigorously. “You know what? You don’t need him. I mean the father. I swear I could have lived without mine.”

  Leire watched him as he took another long drink. When he put the glass on the table and she could see his eyes she believed she understood the depth of the darkness glimmering in them and felt what her friend María called “the seductive power of sad childhoods.” A mix of attraction and tenderness. She looked away so he wouldn’t see while she cursed these turbulent hormones that seemed to be plotting against her. Luckily, just then some late customers took the table right beside them, so close that any confidence between them would have been an indiscretion. Both she and Héctor did everything they could to restore informal conversation but their efforts resulted in a chat so forced that Leire was glad when he finished his drink and suggested that perhaps she might be tired.

  “A little, to be honest. Do you want me to drop you somewhere?”

  He shook his head.

  “See you tomorrow.” At least I hope so, he thought. “Drive carefully.”

  “I haven’t been drinking, Inspector Salgado.”

  “Not Héctor any more?” he asked, half smiling.

  Leire didn’t answer. She went to the bar and paid for the drinks, ignoring his protests. Héctor watched her from the table as she chatted to the owner. He heard her laugh, and he told himself that was exactly what he had been missing in his life lately: not someone to fuck, or walk with, or live with. Someone to laugh about this shitty life with.

  He was in the bar, alone, until it closed, like a local drunk who didn’t want to go home. However, that night the mojitos had no effect on him. He thought ironically that the heroes in the movies drink bourbon or whisky. Not even in this do you measure up, Salgado. When the bar owner discreetly said it was closing time, he went out into the street. He wandered aimlessly for a while, trying not to think, to let his mind go blank. He didn’t succeed and, just as he was about to enter another joint to add more alcohol to his body, his mobile took revenge for being so long silent. He answered immediately.

  “Martina!”

  “Héctor, it’s finished. It’s finished! All over. Fuck, Inspector, you owe me one. This time you really owe me one.”

  36

  As soon as Héctor had left, Sergeant Andreu had gone back into the flat where Omar’s mistreated corpse lay. She was by then mentally prepared for what she was going to find, so this time she observed the scene with the detachment required. If in life that man had caused pain, it was clear that he’d paid for it with a slow death, she said to herself as she knelt by the body. Abandoned like a dog. She wasn’t an expert in forensic science, but she knew enough to see that the old doctor had died between twenty-four and forty-eight hours earlier. The large contusion visible on the nape of his neck, however, was older than that. Yes, the doctor had been given an almost fatal blow days before, the day of his disappearance, and they’d left him there, tied up, gagged, dying. In a show of sadism, she thought, remembering the disk in the DVD player, his killer had recorded the exact moment of his death for posterity.

  She stood up slowly. However much she wanted to avoid it, all the evidence pointed to Héctor. A witness had seen him with the victim the evening he disappeared; a man with an Argentine accent had ordered then paid for the pig’s head over the phone. The call could have been made from anywhere. She hadn’t received a very trustworthy description from the boy at the butcher’s. Apart from the accent, the information contributed by the boy had been rather vague. Vague, yes, but not contrary to Salgado’s physical appearance at all. And then there was the corpse, just below Héctor’s flat. And the discs in his house. Martina closed her eyes and could visualize part of the sequence of events, though not all. Of course it was hard for her to imagine Héctor recording anyone’s death, in an act of perverse voyeurism, and much less attacking that poor neighbor of his. But what if Carmen’s assault was a mere coincidence? Something that had happened that day and had nothing to do with the Omar case?

  Enough, she admonished herself. There was nothing more to see. She left the room as she’d found it, and then did the same with Carmen’s keys. A strange uneasiness came over her when she’d done so, the indefinable feeling that she was overlooking something. Or perhaps it was the fear that someone might find out what she’d taken upon herself: those hours of a head start she’d given to a possible murderer . . . She was playing for him, she thought, without the slightest guarantee she could win the game.

  She dismissed the idea of going back to Omar’s flat and decided to go to the station, shut herself in her office with all the material and find a crack, a thread to pull. She looked at her watch. A long and possibly pointless night lay ahead of her, but she wasn’t ready to throw in the towel. Not yet.

  Two hours later, however, with a crick in her neck and red eyes, the feeling of being beaten was overwhelming her. She’d re-read all the files, the ones from before the doctor’s disappearance when he was under investigation for his connection with the network of pimps, as well as the most recent. She had produced a detailed outline using the witness statements: the lawyer who said he’d seen him on Monday night; the butcher; and above all that of Rosa, which placed the doctor in his office on Tuesday evening. She’d posed all the questions, and although she hadn’t managed to answer them all completely, they all directed her thoughts to one name: Héctor Salgado.

  For the last time, she went over the questions still unanswered. Some were circumstantial, along the lines of: how had Héctor moved Omar’s body to the empty flat in Poblenou? He could have borrowed a friend’s car, she told herself. Or his exwife’s. What’s more, she thought, he could even have taken one of the police vehicles. Not easy, but he could have done it. Question dismissed. Another point against the inspector.

  She was exhausted. Her back, head, stomach all hurt. Hurt her to the point of irritability. But this same extreme fatigue forced her to keep going in an almost masochistic effort. She closed her eyes for a moment, breathed deeply and returned to the task, from the beginning. Another question dangled around the search of the house and the doctor’s accounts. If she assumed, and she had no reason to doubt it, that this quack had collaborated with the women-trafficking ring, where was the money he got from it? Not in the bank, logically, but not in his house either. The question remained unanswered, but in no way did it exonerate Héctor. His motive, were he guilty, had never been robbery, but revenge. A distorted sense of justice. The same thing that had driven him to beat Omar.

  “It’s over,” she said out loud. She couldn’t take it any more. She wasn’t giving any more of herself. Maybe the best thing was to report the finding of the body with all the consequences and for Héctor to submit to the appropriate investigation. She’d done all she could . . . She took a few minutes before making the call that would set the whole process in motion, while she considered how to cover up her act, unprofessional from any perspective. She set the Omar papers aside and while she meditated on her own situation, she opened the file of battered women who had registered for the self-defense course she would be teaching in the autumn. If she wasn’t put on checkpoints when all this came out, she thought. She went on leafing through pages, looking at photos. Unfortunately they couldn’t accept them all, although she made an effort to take the maximum number of pre-registered women. Th
en some always dropped out, whether because they didn’t feel able or they’d resigned themselves to putting up with these bastards. Poor women, she thought once again. Those who didn’t deal with them didn’t have a clue of the terror they were subjected to. They were all ages, from a variety of backgrounds, different nationalities, but they all had fear, shame, distrust written on their faces.

  She stopped at the photo of a woman she instantly recognized. It was Rosa, no doubt about it. María del Rosario Álvarez, according to the form. Finding her there didn’t surprise Marina all that much: Rosa had spoken of a husband she feared. She remembered her words in the park, her desperate plea to remain anonymous. Rosa must have forgiven her husband, since the report of assault was from February. But then another name caught the sergeant’s eye. A name that chilled and unnerved her at once. The lawyer who’d represented Rosa was Damián Fernández, the same person who defended Omar’s interests.

  She had to force herself to stay calm, to think about this unexpected connection with a tranquillity which had abandoned her hours earlier. She went back to Omar’s file, but this time she studied it from a radically different perspective. Who had seen Omar on Tuesday? Rosa. Who had positively identified Héctor? Rosa. Only her, because an Argentine accent, the butcher’s contribution, was easily imitated. Other than this woman’s word, there was no proof that Omar was safe and sound on Tuesday evening. If this testimony was discounted, what was left? Damián Fernández’s statement, which said he’d met Omar on Monday. And that was probably true. That Monday, the lawyer had gone to see his client, not to present the deal offered by Savall but to beat him. Yes, to beat him and steal the money he definitely had hidden in some corner of that fucking house! And then . . . then he’d calmly brought the badly injured body, in the middle of the night, to the empty flat, taking advantage of the fact that Héctor wasn’t returning until the following day. The strange feeling she had had leaving the keys in Carmen’s house, that game with all the keys of the building that the woman barely used, came back to her forcefully. She didn’t know how Damián Fernández managed to get them, but she was sure he had. Keys he’d copied and used as he pleased, entering Héctor’s house when he wasn’t there, and the empty flat to imprison Omar’s body and record his death. Even Carmen’s assault fitted now. She must have surprised him at some point, probably while he was leaving the latest bits of evidence in Salgado’s home, and he’d had no choice but to split her head and bring her down to the first floor. And, amidst all this, his accomplice Rosa had called her and played her part to perfection, putting Héctor at the scene.