All Yours (3 page)

The same process may apply in reverse. Where there is a suspect, but the scene of the crime is not yet determined, a minute examination of his clothes, car, home or workplace can yield information leading to an area or even the exact location where a body may be found, in the case of a murder.

Close inspection of the vehicle is vital. The bodywork and bumpers must be scrutinized. If it can be shown that earth collected in these areas matches earth from the scene of the crime, the forensics will have discovered crucial evidence.
(Clean both cars top to bottom!)

The investigator must also pick up any larger clods of earth found at the scene of the crime, which can later be compared with remnants of earth adhering to the chassis of the suspect’s car. If one piece fits the other, like pieces of a puzzle, it will be impossible for the person using the vehicle in question to deny that he or she was present at the scene.

Also subject to forensic scrutiny are the marks and impressions made by tyres and footprints. Indeed a technique similar to that of dentistry is used to obtain plaster casts of any of the tracks that are found, so that these can later be examined more closely in the laboratory. Depending on the size and clarity of a tyre mark, it may be possible for forensic scientists to establish the model, size and make of a car used in a crime. If the tyres have been worn down, positive identification becomes all the more exact, because the manufacturer’s tread pattern will have been altered, leaving a corresponding alteration in the track.
(Irrelevant, given the quantity of rain.)

Shoe prints are also analyzed, in the first instance, to establish the size of the wearer’s feet. Given the range of types of sole currently on the market, the forensic scientist may even be able to pinpoint the brand of shoe used by the person or persons present at the scene of the crime. Indeed, forensic scientists claim they can deduce the gait of the person who left the print under investigation, simply by examining how the sole has been worn away.
(Interesting, but also irrelevant.)

7

I went up to the bedroom with my glass of warm milk. Ernesto wasn’t there. I looked for him in the corridor. Lali’s door was ajar, and I crept up to it. Without entering, I peeped in. There was Ernesto, sitting on the floor beside Lali’s bed, crying and stroking her face. We had so much to do, yet he found time for sentimentality. It’s no use crying over spilt milk – fetch a cloth and clean it up! It looked like I was the only one trying to do any cleaning up in this situation. But if I was going to do a good job, I needed Ernesto to tell me what had happened, once and for all. And at the moment it seemed that all he wanted to do was cry, and gaze at his darling daughter. He spoils her so much! The thing is that Ernesto still feels he’s let her down, even though seventeen years have passed. You see, Ernesto wasn’t sure about us getting married, he thought it was too soon. “Too soon?” Mummy said. “You’ve been going out for three years!” And we had – since we were nineteen. “You need to hurry things along, darling, otherwise he’ll never make up his mind.” So I hurried things. It was easy. I got pregnant straight away. I told him as soon as I’d done the test. And he was unsure – not about me – about having the baby. We never spoke about it, but I know that he was in two minds. He became withdrawn, barely speaking. Whereas I, not wanting him to be depressed, could scarcely stop talking. I told him that I had dreamed that the baby had his eyes. I told him that I had already thought of the names – Laura for a girl and Ernesto for a boy. I told him how happy Mummy had been when she learned that she was going to be a grandmother. Still he said nothing. “Ernesto, you’re not thinking that I should get rid of it, are you?” Those words did the trick. Ernesto started crying like a child. “Forgive me, I’m sorry.” And before he could say anything else, I took his hand, placed it on my belly and said, “Baby, let me introduce your dad.”

I would have waited up for him. I wanted Ernesto to tell me everything, get it over with. But it was four o’clock in the morning and still he didn’t come. I could have gone to him and said “Ernesto, would you stop messing around and come to bed?” But he had had a very hard day and I didn’t want to pressure him. No point in throwing more fuel on the fire. After all, I needed to rest too. I drank my milk, got into bed and went to sleep.

The alarm clock woke me up at half-past six. Ernesto wasn’t lying beside me. That was strange: he never got up before seven. His side of the bed hadn’t been slept in. It made me shiver to think of him sleeping, curled up on Lali’s carpet. I went to look, but he had gone. He was in the shower. Time to get a move on: I had to wash his car before he came out. I did the job at lightning speed, leaving it spotless. I’m good at that kind of thing. When I entered the kitchen, Ernesto was already there, making coffee. “Hello, darling,” I said. “Hello,” he answered, and poured himself a coffee. I sat down opposite him and smiled. I wanted him to feel reassured, to see his wife as a balm capable of curing all his wounds. “Any news?” I asked – smiling all the while – to give him that little prod Ernesto always needs. He didn’t answer. It was hard keeping up the smile; it felt tight, like a mask. Ernesto’s so annoying when he goes quiet! He drank his coffee. The folded newspaper lay beside his cup, but he didn’t pick it up. “That’s a bad sign – he’s already making blunders,” I thought to myself. Ernesto never leaves the house without reading the newspaper. And the first commandment of perfect assassins is to stick faithfully to the usual routine. Otherwise, you might as well call the police yourself. “Hey officer, look at me, with my glazed expression, shaken appearance and coffee dribbling down my chin. Reckon I’m up to no good?”

“Ernesto, have you read the weather forecast for this weekend?” I asked, while opening his newspaper and all but placing it in his hands myself. Ernesto pretended to read it. “Oh my God,” I thought, “this is going to be harder than I thought.”

“Ernesto, did your systems problem get sorted out?”

Ernesto’s eyes filled with tears and he gave me a look that could tear your heart out. I put my head in my hands, defeated for a moment. Then I looked him in the eye and spoke plainly. “Ernesto, it must have been sorted out while you were on the way there and that’s why you came straight back, because half an hour later you were home again. I heard your car coming in; it was half-past ten at the latest, and you didn’t go out after that. OK? You went off at ten o’clock and you were back by half-past ten. That’s not enough time to go anywhere or do anything. You understand me, right?” I don’t know if he did understand. Not only did he not say anything, but he gave me a look that made me feel like sending him to stand in a corner of the classroom. Because at heart – and this is his serious failing – Ernesto is a child. He never grows up. And sometimes I get sick of being a mother to him. However much you love your man, there are limits and sometimes, to be honest, I feel like putting a bullet between his eyes.

I was thinking about doing just that when Lali came in. When I said good morning, she barely grunted a response, as usual. Ernesto watched her go to sit down. He looked as though he was going to say something to her but instead he picked up the newspaper and appeared to be reading. Lali spooned sugar into her coffee and stirred it, gazing into her cup as the spoon went round and round. “Darling, you’re going to make us dizzy,” I said, to break the ice. Glancing up, she looked at me, then kept stirring, regardless. It’s at times like those you feel like slapping them across the face. But as I said, this wasn’t the moment to go throwing fuel on the fire. Better to leave things be. “We slept really well last night, didn’t we, Ernesto?!” Finally he looked at me and I felt heartened. But straight away he averted his gaze again and seemed lost in his newspaper. Apparently there was no way to shake him out of his trance. Without picking up the paper, he stared at it, bewildered. A man who kills a woman then goes to pieces. It’s like a monkey with a gun. Really dangerous. I took the initiative; if I didn’t grab the reins, we’d be lost. “At half-past ten last night you were already sleeping like a baby, weren’t you, love?” These last words hung in the air. Lali shot me a disapproving look, for no reason, but then she always looks at me disapprovingly. She picked up her backpack and went. I’ve always felt that to say anything at all was to annoy her. She says that I talk a lot. When do I ever talk?! And she thinks she’s very intelligent; “like Daddy”, she used to say, whenever she brought her report card home. I know she underrates me. But I forgive her – how could you not forgive your own daughter? She’s always been so definite, so dogmatic; she thinks that intelligence means getting full marks in Maths. My intelligence is the lower-profile kind, intelligence from the sidelines, with no fanfare, no full marks or gold stars. It’s a practical intelligence, the kind that’s useful from day to day. The kind that could save her dear daddy from a life behind bars. Because while I was putting together an alibi for her oh-so-intelligent father, all he could do was sit around noisily blowing his nose.

Before leaving the house, Ernesto came up to me and said: “Tonight I’d like us to talk, just the two of us.”

Finally! “Of course, darling,” I replied. And as he went out of the door he added: “If anyone calls from the office, tell them I won’t be there before lunch.”

8

It was tempting to follow Ernesto – I dared not think of the number of cock-ups that man could make in four hours. But then I had a better idea: to go to his office. I opened the wardrobe and wondered what to wear. I needed to look good. Not too flashy, for let us not forget that a woman had died. Nothing seemed to fit the bill. In a way, this was a special occasion. One can’t turn up at one’s husband’s office in jeans and trainers. Even designer label ones. It’s a question of image. You have to fit in with other people’s idea of an executive’s wife. And they wouldn’t think of Pereyra’s wife as some fat frump in a dressing gown and rollers. I’m pretty sure of that. My husband always dresses very well, with his tie matching the colour of his socks, and he goes ballistic if the shirt he wants to wear has creases or his shoes need polishing. He’s very meticulous.

I picked out a sand-coloured suit, elegant yet discreet, bought for a friend’s civil marriage service. I don’t think I’d worn it since that day. The thing is, we live in a residential neighbourhood – all the houses have gardens and swimming pools – so stilettoes and silk clothes aren’t an option. Definitely no stockings or tights. You can’t water the plants or prune a Santa Rita vine in tights. Round here we all wear smart casual clothes – nice trousers, a pretty shirt, a little woollen waistcoat, maybe a blazer, a pashmina. And good accessories, which always help to give that finishing touch.

I wished my mother could see me now. She’s always criticizing what I wear. She says I don’t wear make-up, I don’t style my hair. The thing is, she’s so cheap, so high-street. She dresses at nine o’clock in the morning as though for a night out, slapping on the war paint, dousing herself in perfume. And she’s nearly seventy. I think it’s a hangover from the time when she still thought Daddy might come back to her. Poor Mummy. I said as much to her one day, and she slapped me across the face.

The receptionist recognized me before I had said anything, and was clearly surprised to see me there. It’s not my style to go to Ernesto’s office, to get involved in his stuff.

“Your husband isn’t here yet, Señora,” she said.

“No, I know. In fact he asked me to let you know that he won’t be here before lunch – so I was going to go up and tell his secretary.”

“She hasn’t arrived yet either,” she said.

“And never will,” I thought to myself, and I confess that I felt a bit guilty entertaining such a flippant thought. But it’s not as if you can control everything that passes through your mind.

I said, “I’ll wait for her upstairs. I need to give her a message.” And I went straight on up to Ernesto’s office. No one was there. Ernesto’s always complaining that nobody arrives before nine. That gave me half an hour to do what I needed to do. I went through all of Ernesto’s drawers. This time I found nothing. “Nice one, my little Ernesto, for once you’ve done something right!” I thought. Then I went through her drawers. Nothing there, either. “Those two sure were tidy,” I said to myself. But knowing what Truelove was capable of – signing notes with lipstick and dedicating boxes of condoms – didn’t set my mind at rest. It made no sense that she wouldn’t have held on to some memento of my husband – a photo, some underwear (at home he wears boxers but, with her, who knows?), a teddy bear holding some silly sign (“give me all your honey” or similar), a poem. I don’t know: something. That woman must have hidden something somewhere. In the middle of the desk, one small drawer was locked. I forced it, easily. It was one of those drawers that yield with a little patience. And I had patience to spare. I still do. There was nothing much – a bit of money, some cheques, unredeemed vouchers. A bunch of keys. Now that was certainly interesting, especially as each key had a little label attached to it. She really was an efficient secretary. “Office of Señor Ernesto” – Señor Ernesto indeed, what a bastard. “Reception”, “Service door”, “Main door”, “Conference room”, “Avellaneda copy”. Two different keys on the same ring. I held these keys in my hand, stopping to think.

From Ernesto’s own extension, I called the Personnel office. I identified myself – no reason why not to – and said that I had to pass on an urgent message, from my husband to Truelove. Only I said “Alicia”, obviously. “And since she’s not here, I really need her home phone number and, if possible, an address, so that I can courier over some papers.” Either my husband was highly respected in that company, or the people in Personnel were highly stupid because they instantly gave up this information without asking any questions. Number 345 Avellaneda Avenue, fifth floor, flat B. You didn’t have to be a brain surgeon to realize that this was the address for the “Avellaneda copy”.