The Good Suicides (20 page)

“Octavi Pujades, the eldest, has been our finance director for years; he was already director in my father’s final years. And the other two, as you know, are Gaspar Ródenas and Sara Mahler.”

“If I remember correctly, Gaspar belonged to the same department as Señor Pujades, isn’t that right? Is it normal for two people from the same department to attend these away days?”

She smiled.

“It depends. On occasion they are organized by department, to unite the group. Other times, like this, it’s about bringing people from different divisions together. So the answer is no, it’s not normal in this case.”

“How are the participants chosen?”

“Well,” Sílvia was maintaining that friendly smile, “it’s not a lottery. Brais and Amanda had had months of intense collaboration, with the contact that always entails, and I thought it would be good for them to work together in a different atmosphere. At the same time, it seemed convenient for them to establish a more personal relationship with the managers of other areas: César, Octavi and me. Sometimes creative personalities like theirs tend to forget they form part of a broader whole, that there are other employees who take care of more concrete areas. The group is also balanced by age, so Manel Caballero from R & D, and another person from Sales who couldn’t come in the end. Gaspar Ródenas was on the same level, so although he was also from finance, we decided to include him.”

“And Sara Mahler?”

“I’m afraid that the administrative personnel sometimes feel a little excluded. We needed another woman to make it up, and Saúl and I thought of Sara.”

“Saúl …?”

“Saúl Duque. It’s he who takes care of organizing the details of these activities. My second-in-command. I hate the word assistant—it’s somewhat servile, don’t you think? You saw him as you came in—his desk is just in front of the door to my office.”

Sílvia had relaxed. Clearly, speaking about the ins and outs of the company was a pleasure for her.

“And were they good? I’m mean the away days.”

“Neither good nor bad. Between you and me, Inspector, I’m coming to the conclusion that this kind of thing has more of a motivational effect than anything else. The people feel valued, which is positive in itself.”

Héctor nodded.

“But in this case the away days served another purpose. At least for Gaspar Ródenas, right?”

Sílvia was on her guard once again.

“You mean because afterward he was chosen to carry out Octavi’s duties during his leave of absence? Well, I wouldn’t say that happened as a result of those days. A couple of names were considered, and Gaspar’s was one of them.”

She was lying. And when she was lying her voice took on a slight note of disdain.

“And what tipped the balance in favor of Ródenas?”

“It was Octavi Pujades who preferred him, and my brother and I agreed, of course. At the end of the day, it wasn’t a definitive promotion. It wasn’t so very important, Inspector. Just a few months of extra responsibility.”

Héctor smiled inwardly; he was sure that the other name considered on that short list hadn’t seen it that way. However, he decided to move on to another subject.

“And was it by any chance during those days that this other photo was taken?” he asked as he placed it on the table.

“Let’s see …” Sílvia Alemany picked up the print and looked at it without too much interest, although with a serious expression. “Where did you get this, Inspector?”

He decided not to lie.

“Sara Mahler received it in a text message shortly before … she committed suicide.” The pause was intentional and the other person noticed. “Have you seen it before?”

“I don’t understand why anyone would send her something like this. It seems in very bad taste.”

“It’s not a nice image, of course,” Héctor agreed. “Nevertheless, you’ve seen it before, haven’t you?”

“Inspector, I don’t know what exactly you’re insinuating, but I can
assure you I’ve never seen this photograph before. And it’s not something easy to forget. What’s more, the idea of photographing a scene like this is macabre.”

Héctor waited. He was about to rephrase his question when she got ahead of him.

“I hadn’t seen the photograph, but yes, we saw that tree. And those poor animals hanging there. Some hunters do it, you know? When the animals are old, they’ve lost their sense of smell or they’re just sick, they hang them. It’s barbarous.”

“Of course. It must have affected you all.”

Sílvia nodded with a shudder that this time was genuine.

“One of the tests consisted of a trail game. Two teams were formed and we set out on a hunt. The objective was to get to a cabin relatively far from the house we were staying in. That tree was beside it.”

“I see.”

“In fact, we arrived almost at the same time. The two teams, I mean. There was even a final race between César and Brais to see who could reach the end first.” She said it scornfully, as if she were speaking of two little boys chasing after a ball.

“Do you remember anyone taking a photo?”

Sílvia shook her head, as if the mere idea was an aberration.

“Why would someone do something like that? It’s horrible.”

“I don’t know, but someone did. And sent it to Sara for some reason.”

Sílvia’s acting was so convincing that Salgado started to doubt his reading of the situation.

“I can’t help you with that, Inspector. But believe me when I tell you that we were all very upset. Maybe you think it’s silly, but in the flesh it was very shocking.” She took a breath and added, “So much so we decided to bury them.”

“Bury them?”

She smiled.

“In hindsight it sounds ridiculous, I know. At that time we felt we
couldn’t leave them there. Out in the open, hanging by the neck. The house where we were staying was far from the town, and I wasn’t sure anyone would have come quickly just for some dogs.”

“Violence against animals is a crime,” Héctor clarified. “Someone would have come, you can be sure of that.”

“I suppose you’re right. It didn’t occur to us. That was mid-morning, and in the afternoon, when we’d finished the activities, we decided to go back and bury them. I think we’d been infected by the idea of group spirit and shared tasks.”

She said it with a hint of irony that didn’t escape Héctor.

“So you went back, took them down and buried them there.”

“Yes.” She shrugged. “I find it hard to believe that after we took so much trouble, one of those present had the bad taste to take a photo and then send it to Sara.”

“Do you get any pressure from environmental groups?” asked Héctor. “For using animals and—”

“Our products are a hundred percent natural, Inspector. We don’t experiment on animals. There is always some radical group who tar us with the same brush as other labs, but in fact it hasn’t happened for a while.”

Héctor was thoughtful for a moment. Sílvia Alemany’s explanation was reasonable, although she still hadn’t given an answer to the question. Who had taken the photo? And above all, why had they sent it to Sara Mahler, especially just before she died on the tracks of the metro?

“We’re entering the realm of hypothesis, Señora Alemany. If you had to bet on one of them, who would you say took that photo?”

“This isn’t fair, Inspector.” Seeing he was looking at her inquisitively, she continued: “What I’m going to say may seem an attempt to deflect the matter, but to be honest I think the only one of us capable of something like that was Gaspar Ródenas. No, not in the sense you’re thinking. Gaspar belonged to various associations for the defense of animals,
and it may be that he wanted a picture of the tree to report what had happened.”

Héctor nodded. It was probable, although there was no mention of environmental activism or animal rights in Ródenas’s file.

“It will seem strange to you that I know that about Gaspar Ródenas, but when the tragedy occurred I went through his work file. You must understand, it was a complete shock when someone we saw every day suddenly became a murderer-suicide. So I went over the psychometric tests and reports done on him in the years he worked here. It was mentioned in one of them and that’s why I remember it.”

“Was there anything in those tests that could have predicted what he did?”

Sílvia Alemany shook her head.

“If we managed to see that with such a simple test, you would be out of a job, don’t you think?”

There was little more to say, and Héctor accepted Sílvia Alemany’s offer of visiting the factory accompanied by Saúl Duque.

“I would show you around myself, Inspector, but I have a meeting in less than ten minutes.”

“Your brother still hasn’t arrived? He told me he was going away.”

Seeing it was already a quarter past eleven, she continued: “He must be about to arrive, although maybe he went home to drop off his suitcase first. Did you want to see him?”

“No, there’s no need.”

“If you want anything else, you know where to find us.” She’d stood up, an unequivocal sign that the meeting was at an end. “Inspector, I trust you will be discreet with the workers. There have been enough unpleasant comments after the deaths of Gaspar and Sara …”

“Don’t worry,” said Héctor, “I’ll try not to spread panic.”

“I’m sure you will.”

It was false praise; the satisfaction revealed by Sílvia Alemany’s voice was too obvious for Héctor not to perceive it. And without really
knowing why, this pissed him off even more. What neither he nor Sílvia herself knew was that air of confident superiority was to be shattered some two hours later, when Víctor arrived at the company and, behind closed doors, held a confidential conversation with his sister that would erase every trace of her good mood.

As he ran along a dark, solitary maritime promenade Héctor hoped that the tension in his body would evaporate through sweat and fatigue, but the cool night air was making it rather difficult. An invisible sea, present only in the form of an agitated, almost furious murmur, didn’t help much either. So he speeded up, seeking the relief that only muscle exhaustion can bring, when the brain dilutes worries to concentrate on withstanding the race. But for the moment there was no way of achieving this and the day’s images, unpleasant for the most part, kept floating back into his mind, rebellious and disorganized like starving piranhas.

The scolding from Savall, which he’d tried to fight off with expert irony, had been no surprise. Only the delivery had taken him aback. The superintendent had listened to him, of course, and had agreed that Bellver could be, putting it bluntly, a first-class idiot, but at the same time he’d refused to believe that Héctor knew nothing about the removal of Ruth’s file from the missing persons archives. And he’d adopted a tone somewhere between solemn and offended to make it clear he “felt deeply disappointed.” After all he’d done for him, after having supported him when he put his foot in it and taken advantage of the force, Savall had made it clear that he expected, if not thanks, then at least a little loyalty. And honesty.

There’s nothing worse than the truth that seems to be a lie, thought Héctor. However much he argued, the super had been unwavering, and
he’d also accused him of using Sergeant Andreu to carry out “what you don’t have the balls to do yourself.” Héctor, who’d called Martina Andreu twice since the night before without getting an answer, reiterated his ignorance, although he was hurt that Savall didn’t believe him. At least this will be cleared up soon, he thought as he started to notice the heat of the exertion: Martina will be back on Monday from Madrid and everyone will have the chance to talk. In fact, he also found it strange that the sergeant had done something that in other circumstances wouldn’t be that important. In these, however, Ruth on one side and Bellver on the other, she must have realized that the result could be catastrophic. The superintendent’s final words, expressed in that tone of paternal anger that Héctor hated above all other things, left no room for doubt: “You’re making too many enemies, Héctor. And you can’t permit yourself that luxury. Not now. And the time will come when even I can’t defend you.”

If the gossip had pointed out the possibility that he’d smash Dídac Bellver’s face in, the superintendent had reason to worry. It had been a long time since he experienced that blind fury, the physical need to hit someone, and only Agent Fort’s appearance had stopped that from happening. Bellver’s face, when he made conjectures about Ruth’s emotional instability and Héctor’s humiliation on being left for another woman, was crying out for a punch that would dislocate the jaw with a dry, painful crack. As he ran, Héctor guessed that that was exactly what Bellver wanted: to make him lose his temper, to demonstrate once again that Salgado was a crazy, violent Argentine, capable of assaulting not only a suspect but a colleague as well.

I managed to control myself, thought Héctor, although he knew it wasn’t altogether down to his own merit. On Monday it’ll all be cleared up, and this gave him the strength to accelerate even more on an almost deserted promenade, beside waves that seemed to become more furious as he calmed down. It was going to rain; the sky was swarming with dirty clouds and in the distance he sensed an isolated bolt of lightning. The most intelligent thing would have been to turn around, but Héctor
was determined to reach the goal he’d set himself before leaving home, the chimneys of the old Sant Adrià power station, and he hadn’t the least intention of giving up the little he was able to control himself, through his own efforts. The only aim of the day that didn’t depend on other people’s will, on people like Sílvia Alemany telling him the truth.

In short, he thought, the visit to the labs had been as fruitless as he’d feared and, as they discussed during the journey back, Agent Fort’s inquiries hadn’t thrown up any exceptional revelations. The employees seemed appropriately shaken by the news of two consecutive deaths, but didn’t make any connection between them. The comments, according to Fort, indicated that Sara Mahler was a strange woman, “no man by her side”—something that sounded to Salgado like the most antiquated machismo—and that Christmas was sad for those who were alone. With that he did agree, he said to himself as he noticed the first drops of rain. The subject of Gaspar Ródenas was already a remote event for the majority of the workers; they’d spoken about it ad nauseam when it happened and had little more to add.