The Good Suicides (27 page)

He must have smiled while he was thinking, because his son looked at him, curious. It wasn’t a very edifying example for an adolescent, and so as not to explain he chose to say, “Guille, I’m going to be slightly crazy with a case over the next few days. You saw what happened on Sunday: they called me in the middle of the night and I didn’t get back until very late last night.” He blurted out the question all of a sudden. “You’re all right, aren’t you? It’s just I know living here isn’t the same as living with Mama …”

His son shrugged.

“I don’t know what that means.” Héctor poured himself a second cup of coffee and was tempted to leave it there, but something impeded him. “Yes, yes I do. I suppose this isn’t ideal for a boy your age, and I know I should pay you more attention, although honestly you don’t help much either. No, it’s not a criticism, not completely. It’s just that we’re alike and that complicates things. Before—”

“Before Mama was here. But now she’s not.”

“Exactly. Now she’s not. But I am … though not very much and maybe not very well. I’m here and you can count on me. Always.”

It was one of those phrases that, said out loud, seemed lifted from an American family film, one of those where fathers and sons tell one another all the time how much they love each other; but nothing better occurred to Héctor. Maybe because some of us had to learn to be a father through cinema, he thought somewhat bitterly.

Guillermo nodded and poured more cereal into his bowl of milk. Héctor took a gulp of coffee. The teaspoons hit the dishes. The kitchen tap was dripping. If we had a clock the ticking would sound like fucking bullets, Salgado thought.

Héctor cleared his throat and rose in search of a cigarette. His son put his bowl in the sink, then went for his backpack. Before leaving he stuck his head around the kitchen door.

“Papa,” he said, looking at the floor.

“What?”

“I just wanted you to know I’m here too. And you can count on me.” He smiled. “Almost always. Running, you’re on your own.”

Héctor smiled and threw a tea towel at him, which Guillermo threw back even harder.

“Go or you’ll be late. Guille!” he shouted after him. “If some days I’m not here by dinnertime, go to Carmen’s, okay? I’ll speak to her. I don’t want you eating a sandwich every night.”

“Okay. That way I see Charly.”

He’d forgotten. That was why they hadn’t seen her all weekend: she had the prodigal son at home. Héctor was going to say something else, but Guillermo was already gone. He drank the second coffee with a second cigarette, unable to rid himself of a strange nagging feeling, although shortly afterward the memory of Lola and the short journey to her hotel forced it out.

As he drove, Héctor had realized the years had stolen away something so essential: complicity. It was also clear that they were both tired, as well as a little unsure how to treat one another. En route to the hotel, they exchanged vague remarks about flights and delays, but finally, when they reached their destination, he asked her, “How’s life?” Lola looked at him, gave him that characteristic smile and said, “I’d need more than seven minutes to cover seven years, Héctor. I’m tired. We’ll talk.”

The offices of CCDC, the Corporate Continuous Development Center, were located on Diagonal, not far from Plaça Francesc Macià, and had an even more American air than the conversation in the kitchen. On a bright summer day there would be a fantastic view from the window, but on that mid-January Tuesday dirty raindrops were blotting the glass and blurring the background. After getting the information thanks to Saúl Duque, Héctor had called the day before, mid-afternoon, to
arrange a meeting with the instructors in charge of the Alemany Cosmetics group. And here they were before him: an older, heavier, grayer man who answered to the name of Señor Ricart, and a young but completely bald man. When they had granted him a meeting the article hadn’t yet been published, but both seemed to be up to date with the situation. And in all likelihood Sílvia Alemany will have called them this morning, thought Héctor. To warn them.

“On the phone I didn’t really understand how we can help you, Inspector,” the younger man began. The other, his boss no doubt, watched and stayed quiet.

“To be honest, neither do I,” Salgado admitted. “According to my notes, a while back you took over Alemany Cosmetics’ training days. In March last year, you organized a weekend away for a group of eight. Sílvia Alemany, César Calvo, Brais Arjona, Octavi Pujades, Manel Caballero, Gaspar Ródenas, Sara Mahler and Amanda Bonet. As you already know”—he waited for them to nod, but neither did—“three of these people have died in the last few months in … let’s say strange circumstances. Too much of a coincidence, don’t you think? So I’d be grateful if you could give me all the information you have about those away days.”

The two men exchanged a quick glance and for the first time the elder of the two spoke.

“I shouldn’t think that’ll be a problem, Inspector. Although to be honest I don’t think there’s much to tell.”

He put on his reading glasses and looked over some papers lying on the table.

“I remember now.” He took them off and continued. “It was an interesting group from our point of view, Inspector.”

“Oh yes?”

He was quiet for a moment, unsure of how to approach the subject. “Do you know anything about group theory?”

“A little, though I’m sure you can expand my knowledge with an enlightening summary,” said Salgado, smiling.

“I’ll try, Inspector. Joan,” said Señor Ricart, turning to his assistant, “I don’t think there’s any need for us both to be here. If Inspector Salgado wishes to speak to you, he can do so afterward.”

Joan seemed surprised but caught the most direct hint Salgado had heard for a while and left.

“This way we’ll be more relaxed. I have to be so politically correct in front of my employees. First of all, Inspector, I should tell you that I don’t think what I’m going to say will give you any relevant information …”

“Let me be the judge of that.”

“I’ll try to be clear, at least. Let’s see, I’ve already said it was an interesting group from our point of view and I’ll explain why. In a group of eight we usually identify one leader, two at most. However, in this one we counted three, and that’s unusual.

“There was of course the official leader, Sílvia Alemany, and the one who we call the leader by experience, Octavi Pujades. But immediately another very strong one emerged who relegated the first two to second place.”

“Brais Arjona?” Héctor ventured.

“Ten points, Inspector. Yes: the natural leader through ability, not responsibility, age or experience. Señor Arjona fulfilled all the requisites for that role: young, strong, intelligent. Very involved and decisive.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean he inspired confidence when it was time to work, although he didn’t try to win the others over socially.”

“The others?”

“Amanda, Gaspar, César … Mere followers, of one type or another. I did pick up on some tension between Brais Arjona, the natural leader, and one of Sílvia Alemany’s unconditional followers, César Calvo.”

Intrigued, Héctor nodded.

“Was there an argument?”

“Not in the sense you mean. Simple disagreements between them when facing common tasks. Note when I speak of tension I’m referring
to concrete, finite moments: a tendency to compete, align themselves in different groups, put forward opposing viewpoints to resolve something. For the first two days. On the third, the Sunday, the situation had changed.”

“In what sense?”

Señor Ricart smiled.

“I see you appreciate what I say. Normally people listen to our explanations skeptically, but I tell you, group theory is a fascinating subject … The majority of the time our days follow a very similar pattern: tests, tasks are planned … call it what you will. Nevertheless, sometimes an element outside them and us alters the dynamic of the group much more than planned.”

“And this element appeared in this case?” Héctor guessed the answer, but he didn’t want to get ahead of himself.

“Yes!” The instructor’s expression revealed a satisfaction akin to that of a football fan whose team has just won the league. “During one of our tests the group stumbled upon a … disturbing external element.”

“The strangled dogs?” prompted Héctor.

“Bravo. Yes. It was an unpleasant experience, of course, and shocking enough for the group to carry out an activity of their own, according to what I found out afterward. They found them mid-morning on Saturday, and although they returned to the house to complete the planned task, afterward they decided to go and bury them. Neither Joan nor I was there then; usually they are left alone on Saturday afternoon to interact without intermediaries: this is also part of the program. So the group met, voted and acted as one. A great achievement bearing in mind that only a day before they couldn’t agree on sharing bedrooms.”

“Did they argue over bedrooms?”

“There are always disagreements, Inspector. In this case, I remember very well, one member felt uncomfortable having to share a room. Wait …” He glanced at his notes. “Yes, Manel Caballero. He asked if it were possible to sleep alone, which isn’t the point of away days. In any case, and although the observations come from only one weekend,
I’d say Manel was the classic disruptive participant. He never protested overtly, but took advantage of any opportunity to call the whole group’s task into question. A most obnoxious young man, to be frank; an uncomfortable element, not at all inclined to cooperate. One who thinks the whole world is against him.”

“And who did he share with in the end?”

“That I don’t remember,” he answered. “Although more than likely he shared with the youngest two men. The house is big and there were empty rooms, but as I say, it shows scant spirit of cooperation to ask for a private room. They were days of teamwork, not a weekend’s vacation.”

Héctor was processing this information with the nagging feeling that there was an essential piece missing in this jigsaw.

“I did say I didn’t think it would be of much help to you,” added the man, a sage reader of the expressions of others.

“In an investigation everything is useful,” replied Héctor.

“You’re the expert, not me. I can only say that they left as a much more cohesive group than they arrived. Not that this then continues in their workplace.”

“No?”

“Not at all. Although something of it can last, of course. In some groups a positive energy, of common purpose, is generated, but it’s not a permanent feeling. When conflict puts it to the test, it deteriorates.”

“In that case, what purpose do they serve? The away days, I mean.”

“I’ll deny ever saying this, Inspector,” the man said. “Very little and a lot. I’ll explain it quickly: employers have learned that conflict is costly on many levels. One way of avoiding it is by making their employees feel well treated, comfortable, appreciated. Before, categories were clear and members of the different classes fought among themselves. Now a kind of harmony floats between everyone, a harmony that interests some and makes others happy. A harmony that lasts only while there are benefits … We’re already seeing it.”

Héctor was beginning to get lost and didn’t want to forget the point of his visit.

“One more thing, do you remember if Amanda Bonet complained of having seen someone on Friday night? Someone prowling around the house, I mean.”

“No … At least I don’t remember her saying anything like that, although it’s not unusual. The house is a bit isolated and city people tend to feel somewhat afraid, especially at night.”

“Where is it, exactly?”

The man took a photograph from a drawer. As Duque had said, it was a typical Empordà country house.

“It’s within the Garrigàs municipal area, but it’s outside the town.”

“Do the instructors go back and forth every day?”

“No, that would be exhausting. It’s about ten kilometers from Figueres, and the weekends we have to work at the house we stay there.”

“Right. And does someone take care of maintenance, food …?”

“Yes and no. The participants take charge of the house for the time they’re there: that is to say, they cook or eat out except when the activity requires catering. We do have a couple who live relatively nearby—about one and a half kilometers away—contracted for cleaning and maintenance once the house is vacated.”

Héctor nodded. He didn’t have much more to ask, but he couldn’t help putting one last question.

“Did you notice anything in particular about the members of that group? Nothing you’d have to swear to before a jury—just any subjective impression. It won’t leave this room,” he assured him.

“No. That’s the truth—I’ve been thinking about it since you rang yesterday and even more since I saw the news in the paper.” He shook his head, with a touch of regret. “The final day, the Sunday, they were tired, but that’s normal. They were interacting much more positively, as I told you, but that’s not strange either. Sometimes the opposite happens and they leave more confrontational. Groups are unpredictable, Inspector. Mostly because they’re made up of people, or rather, individuals. Different individuals obliged to work together. They wouldn’t
have chosen each other as friends, and they’re not linked by family ties; they share only a space, responsibilities, goals.”

“Like at work.”

“Exactly. Permit me a comparison to the animal world. Do you know the most sought-after quality in a pack of dogs for hunters?”

“Sense of smell?” ventured Héctor.

“More than a sense of smell.” He paused somewhat theatrically, before announcing in a didactic tone: “Cohesion. While the hunt lasts, the dogs must prove that they can work together to achieve a common goal. However …”

“What?”

“When the hunt ends, give them something to eat and watch how they fight among themselves for the best morsel.”

Although on this occasion he had company, the road to Octavi Pujades’ house did not feel any the shorter. Eyes fixed on the bends of the road, drenched by the morning rain, César drove in silence, not saying a word to his companion. Brais, for his part, didn’t seem to want to talk much either. An atmosphere of doubt permeated the car, unasked questions in a confined space consuming the oxygen. Brais must have noticed it, because he instinctively opened the window a little.