The Good Suicides (29 page)

From the mouth of any other of his subordinates, this refusal would have unleashed all the superintendent’s fury. But from Martina Andreu, it left him speechless.

“I will apologize to Bellver if you think it necessary.”

Savall gestured indifferently with his hand, as if linking the words “apology” and “Bellver” was absurd.

“Leave it. It would just make things worse. I’ll speak to him.” Then he turned to Héctor, who had observed the scene in silence. “Anyhow, best if you don’t have too much contact with Bellver and his team for a few days. Avoid possible encounters, okay?”

He addressed them both, but no doubt it was directed at Salgado.

“That takes two, Superintendent.”

“I know.” Savall sighed. “Well, we’ll leave it there for now. Héctor, how’s the cosmetics lab case going?”

“If you’re going to talk about that, I’ll leave you to it,” said the sergeant.

“Ask Fort to come here, please,” Salgado ordered. “He went to interview Pujades this morning and I still haven’t had a chance to speak to him, though I’m almost certain he hasn’t got anything out of him.”

“I’ll send him to you straightaway. But treat him well, okay? Take it easy on him or I’ll take revenge.”

She smiled, and the camaraderie that had always reigned between them previously suddenly returned.

“We’ll talk later, Andreu,” said Savall. “You need to tell me how you made out over there.”

A good while later, Savall and Salgado were still discussing the suicides case under the attentive gaze of Agent Fort, too timid to intervene if not asked a direct question.

“Let’s see,” said the superintendent in an attempt to recap, “up to now, were it not that these people have the same place of work, we’d have three cases of suicide, or even one—and I’m referring to Amanda Bonet—which could be classed as accidental death.”

Salgado shook his head.

“She took a lot of sleeping pills, Superintendent. And according to her lover, it wasn’t the first time they enjoyed those ‘games,’ as he calls them.”

“All right then, three suicides.”

“Three suicides but five victims,” Salgado pointed out. “Ródenas’s wife and daughter—don’t forget them.”

“How could you forget them?” Savall was quiet for a moment, putting his thoughts in order. “Let’s start at the beginning. Gaspar Ródenas. Recently promoted, worried about said promotion, though with no other known issues.”

“True. His case was included in crimes of domestic violence, but there were never reports made by his wife or the least suggestion of ill-treatment in the family environment.”

“Nevertheless, Ródenas did buy a pistol, didn’t he?”

“He did. But that weapon could have been to kill his family, then commit suicide, or to protect himself and those around him,” Héctor pointed out.

Savall nodded.

“It’s a possibility. However, in that case we’re dealing with a ruthless killer. A killer who didn’t hesitate in killing a little girl only months old so that the crime scene would appear like an extreme case of domestic violence. Do you really believe you have someone like that among the suspects?”

He recalled the faces of the Alemany Cosmetics employees: Sílvia, César Calvo, Brais Arjona, Manel Caballero …

“I don’t know. Honestly I couldn’t say,” concluded Salgado. “What was Octavi Pujades like, Fort? I know his statement just confirmed the version of the others, but on a personal level, what impression did you get from him?”

Fort flushed a little and considered his answer before speaking.

“I’d say he’s much more affected by the situation at home than he thinks.” He shivered. “Practically alone, caring for his wife in her final days … He seems to be under enormous stress, although I couldn’t say more with any certainty.”

“Fine,” Savall intervened, “we’ll leave Ródenas aside for a moment. Sara Mahler threw herself on the metro tracks on
Reyes
night.”

Héctor made an irritated gesture.

“We still don’t know where she was coming from or going to at that time. She didn’t usually go out at night.”

Fort felt obliged to add: “We’ve tracked the movements of her bank account. Sara Mahler withdrew money from an ATM at 21:35, but she did so alone, near her home. The ATM images show as much.”

Poor Sara, thought Salgado. Her final hours were recorded on different cameras: those at the bank, the metro station …

“Sara Mahler’s death occurred four months after that of Ródenas and his family,” Héctor pointed out. “So if Ródenas was killed, whoever did it felt safe until then.”

“True. On the other hand, Amanda Bonet—”

“Died a few days after Sara Mahler.”

Superintendent Savall’s appearance expressed a mixture of irritation and fatigue.

“And the others say nothing?”

“That’s the worst of all. They seem upset,” said Héctor, musing as he spoke, “shocked, even. Whatever they’re hiding, the fear of it being discovered is greater than what they feel about the deaths of their colleagues.”

“And you’re sure they’re hiding something?” asked the superintendent.

“Yes.” Salgado’s reply was unequivocal. “It’s intuition: something happened that weekend, something grave enough for them to hide it, keep quiet … And for some of them to be dying for it.”

“One more thing in relation to Amanda Bonet,” said Savall. “Did anyone know a key could be found underneath the doormat? Anyone apart from her lover, this Saúl …”

“Saúl Duque. According to him, Amanda suspected that Sara Mahler knew about their relationship. If that’s true, Sara could have told someone.”

“Who?”

“Víctor Alemany, for example. She was his secretary, and throughout the company they say Sara was very loyal to her boss.”

“Were they lovers?” said Savall, half smiling.

“I don’t think so,” Salgado answered firmly. “What’s more, Víctor wasn’t with them that weekend—”

“True,” Fort interjected, daring to do so spontaneously for the first time, “but if Sara told him everything, perhaps she explained what happened in that house as well.”

“Good point,” said Héctor. “Even so, we continue as we are and keep going until we establish the root of all this.”

“Exactly.” Savall was starting to show signs of impatience, gestures Héctor recognized easily. “What are your plans, Héctor?”

“Tomorrow I’m going to Garrigàs, to the house where they spent those days, to see if I can find anything.” Héctor turned to Fort and added, “On the other hand, dismissing the possibility of identifying the person responsible for the message, we have to keep investigating what Sara Mahler did on the night of her death.”

“Sir, it still seems strange that there is no data on her cell phone. It’s on the factory settings, but she hadn’t bought it that day.”

“Get on those two matters. There are too many loose ends in Sara’s death.”

Roger Fort nodded and, sensing that this order implied leaving the office, he went out rapidly.

“Héctor,” said Savall when they were alone, “I’m not against using the press on this occasion. But be careful. It could cause us problems.”

“I know, but I think this time we needn’t worry.”

“Fine, I trust you.” Savall seemed to consider the meeting finished; however, as the inspector was preparing to leave, he added, “I’m glad to see you back on form, Salgado.”

Already at the door, Héctor stopped. The superintendent went on in a tone grave yet tinted with something akin to affection. “I’m aware that you felt bad about my taking you off Ruth’s case. Believe me, I’m sorry, but I had no choice. I couldn’t allow one of my best men to become obsessed in that way.” He waited for a reply from Salgado, then seeing there was none forthcoming, went on: “Sometimes you have to turn a page, however hard it is. Doing it was very difficult for me. You know I’ve always supported you, even at the worst times, and both my wife and I care a lot about you both … You and Ruth.”

Hearing her name then, Héctor realized he hadn’t thought about her for hours, maybe days. He knew it was absurd, but he couldn’t help
a strange feeling: he’d promised not to forget her. He didn’t know what answer to give the superintendent. He left without saying anything and walked toward Fort’s desk. Speaking to the agent with her back to him, he made out a feminine figure who from a distance he confused with Lola. Then the woman turned and he saw it was Mar Ródenas.

Mar seemed so out of place in the station that Héctor decided to talk to her somewhere else. He invited her for a coffee in a nearby bar. He also needed to smoke and could have a cigarette en route.

Once inside, two coffees in front of them, hers decaf, Mar Ródenas took from her bag the newspaper in which the article about her brother had appeared. I should have seen this coming, thought Héctor. Despite the article speaking of suicides, the coincidence of three in a few months had to arouse unease in their loved ones, and Mar Ródenas’s appearance faithfully reflected that emotion.

“What does this mean, Inspector?” she asked, straight to the point though in a faint voice.

“I wish I could tell you,” he replied, “but at this time we know little more than what’s in the article.”

“But … but the text seems to imply that …”

Hope, thought Héctor. That was what was in that glance. The hope that what she’d accepted until then as a fact was actually an illusion. The hope that her brother wasn’t a parricide, but a victim in the end. Salgado didn’t want to raise her hopes and yet neither could he deny the truth.

“The case has been reopened. That’s all I can tell you.”

He considered that for Mar, that was enough. It was at least an open
door, a road toward a reality different from the painful one with which it was her lot to live.

“Do you have siblings, Inspector?”

“Yes.” He didn’t elaborate: he was certain that an elder brother who chose to look away when your father gave you a beating wasn’t the example Mar was hoping for.

“Gaspar was a few years older than me.” She smiled. “Sometimes he was worse than my parents: he didn’t let me out of his sight.”

Héctor prepared to listen to her. It was clear this girl needed to talk about her brother, that boy who protected her in school and bickered with her at home; the boy who in her mind had little to do with the man who’d died from a bullet in that domestic tragedy. Mar continued talking for a while, ever more animated, as if for the first time in months she could enjoy these memories, spoiled by Gaspar’s sad end. And without meaning to, Héctor also ended up relating anecdotes from his childhood in Buenos Aires.

“I’m sorry,” said Mar. “I’m sure you have better things to do than exchange family stories.”

“Don’t worry.” He looked at his watch. “Although I must be going now.”

“Of course.”

She protested mildly when he paid for the two coffees, but the inspector took no heed. They walked in the same direction, he toward the station and she the metro.

“Inspector,” Mar said to him, “I know my opinion isn’t very objective when I tell you Gaspar was essentially a good person. He was incapable of anything so horrible.”

“When it’s about people, no opinion can be objective,” he said, affectionately. “Mar, let me ask you something.” He’d just remembered; it wasn’t an important detail, but it couldn’t hurt to clear it up. “Did Gaspar belong to an animal rights group or anything like that? You know, environmental groups …”

Mar seemed taken aback.

“Not that I know of. Although maybe … Are you asking for any reason in particular?”

Salgado shook his head.

“Someone told us so, but it’s not important. Don’t worry about it.”

When he returned to his office, Fort had already left and he couldn’t see Martina Andreu at her desk either, so Héctor thought of calling Lola and suggesting she come with him to the house in Garrigàs the next day. Although it wasn’t following procedure, he was sure she’d like to, and he trusted her discretion. He had to leave the suggestion recorded in her voicemail, since Lola didn’t pick up the call. However, shortly afterward he received a text with a succinct: “Okay. See you tomorrow.”

The brevity of the answer caused him a momentary pang of sadness. He kept his eyes fixed on the screen of the phone, annoyed with himself and these dregs of melancholy that seemed to seek any motive to overflow. No, he corrected himself, not any old motive.

He was going to leave the phone on the desk, like someone banishing the messenger who brings unwelcome news, when he remembered that he had his fortnightly session with his therapist the following day. He picked up the discarded phone and looked for the number among his contacts to cancel the visit, when suddenly it occurred to him that the kid might be able to help, not him, but in the case. He called, hoping he might still be at the practice and could spare him a few minutes. And this time, fickle law of averages, he got the answer he was seeking.

Not having him opposite seemed strange, which was logical: it was the first time he’d spoken to him on the phone. He didn’t know if he did sessions by telephone—or even better, on Skype, in this century where the virtual was gaining on an ever less tangible reality. Not one for preambles, Héctor got straight to the point.

“You want to talk to me about suicide, Inspector?”

“Yes, but not mine, don’t worry. This isn’t a subterfuge to reveal my hidden desires.”

On the other end of the line he could hear a suppressed chuckle.

“It never would have occurred to me to think you had the profile of a suicide, Inspector.”

“No, I suppose my aggression tends to erupt outward rather than inward. Now seriously, is there such a thing as a suicide profile?”

“Calling it a profile would be too strong. There are characteristics of personality that, combined with the right circumstances, could increase the risk of someone taking that step.”

“I’ll be honest with you.” He regretted it as soon as he said it, since the expression made out that he hadn’t been so at other times. “I’m investigating the possible suicides of three people whose only thing in common was working in the same company.”

If the psychologist had heard about the case, he gave no sign of it.

“And you wish to ask me if there is a possibility that it may be the work environment that is causing the suicides?”