The Good Suicides (30 page)

It wasn’t exactly what he wanted to ask, but Héctor decided to let him speak. Then he would clarify what he wanted to know.

“It’s a very complex subject, Inspector. And it’s difficult to talk about it without citing theories or explaining experiments using terminology unintelligible to most people.”

“Try. I’ve become an expert after six months of therapy.”

There was a moment of silence.

“Well, before anything else let me tell you that suicide is considered a sin here, or an unnatural act, although this idea isn’t the norm everywhere. In other cultures it is a dignified exit: remember the philosophers of ancient Greece or, later on, the Japanese and their hara-kiri. It is Christianity which believes that life does not belong to us but to God, and that He is the only one capable of giving or taking it.

“To answer your question, this organization, be it company or
group, which aids or indirectly causes suicide would have to confront the individual resistance of its members, owing to the survival instinct and some sociocultural norms that condemn the suicide. There have been cases of mass suicide in sects where the leader has great influence over the members. But in a modern company this would be unthinkable: workers have social lives, families.”

“But there have been cases—”

“Yes, of course. In the context of great stress, changing conditions, extreme work insecurity, worker anxiety increases. The employee suicides of which I’ve read clearly express that the cause of the act they are going to commit is at work.”

“A kind of posthumous accusation?”

“Exactly. I’ll simplify it so as not to go on too much. Think that the suicide commits this act maybe because he honestly believes he doesn’t want to live anymore, or because he’s trying to place his death on someone’s conscience. In the first case, it’s a coolheaded decision, reasonable from the subject’s point of view: a terminally ill person who doesn’t wish to be a burden to their loved ones. In the second, the aim is somewhat more perverse: imagine an adolescent who’s been left by his girlfriend; he kills himself and wants the whole world to know that she is to blame, so he leaves a note accusing her more or less overtly. Understand?”

“Of course. And if there’s no note? None at all?”

“That’s more unusual. People tend to explain themselves, to justify what they’re about to do … To exonerate some of blame and accuse others. Unless it’s a moment of desperation, a heated decision so passionate that, if the attempt fails, the suicide never repeats the act.”

“Does the lack of a note indicate a sudden decision?”

“In general terms, yes, Inspector, but in our world to generalize is to lie.”

Héctor nodded silently. Neither Gaspar, Sara nor Amanda had left a note. Maybe because they wanted to hide the cause from the world; or maybe because someone had decided for them.

“One more thing, Doctor,” he sometimes called him that, though he
knew he wasn’t one, “perhaps the subjects don’t want to accuse anyone specific.”

“If the suicide leaves nothing written down, the guilt is even more diffuse: everyone around them might take it personally, whether it’s for not having foreseen it or for fear of having indirectly caused it.”

“So it’s even worse. More … inconsiderate.”

The psychologist laughed.

“Unlike in your world, there are no good guys and bad guys here, Inspector.” His voice became serious. “What you call considerate suicides would be those that minimize the guilt for those around them and attribute the blame to themselves in an obvious way. The sick person who decides to end their life and leaves that in writing, for example. Or—”

“Or?”

“Those who camouflage their suicide by means of an accident. They die by choice, but don’t want the people they love to feel guilty, so they crash the car. Their suicide is unproven and their loved ones can grieve without feeling remorse. That would be a good suicide, to use your terminology.”

The conversation was depressing him even more and Héctor had the urgent desire to hang up, go home, go running, anywhere he could breathe in life and not death.

“One more thing.” Héctor suddenly remembered the women’s association that appeared in Sara Mahler’s bank transactions. “Have you heard of the Hera Association, by any chance?”

“Yes, colleagues have given talks there. Why do you ask?”

“It came up in the course of an investigation. Can you tell me more about it?”

“It’s an association run by women for women, specializing in victims of sexual abuse and assault.”

Suddenly, all the unconnected information about Sara’s personal life began to make sense.

“Thank you very much. I won’t take up any more of your time.”

“Take care. And I hope to see you next week, Héctor. You have to tell me if you’ve done the task I set you.”

Héctor assured him it would never occur to him to disobey. A while later, perhaps to drive darker voices from his head, as he was considering the positive things in his life he wondered whether or not he could count on Lola.

The highway stretched out before them. A straight, solid, well-delineated space capable of providing a secure setting for a turbulent journey, shaken by a tide of uncertainties. Even the sky helped emphasize this insecurity with some dense clouds, slow as a funeral cortège, although from time to time they were distracted and allowed a tenuous ray of sunlight to slip through. Inside the car, Héctor and Lola had discussed the article and its consequences, they’d expressed their doubts about what they were going to find and in the end had lapsed into an elevator silence, polite and slightly challenging. One of those pauses that can be tolerated for only a limited time and in a static environment, with no potholes to prick consciences.

Héctor made as if to take out a cigarette, but stopped himself.

“Smoke if you like,” she said. “I’m still in the phase when the smell of smoke is pleasant.”

“You sure?” He lit the cigarette with the car lighter and lowered the window halfway. He blew the smoke out. “When did you give up?”

“Twenty days ago.” She smiled. “I know. The typical New Year’s resolution.”

“I should give up too.” This sentence, just after taking a generous drag on his cigarette, seemed faintly ridiculous.

“To tell the truth, I’ve tried a few times with no success, but now I’m taking it seriously. At first I was smoking roll-ups. It’s supposed to be
relaxing, but it made me anxious. In the end, rather than put up with substitutes, better to give it up completely.”

The ray of sun was buried once again behind a slow but implacable cloud. Not much longer, thought Héctor.

A quarter of an hour later, they turned off onto the mud track that led to the house. The friendly road on which they’d been traveling became a narrow, treacherous trail, full of stones and holes. Lola clung to the door handle as the car stumbled along, nervous, faster than the terrain permitted.

A woman in her forties was waiting for them at the door of the house, smaller than it looked in the pictures. It was clear the people from the development center had let her know ahead of time.

Héctor had left the car at the entrance, to one side of the road, although he was almost certain he could have parked in the middle of the road without inconveniencing anyone for a good while. Though the trail didn’t end at the house, from that point it became even rougher. He and Lola walked toward the woman, who raised a hand in greeting. It was cold: the sun had already given up in that uneven battle. For the umpteenth time that day, Héctor asked himself what they could possibly discover in this house, ten months after the Alemany Cosmetics group had been there. Lola, however, seemed in good spirits, even if it were simply being out of the car at last and able to walk.

The woman received them with a smile that wasn’t free from distrust.

“Good afternoon.” She had a pronounced Catalan accent, like the majority of the region’s inhabitants. “Come in, come in. They told me you were coming, although I was expecting you later. I’m Dolors Vinyals. My husband Joan and I have a little house nearby and we take care of this one when they ask us to, as you already know.”

Héctor introduced himself and Lola, not specifying that she didn’t
belong to the forces of law and order. Señora Vinyals didn’t ask and they went inside.

It was just as the photos had shown: a classic
masía
, with mismatched furniture that somehow managed to create a harmonious whole. The fireplace, unlit, provided the indispensable decorative country touch to a room usually heated by radiators. That day they weren’t switched on, which had to mean no group was expected. It was chilly and none of the three removed their jackets.

“If you’d like to see the rooms …” said the woman, doubtfully.

“Not just now,” answered Héctor. “We really wanted to speak to you.”

Dolors Vinyals didn’t invite them to sit, though in all probability this was due to the fact that she wasn’t in her own home. Neither Héctor nor Lola felt like it; they’d spent hours in the car and it wouldn’t hurt to stretch their legs a little, so they remained standing in the middle of that long, narrow dining room.

“I don’t know what Señor Ricart has told you …” Héctor began.

“He told me to give you all the information you need,” she replied, very proper.

“Do you remember this group? They came in March last year and were here for three days,” he said, showing her the photo.

The woman looked at the photograph with interest, and for a moment seemed not to recognize them.

“Maybe it would help if I told you that an unpleasant incident occurred during their stay: they found some dogs strangled.”

The information was enough for Señora Vinyals to nod her head.

“Ah, yes! I didn’t remember their faces, to be honest. But that, yes. I don’t understand how anyone could do something like that to those poor animals. People from elsewhere, certainly.”

Héctor smiled inwardly. Baddies always came from elsewhere: another country, another region, even from the neighboring town.

“Not a regular occurrence, I suppose.”

“Of course not!” The decent woman was indignant. “I’d never seen anything like that, if I’m honest. Well, in fact I didn’t see it, although they told me about it on the Saturday afternoon.”

Héctor had listened to the tale of the discovery of the dogs too many times.

“And did they tell you they were planning to go and bury them?” he immediately asked to settle the subject.

“No. I told them I would call the
Mossos
and they thought that a good idea. I suppose they decided afterward, because mid-afternoon they called me to tell me so. We weren’t here; we went to Figueres for the afternoon, with the boys. It’s so isolated here and sometimes we go to the city.”

Sílvia Alemany had already told him about the dogs. The group had the afternoon free and set themselves the task of burying those poor creatures.

Answering a question not yet formulated, the woman turned to the window and pointed out a kind of shed attached to the house.

“That’s where they picked up the hoes and spades … By the way, they must have taken a spade as a memento. Or they lost it.”

“Are you sure there was one missing?”

“That’s what Joan said. He was complaining because he had to work in the garden with another smaller one. I told him they must have left it behind when they went to bury the dogs … Anyway, now I remember, they were a rather strange group.”

Dolors turned back toward them.

“Don’t misunderstand me. Everyone has their quirks, and at the end of the day they come here in their spare time and think this is a hotel.”

“Don’t you take care of the food and cleaning?”

“Not while they’re here. Joan and I drop by, in case they need anything. Nothing else. And when they leave we clean the house.”

“And why do you say they were strange?” asked Lola.

The woman sighed.

“Well, there was one who asked for a room on his own. I tell you, some think they’re at a hotel …”

“Was that all?” Lola insisted.

“Well … I don’t think it matters if I tell you. It seems one of the women was scared one night. She went out to take a walk, alone, and according to her she saw someone. A … an immigrant.”

Dolors was about to use another word, but in the end she decided on the official term.

“Arab? Colored?”

“Yes, dear, an African. Back then there were more—they were working in the fields. Now you see them much less.”

“But he didn’t attack her?”

Señora Vinyals gestured disparagingly with her hand.

“Bah, she must have seen a shadow or something! You’d ask what was she doing taking a walk in the middle of the night. The next day she asked me if there’d been robberies around here.” She laughed. “As if no one’s ever robbed in Barcelona!”

Héctor smiled.

“Was she scared?”

“A little—but she gave me the impression she thought it was our fault. Like she was annoyed.”

Héctor was straightening out the facts. Saúl Duque’s call to Amanda was on Friday. Saturday midday they’d discovered the dogs. In the afternoon they went to bury them and they went home on Sunday. If something else had happened, something they weren’t telling, it had to have been on Saturday night.

“How long do you think it took them to bury the dogs?”

The woman didn’t respond straightaway.

“Well, there were a few men, although I don’t think they were very used to digging. They must have been gone all afternoon.”

Héctor nodded.

“Where did they bury them?”

Dolors went back to the window.

“See: the road you came by continues up to link with the highway. The
alzina surera …
 How do you say that in Spanish?”

“Cork tree,” said Héctor.

“So this, the cork tree where those poor beasts were hanged, is about two kilometers away, beside an old shed. Of course, in the morning they’d gone on foot; it was part of these games they do.” The woman said it in the same tone she’d have spoken of a sandcastle at the beach. “In the evening they went in the van. The one you see in the photo.”