The Good Suicides (15 page)

Octavi Pujades slowly exhaled smoke. César seemed to hear a groan proceeding from the depths of the house.

“It’s half past eight. In a moment I’ll have to give her morphine. It’s
all I can do for her: alleviate the suffering.” His tone changed and he looked César in the eyes. “I don’t know if I have a very clear-cut opinion on what should be done. What I do know is panicking won’t help at all. That must be made clear. And, César … if I were you, I’d trust no one. No one,” he repeated.

“Speak to his mother,” his landlady Carmen had said that same morning as they had breakfast together. Héctor Salgado trusted this woman’s instinct more than all the police reports written up by conscientious experts. “Think about it—she was his mother, but she was also a grandmother. She had to know if her son was capable of something so horrible.”

Héctor disagreed. He was certain that maternal affection could cause a kind of permanent blindness to filial defects. That it wasn’t the case with Carmen, who recognized that her Carlos was a layabout who out of sheer laziness didn’t get into deeper trouble, didn’t mean that the same applied in general terms. Even so, there was reason in her argument: Gaspar Ródenas’s mother was grandmother to Alba, whom officially he had smothered with a pillow while she slept the same night he shot his wife dead. All before shooting himself.

The police reports left little doubt about how the events had unfolded, although they contributed few certainties as to why. That’s if a thing like that could be explained in a rational manner, something Inspector Salgado tended not to believe. The how, the sequence of events that led to the killing of the family, seemed clear. Halfway through the month of July, Gaspar Ródenas bought a pistol. Héctor’s colleagues in the domestic violence unit had followed this lead with relative ease to the seller, a small-time thief who dabbled in gun-running from time to
time. There was no proof of whether Gaspar informed his wife or not. All Susana Cuevas’s family lived in Valencia, and although they had spent some of the holidays together, the daughter visiting from Barcelona hadn’t mentioned it. This isn’t the States, thought Héctor. Here people don’t usually have pistols at home to protect themselves, much less a young couple with a little girl, living in an apartment in Clot, where the chances of this weapon being useful were nil.

So it was more logical to assume that Gaspar hid the purchase of the pistol from his wife. According to the report, her family had thrown little light on the case. They were so devastated by the tragedy they could barely speak. They simply said that Susana was very happy with her daughter, Gaspar had been promoted recently and to all appearances at least they were getting on well. It was clear that the family’s attention had focused on the little girl, whom they saw very seldom. “He must have gone mad,” Susana’s elder sister, who had been with them in Valencia, had said. “Su told me he was a bit stressed about the new job. But it was just a comment and she said herself it was ‘a question of time’ and he’d get used to it.”

No one kills their family just because of a problem with stress at work, Héctor said to himself. He was sure about that. In any case, continuing the chain of events, on the evening of September 4 Gaspar Ródenas had arrived home around 19:45. A neighbor passed him on the stairs and, as usual, they greeted each other. The building where Gaspar and his family lived was made up of only six apartments, two doors on three stories; the Ródenas lived on the first floor. A lady in her eighties, rather hard of hearing, lived on the same floor and the apartment above, until then occupied by a family of “darkies” according to the same neighbor, had been empty since they returned to their own country. The other neighbors were on holiday. The man who had passed him that night from the right-hand apartment, second floor, thought he’d heard noises in the middle of the night but hadn’t for a moment suspected they were shots.

The person who found them was Gaspar’s sister, María del Mar
Ródenas, who went to see her niece on Saturday at noon, just as they’d arranged. “Gaspar wasn’t answering his phone, but as I’d promised them I would come, I went anyway. I thought they were busy with the little one … And, well, the fact is Susana never picked up when we called. But when I arrived and they didn’t answer the bell or their cell phones it did seem strange. To be honest, I was a bit annoyed. I work almost every Saturday, at the Hipercor in Cornellà, and Gaspar knew I was looking forward to having lunch with the little one on the one Saturday I was free each month.” María del Mar returned home, it must be assumed pretty pissed off, given that it was at least a forty-five-minute journey by metro from L’Hospitalet, where she was still living with her parents, to Clot. She kept calling all afternoon and finally, seeing that her brother was still not responding to her messages, she took the set of keys Gaspar had left at her house and returned to the apartment. “I’d never done that, gone in when they weren’t there. And I was sure Susana wouldn’t like it, but I didn’t care. Something wasn’t right … I just wanted to reassure myself that nothing had happened.”

It will take that poor girl a long time to forget what she saw, thought Héctor. It pained him to have to remind her of it, yet there was no other way. If he wanted to understand Gaspar Ródenas, know what he was like, work out what had led him to commit such an atrocious act, he had to speak to his family. He’d thought of doing it the day before, but Savall had once again brought him into a meeting with Andreu and Calderón all afternoon. So he’d finally arranged a meeting with María del Mar at five precisely, in a café close to the town hall of the area where she lived. She wasn’t Gaspar’s mother; nevertheless, for the moment she’d have to do.

It was a big noisy place, and the clientele at that hour, made up largely of businesspeople of the area, gathered around the bar. Or, with the anti-tobacco law having recently come into force, in the street, smoking while retaining the flavor of coffee in their mouths.

Héctor had gone alone, leaving Fort two tasks: to establish what Sara Mahler was doing at Urquinaona metro at that time and, while he was at it, to gather information about Alemany Cosmetics. He’d planned to approach the company the following day, Friday, to see Sílvia Alemany and, if possible, the other colleagues who appeared in the photo. In some way, that image of eight people in hiking gear was connected to that other disagreeable one Sara Mahler had received on her cell. Two pieces that could form part of the same puzzle or not, thought Héctor. And the analogy made him think of Superintendent Savall—a huge fan of jigsaw puzzles—with whom he’d have to discuss the case sooner or later. Tomorrow, he thought. Before or after going to the cosmetics lab.

María del Mar was waiting for him at the door. They entered the bar and looked for an empty table at the back. Luckily for them, there was more than one, and they chose one in the corner that ensured them at least some privacy.

Héctor waited until the waitress had served them their drinks and spent a few minutes breaking the ice. María del Mar—“Please call me Mar”—had studied education and for a few months had been a cashier in some big department stores in the area. She’d been unemployed since November. According to what she told him, so was her fiancé. He was named Iván and had worked in construction until the previous year; all he’d been able to find since then were “a couple of odd jobs with his cousin.” Minor work, pay that was a thousand euro if he was lucky … At twenty-seven, both were still living at the homes of their respective parents, since, just as they were preparing to rent an apartment, Iván was out on the street.

“I don’t know if we’ll get to marry one day,” Mar said sadly. “But you haven’t come to hear my troubles, Inspector. Is there something new in the case of my brother?” She asked nervously, as if within her she was nursing the suspicion that Gaspar Ródenas was still hiding sins yet to be uncovered.

Héctor decided to be as honest as possible; the last thing he wanted was to raise hopes in a case officially closed.

“In all honesty, no.” He chose not to mention Sara’s death. “I’m just trying to find out a bit more about your brother. To close the case with a better explanation than ‘fit of temporary insanity,’ if possible …”

It was a fairly implausible explanation, but Mar seemed trusting by nature, so she said nothing and waited for the inspector to continue speaking.

“There were a few years between you and Gaspar—”

“Ten.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t know his friends …”

“Well, I knew the ones from the
barrio
, but Gaspar left them aside as soon as he started going out with Susana.” She smiled faintly. “She and I didn’t get on very well.”

Héctor had guessed something of the sort on reading Mar’s statement, and he told himself that a good way of getting to know Gaspar’s personality through his sister was by delving into these differences and the relationship between the couple.

“How long were they together?”

“I don’t know … five or six years. Wait …” She did a mental tally. “Yes, five years. They married the year I finished studying; they’d only been going out a few months.” She smiled. “They decided quickly.”

“And they got on well?”

“Yes, she organized things and he went along with it. It’s one way of getting on well, I suppose.”

“Was Susana a bossy woman?”

“More than bossy, she was one of those who sulked when things weren’t done her way. So Gaspar tried not to contradict her. In the end, he’d convinced himself that the only correct way to do everything was exactly as Susana said.”

“And you didn’t get on with her?”

She looked around her. It was a fleeting, almost invisible move.

“It’s horrible to speak ill of the dead. And even more so in this case … The truth is, no: I didn’t get on with Susana. I didn’t care that she bossed my brother around, that was her business, but the way she
treated my parents made me really angry. Especially after Alba was born.”

“Did you see the little one often?”

“Often?” Mar shook her head. “My mother almost had to request an audience to see her granddaughter. It was never the right time. I feel awful saying that …”

Héctor knew. It was a common reaction; but in an investigation there was no room for consideration toward those no longer here. On the contrary, their secrets had to be brought to light, their faults unraveled, their mistakes aired. The victims had lost their lives and with them the right to privacy.

“What do you think happened?” asked Héctor.

“I don’t know. When I went in …” She trembled and lowered her eyes, as if she had that scene before her once again. “When I went in I thought it was the work of a thief. You know, one of those gangs of Romanians that rob apartments.”

She looked on the verge of tears, so Héctor asked if she wanted to stop for a minute. She shook her head. She had lovely dark hair and a tense expression, but it was precisely that expression which rendered her neutral features, too correct to be beautiful, attractive. Mar Ródenas, like her brother, belonged to that immense group of people neither handsome nor ugly. They lack intensity, Ruth always used to say about that type of person. However, in circumstances like these, repressed emotion gave them strength and something resembling beauty.

“I knew you were coming to talk about this, Inspector,” she added, looking at him. “You know something? My home is like a cemetery and my parents dead people walking. My parents … God, graffiti appeared on the door of my father’s workshop a week ago. ‘Killer. Son of a bitch’ it said. As if he was the killer! My father, poor man, who never even raised his voice to us …”

Héctor’s expression darkened. Yes, this was another consequence in these cases: incomprehension, indiscriminate insults.

“Don’t they realize we’ve lost a son, a brother? A grandchild?”

Mar couldn’t hold back anymore and burst out crying. The sobbing wasn’t restorative, but bitter. Furious.

Héctor suddenly felt bad. He hated this part of his job, torturing souls even without wanting to.

“We’ll leave it at that,” he murmured.

“I’m fine. I’m fine.” Mar grabbed a paper napkin and dabbed at her face. “Where were we? Oh yes. What I saw.” She cleared her throat before continuing. “My brother was in the dining room, with his head on the table. The pistol was on the floor, beside him. I thought he was alone because I couldn’t hear the little one. It’s ridiculous, but that’s what I thought. I went running toward Alba’s bedroom, and passing the bathroom I saw the door was open: Susana was lying on the floor, on her back, with a bloodstain on her nightdress. And then I knew Alba had to be at home as well.”

She was speaking as though in a trance.

“Alba was in the cradle, in the bedroom next door. She hadn’t been sleeping alone for long. For a moment I sighed with relief seeing that there was no blood. She’s asleep, I thought. Whatever had happened, she’s asleep and doesn’t know anything. I took a step toward the cradle and tripped over something. A pillow. And then I realized she wasn’t sleeping. That you couldn’t hear anything in that room. That she too …”

She closed her eyes and was unable to go on. Her hands were shaking. Héctor thought she looked even younger than she was.

“Just one more thing,” he said in a low voice. “Do these photos mean anything to you?”

He took the two photos from the inside pocket of his jacket and put the one of the work group in which Gaspar appeared on the table. Mar looked at it. Her face altered a little on seeing her brother, but she shook her head.

“I think he came to the funeral home,” she said, pointing at the older man, the one Héctor hadn’t yet identified. “He was my brother’s boss, but I don’t know his name. He was with a woman, although I don’t remember her very well.”

Before showing her the photo of the dogs, Héctor asked: “Did they find a note in your brother’s house? Or anything like one, by any chance?”

“There was nothing … The police already asked me. They took his computer and everything … Then they returned it to us. My father threw everything away.” Then she looked at the photo and repressed a cry of disgust. “What is this? What does it have to do with my brother’s death? It’s horrible.”