The Summer of Dead Toys (15 page)

Héctor didn’t waste any time either. He had slept very little and very badly as usual, but that morning the lack of sleep translated into hyperactivity. Apart from what he had said to Ruth, he was worried. Above all because, although he sensed the threat, he didn’t know from where it would come or what was really going on. Something told him it wasn’t just he who was at risk from this vague danger; the revenge, if that’s what it was, would extend to those around him. When he had finally managed to reach his son the night before, he’d let out a sigh of relief. Guillermo was loving it at his friend’s house and for a moment Héctor was tempted to tell him to stay a few more days if possible, but he didn’t: he wanted to see him too badly. Between the event before his departure for Buenos Aires and the trip itself, it had been a month since the last time. And he missed him, more than he would ever have believed. In a way, his relationship with his son was stretching as he grew. Héctor couldn’t pretend to have been a model father: excessive working hours on one hand, and the inability to get excited by childish games on the other had made him an affectionate but vaguely absent father. However, recently he’d been surprised by the maturity with which Guillermo accepted the changes in his life. He was a rather introverted, yet not unsociable boy, who’d inherited his mother’s talent for drawing and his father’s ironic air, which made him seem older. Héctor had found himself thinking not only did he love his son, no doubt about that, but he also got on well with the boy and a relationship had begun to be established between them that was, if not one of friendship—which seemed absurd to him—then one that certainly had undertones of camaraderie. The separation and having to spend some full weekends alone together had contributed to improving the relationship between father and son instead of hindering it.

But the night before, Héctor hadn’t only checked that his family was safe and sound. He’d worked on the case of the Nigerian girls. He’d made an appointment to meet Álvaro Santacruz, doctor of theology specializing in African religions who gave classes in the Faculty of History. His name had emerged as an expert in the subject during his previous inquiries but he hadn’t managed to speak to him. Now he felt the pressing need to obtain the help of someone who could shed a little light on the matter, someone who might be able to give a degree of clarity to his suspicions. Dr. Santacruz was expecting him and Martina Andreu at half past ten in his office at the History Faculty, and he headed there. He’d met Andreu a little beforehand so he could be brought up to date with the news, if there was any.

There were still more questions than anything else. Sergeant Andreu, whose dark-circled eyes suggested she hadn’t slept well that night either, informed him of what they knew while they had breakfast in a café close to the faculty.

“There’s definitely something weird about this Dr. Omar,” said Andreu. “Or at least, what little there is is quite strange. Let’s see, our dear Dr. Omar arrived in Spain eight years ago and settled in Barcelona five years ago. Before that he was in the south, although it’s not very clear what he was doing. We do know he arrived here with enough cash to buy that flat and start up his thing. And he either kept his money in a drawer at home or the businesses he was involved in didn’t pay much. His banking movements are few and he didn’t live in luxury, as you’ve seen. There’s always the possibility he sent the money abroad, but at the moment we have nothing. To all appearances, Dr. Omar, whose real name is Ibraim Okoronkwo by the way, lived modestly from his appointments. If it wasn’t for what that girl said—and she could have been confused—we’ve got nothing that connects him to the trafficking ring, or to any other crime apart from selling holy water to cure gastritis and banish evil spirits.”

Héctor nodded.
“And what about his disappearance?”
“Nothing. The last person to see him was that lawyer of his,

Damián Fernández. The blood on the wall and the floor points to a kidnapping, or worse. And the damn pig’s head seems to be a message, but directed at whom? Us? Omar?”

Héctor got up to pay and Andreu joined him at the bar. They crossed the street and together they looked for Dr. Santacruz’s office.

The history department was an ugly, unwelcoming building, and the wide corridors, half-empty in the middle of July, didn’t help either. Doctors of theology were somewhat intimidating for a confirmed atheist like Héctor, but Dr. Santacruz was a man with little resemblance to a mystic, closer to sixty than fifty, and his knowledge was based on a broad foundation of research. His books on culture and African religions were classics studied in anthropology departments all over Europe. Despite his age, Santacruz seemed to keep himself in good shape, which contributed to his six-foot-two figure, with shoulders like a Basque
jai-alai
player. He was the least likely looking theologian Héctor could imagine, and that made him feel more comfortable.

Santacruz listened to what they put to him attentively and with absolute seriousness. Héctor went over the operation against the traffickers and Kira’s death, and went on to tell him the latest events, although he withheld the beating he’d doled out to Omar, as he did those mysterious DVDs that had appeared the night before and of which even Andreu didn’t know a thing. He spoke of the disappearance, the pig’s head and the file with his name. When he’d finished, the theologian remained quiet for a moment, pensive, as if something he’d heard didn’t quite convince him. He shook his head slightly before speaking.

“I’m sorry.” Uncomfortable, he shifted in his chair. “Everything you’ve told me surprises me greatly. And worries me, to be honest.”

“Something in particular?” asked Andreu.
“Yes. Various things. Well, the part with the prostitutes is nothing new. Voodoo in its worst sense has been used as a tool of control. These rituals you’ve heard of are absolutely real and, for those who believe in them, greatly effective. These girls are convinced that their lives and those of their families are at risk and, in fact, in a way they are. I could describe various cases I witnessed during my studies in Africa and in certain parts of the South Caribbean. The condemned spends days plunged into the most profound terror, and it is this terror that causes death.”
“Well?” asked Héctor, somewhat impatient.
“Absolute terror is a difficult emotion to explain, Inspector. It doesn’t obey logic, nor can it be cured with reasoning. It’s more a case, as certainly happened in this instance, of the victim choosing an expedient way to die, to relieve panic and in doing so save her family. Don’t doubt that the poor girl sacrificed herself, to put it like that, convinced that it was the only way out. And, although it may seem absurd to you, for her it was.”
“That I understand. At least, I think I understand it,” replied Héctor, “but what is it that surprises you?”
“Everything that has happened since. This individual’s disappearance, the grotesque episode of the pig’s head, your photos in a file . . . This has nothing to do with voodoo in its purest form. It seems rather like a set. A
mise en scène
dedicated to someone.” He paused and looked closely at both of them. “I’m guessing there’s something you don’t want to tell me, but if you want me to help you, you must answer a question. Does this man have a score to settle with either of you?”
There was a moment of hesitation before Salgado answered.
“Maybe. No,” he corrected himself, “he has.”
Dr. Santacruz could have smiled out of pure satisfaction, but his expression changed to express clear, frank worry.
“That’s what I was afraid of. Look, you have to understand something. However powerful his magic—as they sometimes call it—is, it remains totally innocuous to those who don’t believe in it. Am I mistaken in thinking that you are rather skeptical, Inspector? Not only toward this subject, but toward anything related to the occult? No, I thought not. But you fear for your family, for the safety of your loved ones . . .”
“Might they be in danger?”
“I daren’t say so, and I don’t wish to alarm you. It’s just . . . how would I put it? They want you to feel afraid, unsettle you. Remove you from your rational, Western thinking and draw you toward theirs: more atavistic, subject to supernatural elements. And therefore they are using paraphernalia that anyone could understand.” He turned to Andreu. “Your colleague told me you searched this Omar’s clinic. Did you find anything that backs up what I’m saying?”
Martina looked down, obviously uneasy.
“He already said it. Some photos of Héctor and his family.” “Nothing else?”
“Yes. Sorry, Héctor, I didn’t tell you because it seemed ridiculous: something had been burned in a corner of the room. And the ashes were placed in an envelope, along with one of those grotesque dolls made of rope. All of it was inside the file with your photos, the ones of Ruth and Guillermo. I took it out before you arrived.”
Dr. Santacruz intervened before Héctor could say anything.
“I thought it strange you hadn’t found it, simply because it’s the most well-known ritual of voodoo: something we’ve all heard of.” He looked at Salgado and said frankly, “They want to scare you, Inspector. If there is no fear, their power is nil. But I’ll tell you something else: from what I can see they seem determined to awaken that fear in you, scaring you with things you do fear. Your family’s safety, the sanctity of your home. Even that of your close friends. If you play their game, if you start to believe that their threats can become real danger, then you are in their hands. Like that girl.”

As soon as they got to the station Héctor noticed that Leire had something to tell him, but before he had a chance to go over to her, Savall called him into his office. By his face, the meeting behind closed doors didn’t bode well, and Héctor mustered all his patience to get through the sermon, which he guessed related to Dr. Omar. However, he realized it wasn’t going in that direction on seeing that there was another person sitting in front of the super’s desk: a fair-haired woman, about fifty, who turned toward him and gazed at him intently. Héctor wasn’t surprised when Savall introduced them: he was sure she had to be Joana Vidal. She greeted him with a slight movement of her head and remained seated. Tense.

“Héctor, I’ve been informing Señora Vidal of your inquiries.” Savall’s tone was smooth, conciliatory, with a hint of warning. “But I think it’s better for you to tell her yourself.”

Héctor took a few seconds before speaking. He knew what the superintendent was asking of him: a neutral, friendly tale, and at the same time persuasive, which might convince this woman that her son had fallen from the window. The same argument a teacher would use with a pupil who has failed by one point: you can walk with your head held high, it is a worthy failure, come back in September and I’m sure you’ll pass. In Joana Vidal’s case, better to go and not come back. But at the same time, something told him that this woman, legs still crossed and clutching the arms of the chair tightly, was keeping an ace up her sleeve. A bomb she’d drop at the opportune moment, which would catch them all unawares, not knowing what to say.

“Of course,” he said at last, and fell silent again to weigh his words. “But first perhaps Señora Vidal has something to tell us as well.”

The woman’s quick glance told him he’d hit the nail on the head. Savall raised his eyebrows.
“Is that so, Joana?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps. But first I want to hear what Inspector Salgado has to tell me.”
“Fine.” Now yes, thought Héctor, noting that the woman sitting beside him was relaxing a little. He moved his chair to see her face and spoke to her directly, as if the super wasn’t in the room. “From what we know, the night of the festival of San Juan your son and two of his friends, Aleix Rovira and Gina Martí, had a little party in Marc’s attic. The kids’ stories generally match: the party seemed to develop normally, until for some reason Marc’s mood changed, he turned off the music and argued with Aleix when he accused him of coming back very much changed from Dublin. Aleix went home, but Gina, who was rather drunk, stayed over in Marc’s room. His anger had affected her as well, and as soon as Aleix left he sent her to bed, telling her she was drunk, which annoyed the girl. Then she lay down and fell asleep immediately. For his part, Marc stayed alone in the attic and did as he usually did: smoked a last cigarette sitting on the window sill.”
He stopped there, although this woman’s face showed only concentration. Not sorrow or pain. There was something Nordic about Joana Vidal’s features, an apparent coldness that might or might not be a mask. It was, thought Héctor; but it was a mask that had been in place for a long time and was beginning to merge with the original features. Only her eyes, an even dark chestnut color, seemed to contradict it; they hid a sparkle that, in the right circumstances, could be dangerous. Unable to help it, he mentally compared Joana to Enric Castells’ second wife and told himself there was a superficial likeness, a pallor common to both women; however, the similarities ended there. In Glòria’s eyes there was doubt, insecurity, even obedience; Joana’s hinted at rebellion and challenge. There was no doubt that Castells hadn’t wanted to run the same risk twice and had chosen a softer, more docile woman. More manageable. Héctor Salgado told himself that the woman in front of him deserved to know the truth and went on in the same tone, ignoring the expression of impatience coming over the super’s face.
“But the kids are lying, at least partly. I’m not saying they had anything to do with what happened,” he clarified. “Only that there’s a part of the story they’ve smoothed over, if I might put it that way.” He went on to refer to what Castro had discovered on seeing the photos on Gina’s Facebook profile, as well as the finding of the T-shirt Marc was wearing during the party: clean but with some stains that might well be blood. “So the next step is to question Aleix Rovira closely’—he said this without looking at Savall—“because the alleged fight they’ve told us about may have been somewhat more violent than the story suggests. And speak to Aleix’s brother to confirm once again that the boy arrived home and didn’t go back out. Honestly, I think that is the most likely thing. Perhaps that’s all that happened, a fight between friends, nothing too serious but enough for Marc to stain his T-shirt and change his clothes. A fight that maybe caused Marc’s laptop to fall to the floor and break . . .”
He remained thoughtful. Why hadn’t Gina said anything about the broken laptop? Even if it was a matter of a simple argument, as she said, it was less suspicious to tell them something they would find out anyway. He forced himself to slow down: his thoughts were moving too quickly and he should continue. “It doesn’t change what happened afterward,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound too convincing. “Only that we need some pieces to complete the picture. For the moment we’ve taken Marc’s laptop and mobile to see what we can extract from them. And we should question Aleix Rovira again.” Then he did look at the super. He was pleased to see he was nodding, although with a bad grace. “And now, is there something you wish to tell us, Señora Vidal?”
Joana uncrossed her legs and searched in her bag until she pulled out some folded pages. She kept them in her hand as she spoke, as if she didn’t want to part with them.
“A few months ago, Marc got in contact with me by email.” It was difficult for her to say it. She cleared her throat and threw her head back: she had a long, white neck. “As you must already know, we hadn’t seen each other since I left, eighteen years ago. So it was a complete surprise when I received his first message.”
“How did he get your address?” asked the super.
“Fèlix, Enric’s brother, gave it to him. It may seem strange to you, but we’ve kept in touch all this time. With my exbrother-in-law, I mean. Do you know him?” she asked, turning to Héctor.
“Yes, I saw him yesterday at your ex’s house. He seemed to love his nephew very much.”
She nodded.
“Well, Enric is a busy man.” She shook her head. “No, I have no right to criticize him. I’m sure he did everything he could . . . but Fèlix has no family other than that of his brother and he’s always worried a lot about Marc. Either way, the fact is I received an email at the beginning of the year. From . . . my son.” It was the first time she’d said it and it hadn’t been easy for her. “I was very surprised. Of course something like that could have happened at any time, but the truth is I wasn’t expecting it. You never expect it.”
Silence fell, which Savall and Héctor dared not break. She did.
“At the beginning I didn’t know how to answer him, but he persisted. He sent me two or three more emails and I couldn’t refuse any longer, so we started to write to each other. I know it sounds strange, I can’t deny it. A mother and her son, who have practically never seen each other, communicating by email.” She flashed a bitter smile at them, as if she were challenging them to make the smallest comment. Neither of them opened their mouths. She continued: “I was afraid of the questions, reproaches even, but there were none. Marc just told me things about his life in Dublin, his plans. It was as if we’d just met, as if I wasn’t his mother. The correspondence continued for about three months, until . . .” She was quiet for a few moments and looked away. “Until he suggested coming to see me in Paris.” She lowered her eyes to the pages she had in her hand. “The idea terrified me,” she said simply. “I don’t know why. I said I had to think about it.”
“And he got angry?” asked Héctor.
She shrugged her shoulders.
“I suppose it was a rude awakening. From then on his emails became less and less frequent until he almost stopped writing. But toward the end of his stay in Ireland he sent me this email.”
She unfolded the pages, chose one and gave it to Savall. He read it and then passed the sheet to Héctor. The text read: