The Summer of Dead Toys (7 page)

He observed the youth sitting on the other side of the desk, trying to control his skepticism so as not to seem rude, although at the same time it seemed strange that this kid—yes, kid—fresh from university and dressed informally in jeans and a white checked shirt, should have in his hands the file of a forty-three-year-old inspector, who, if he’d had an unlucky break in adolescence, could even be his father. The notion made him think of Guillermo and his son’s reaction years before when his tutor at school suggested that it wouldn’t be amiss for them to take him to a psychologist who—his exact words—“might help him open up to others.” Ruth wasn’t a big fan of shrinks either, but they decided they’d nothing to lose, although they certainly both knew Guillermo socialized with whoever he felt like and didn’t bother with anyone who didn’t arouse his interest. He and Ruth laughed for weeks at the outcome. The psychologist had asked their son to draw a house, a tree and a family; Guille, who at the age of six was going through a phase of adoring comics and was already demonstrating the same skill for graphic art as his mother, threw himself enthusiastically into the task, albeit with his usual selective disposition: he didn’t like trees so didn’t bother with that one, but instead drew a medieval castle as the house, and Batman, Catwoman and The Penguin as the family. He didn’t want to imagine what conclusions the poor woman drew on seeing the supposed mother imagined in a leather suit with a whip in her hand, but they were both sure that she’d kept the drawing for her thesis on the dysfunctional modern family, or something like that.

He’d smiled without noticing; he saw it in the inquiring look the psychologist was giving him through metal-rimmed glasses. Héctor cleared his throat and decided to feign seriousness; he was almost sure, however, that the boy opposite him still read comics in his spare time.

“Well, Inspector, I’m glad you feel at your ease.” “Sorry, I suddenly remembered something. An anecdote about my son.” He regretted it instantly, sure that this wasn’t the most opportune moment to bring it up.
“Ah-ha. You don’t have much faith in psychology, right?”
There was no hostility in the phrase, but an honest curiosity.
“I haven’t formed an opinion of it.”
“But you mistrust it from the outset. Fine. Of course most people feel the same about the police, wouldn’t you say?”
Héctor had to admit that was true, but he qualified it.
“Things have changed a lot. The police aren’t seen as the enemy any more.”
“Exactly. They’ve stopped being the body that strikes fear into a citizen, at least an honest one. Although in this country it took time to change that image.”
In spite of the neutral, impartial tone, Héctor knew that they were sliding down a rocky slope.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked. He was no longer smiling.
“What do you think I mean?”
“Let’s get to the point . . .” He couldn’t help a certain impatience, which usually translated into a lapse into his childhood accent. “We both know what I’m doing here and what you have to find out. Let’s not beat about the bush.”
Silence. Salgado knew the technique, although this time he found himself on the receiving end.
“Fine. Look, I shouldn’t have done it. If that’s what you want to hear, then there you have it.”
“Why shouldn’t you have done it?”
He tried to stay calm. This was the game: questions, answers . . . He’d seen enough Woody Allen films to know that.
“Come on, you know. Because it’s not good, because the police don’t do that, because I should’ve stayed calm.”
The psychologist jotted down a note.
“What were you feeling at the time? Do you remember?”
“Rage, I suppose.”
“Is that a regular thing? Do you usually feel rage?”
“No. Not up to that point.”
“Do you remember any other moment in your life when you lost control in that way?”
“Maybe.” He paused. “When I was younger.”
“Younger.” Another note. “How long ago . . . five years, ten, twenty, more than twenty?”
“Very young,” stressed Héctor. “Adolescent.”
“Did you get into fights?”
“What?”
“Did you usually get into fights? When you were a teenager.”
“No. Not as a regular thing.”
“But you lost control one time.”
“You said it. One time.”
“Which time?”
“I don’t remember,” he lied. “None in particular. I suppose I went through an out-of-control phase, like all boys.”
A new note. Another pause.
“When did you arrive in Spain?”
“Pardon?” For a moment he was on the verge of answering that he’d arrived a few days previously. “Ah, you mean the first time. Nineteen years ago.”
“Were you still in this out-of-control adolescent phase?”
Héctor smiled.
“Well, I suppose my father thought so.”
“Hmmm. It was your father’s decision, then?”
“More or less. He was Galician . . . Spanish; he always wanted to return to his native country but couldn’t. So he sent me here.”
“And how did you feel?”
The inspector made a gesture of indifference, as if that wasn’t the pertinent question.
“Excuse me, but I can see you’re young . . . My father decided I had to continue studying in Spain and that was it. No one asked me.” He cleared his throat a little. “Things were like that then.”
“You didn’t have any opinion on the matter? At the end of the day you were made to leave your family, your friends and your life there behind. Didn’t it matter to you?”
“Of course. But I never thought it would be permanent. Besides, I repeat: they didn’t ask me.”
“Ah-ha. Do you have siblings, Inspector?”
“Yes, one brother. Older than me.”
“And he didn’t come to Spain to study?”
“No.”
The silence following his answer was denser than before. There was a question working its way to the surface. Héctor crossed his legs and looked away. The “kid” seemed in doubt and, finally, decided to change the subject.
“In your file it says you separated from your wife less than a year ago. Was she the reason you stayed in Spain?”
“Among others.” He corrected himself. “Yes. I stayed here for Ruth. With Ruth. But . . .” Héctor looked at him, surprised he didn’t know: these details would also be in the files. The feeling that his whole life, at least the most recent facts, could be in a dossier within reach of anyone who had the authority to examine it bothered him. “Sorry.” He uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. “I don’t want to be rude, but can you tell me where this is going? Look, I’m perfectly aware that I made a mistake and that it could—can—cost me my job. If it means anything, I don’t think I did a good thing, and I’m not proud of it, but . . . But I’m not going to discuss all the details of my private life, nor do I believe you have a right to meddle in it.”
The other man listened to his speech without turning a hair and took his time before adding anything. When he did, there wasn’t the least condescension in his tone: he spoke with composure and without the slightest hesitation.
“I think I should make some things clear. Perhaps I should have done so at the beginning. Look, Inspector, I’m not here to judge you for what you did, or to decide whether or not you should continue working. That’s a matter for your superiors. My interest lies solely in you finding out what it was that provoked this loss of control, learning to recognize it and react in time in another similar situation. And for that I need your cooperation, or the task will be impossible. Do you understand?”
Of course he understood. Liking it was another matter altogether. But he had no option but to agree.
“If you say so.” He leaned back and stretched his legs out a little. “In answer to your previous question, I will say yes. We separated less than a year ago. And before you continue, no, I don’t feel an uncontrollable hatred or wild anger toward my wife,” he added.
The psychologist allowed himself a smile.
“Your ex-wife.”
“Pardon. It was subconscious . . . you know . . .”
“Then I take it that it was a mutual separation.”
It was Héctor who laughed this time.
“With respect, what you just described is practically nonexistent. There’s always someone who leaves someone. The mutual aspect consists of the other person accepting it and shutting up.”
“And in your case?”
“In my case, it was Ruth who left me. Don’t you have that information in your papers?”
“No.” He looked at the clock. “We have very little time left, Inspector. But for the next session, I’d like you to do something.”
“Are you giving me homework?”
“Something like that. I want you to think about the rage you felt the day of the assault, and try to remember other times you experienced a similar emotion. As a child, as an adolescent, as an adult.”
“Fine. Can I go now?”
“We have a few minutes. Is there anything you want to ask me? Any query?”
“Yes.” He looked him directly in the eyes. “Do you not think there are occasions when rage is the appropriate reaction? That feeling something else would be unnatural when facing a . . . demon?” Even he was surprised by the word and his questioner seemed interested in it.
“I’ll answer you in a moment, but let me ask you something first. Do you believe in God?”
“The truth is, no. But I do believe in evil. I’ve seen a lot of bad people. Like all police officers, I suppose. Would you mind answering my question?”
The “kid” thought for a few moments.
“That would lead us to a lengthy debate. But in short, yes, there are times when the natural response to a stimulus is rage. Equally fear. Or aversion. It’s about managing that emotion, containing it so as not to provoke a greater evil. Fury can be acceptable in this society; to act motivated by it is more arguable. We’d end up justifying anything, don’t you think?”
There was no way of rebutting that argument, so Héctor got up, said good-bye and left. While he was going down in the lift, cigarette packet in hand, he told himself that the shrink might be young and read comics, but he wasn’t a complete fool. Which, truly, at that moment seemed to him more inconvenient than helpful.

“I believe we’re boring Agent Castro.” It was Superintendent Savall’s tone of voice, dry and ironic, accompanied by a direct gaze, that made Leire Castro aware he was speaking to her. More accurately, it got her attention. “I’m very sorry to pull you away from your passionate inner life for a matter so irrelevant as the one we’re discussing, but we need your opinion. Whenever you think it convenient, of course.”

Leire blushed up to her hairline and tried to find an apology. It would be difficult to come up with a coherent answer to a question she hadn’t heard because she was immersed in her worries.

Savall realized, as did Salgado and Andreu, that his question, still hanging in the air, had gone unnoticed by Agent Castro. All four were in the superintendent’s office, behind closed doors, with the Marc Castells case file on the desk. Leire desperately forced herself to find something adequate to say. The super had described the autopsy report, which she knew well. Alcohol levels slightly over the limit; the guy wouldn’t have passed a breathalyzer test, but he wasn’t so drunk that he couldn’t stand upright. The medical analysis hadn’t shown the smallest trace of any drugs in his blood which would allow them to deduce a delirium that might have made him fall into the void. The phrase “medical analysis” had thrown up a whirl of resolved doubts which led to others more difficult to resolve, a mental storm from which she awoke abruptly.

“We were discussing the matter of the broken door,” said Inspector Salgado, and she turned toward him brimming with gratitude.

“Yes,” she breathed, relieved. There she was on safe ground: her voice took on a concise, formal tone. “The problem is that no one was very clear on when it broke. The cleaner thought she’d seen it already broken when she left that evening, but she wasn’t sure. In any case, there were numerous fireworks in the rear part of the house, in all probability originating in the neighboring garden. Its owners have four sons, and the boys admitted they’d been throwing them part of the evening and the night.”

“Yeah. At the end of the day, it was San Juan,” interjected the superintendent. “God! I hate that night. At one time it used to be fun, but now those little monsters throw small bombs.”

Leire continued, “What is certain is that nothing in the house was missing and there was no meaningful sign that might indicate anyone having entered there. What’s more—”

“What’s more, the supposed burglar would’ve had to go up to the attic to push the boy. And for what? No, it doesn’t make sense.” The super made an irritated gesture.

“With all due respect,” said Andreu, who’d kept quiet until then, “this boy fell. Or at worst, he jumped. Alcohol affects people differently.”

Héctor.
“Nothing significant,” answered Leire instantly. Then she
realized the question wasn’t directed at her. “Pardon.” “Since you’re so sure, explain why,” barked the super. “Well,” she took a few seconds to organize her thoughts,
“Marc Castells had come home a while ago after spending six
months in Dublin, learning English. According to his father,
the trip had done him good. Before leaving, he’d had problems at school: not attending, negative attitude, even a threeday suspension from the centre. He managed to pass Second
Baccalaureate, but he didn’t obtain the necessary marks to
study what he wanted. It seems he wasn’t very sure of what he
wanted to study really, so he deferred beginning a degree for
a year.”
“Yeah. And he was sent to Ireland to study English. In
my time, he would’ve been put to work.” The superintendent couldn’t help a sarcastic tone. He closed the file. “That’s
enough. This is like a school board. Go and talk to the parents
and the girl who slept in the house that night, and close the
case. If necessary, question the other boy, but watch it with
the Roviras. Dr. Rovira made it very clear that, given that his
son had left before the tragedy happened, he wasn’t inclined to
have anyone disrupt his life. And taking into account that he
attended the births of various ministers’ children, including
our own minister’s, it’s best not to get up his nose. In fact, I
don’t think any of them are hugely interested, I’m telling you
now. Enric Castells made it clear that if the investigation has
finished, he wants us to leave them in peace, and in a way I
can’t blame him for it.” His attention focused for an instant on
the photo of his daughters. “It must be hard enough to bury a
son, and then on top of that to have to put up with the press and the police poking their noses in every minute. I’ll see Joana next week and try to placate her. Anything else to add,
Castro?”
Leire started. She had certainly been thinking of contributing a detail he hadn’t mentioned.
“I’m not sure,” she said, although her tone suggested otherwise. “Maybe it’s just my impression, but the reaction of the
girl, Gina Martí, was . . . unexpected.”
“Unexpected? She’s eighteen, she goes to bed a bit drunk
and on waking up she finds out her boyfriend has killed himself. I think ‘on the verge of hysteria,’ as you describe her in
your report, is a more than expected reaction.”
“Of course. But . . .” She recovered her assuredness when
she found the right words. “The hysteria was logical, sir. But
Gina Martí wasn’t sad. She seemed more frightened.” The superintendent remained silent for a few moments. “All right,” he said finally. “Go to see her this afternoon,
Héctor. Unofficially—not too much pressure. I don’t want problems with the Castells and their friends,” he stressed. “Agent
Castro will accompany you. The girl already knows her and
adolescents tend to confide more in women. Castro, call the
Martís and tell them you’re coming.” The commissioner turned
to Andreu. “Wait a minute. We have to talk about these selfdefense courses for women at risk of domestic violence. I already know that they’re delighted, but can you really continue
giving them?”
Salgado and Castro looked at each other before leaving: they
had no doubt that Martina Andreu not only could but wanted
to continue teaching these courses.