The Summer of Dead Toys (9 page)

“I think she’d been a friend of Marc’s since they were kids, although she’s a year younger. She came to do Bacc here when he repeated First Bacc. And yes, Aleix included her in his circle as well, to please his new friend. Truth is, this girl was following Marc like a puppy for two years. This last year, with no Aleix or Marc, she’s been much more grounded: it was good for her to repeat Second Bacc as her final exam results show. She was so happy when we gave them to her . . . Now she must be in pieces: she’s a very sensitive girl.”

Gina opened her eyes when the bell rang. Befuddled
,
lying on the sheets, she took a few seconds to react. Twenty past four. Hadn’t her mother said something about five o’clock? More rings, short and in quick succession. She remembered that the cleaner left at three and she was alone in the house, so she went barefoot down the stairs and almost ran toward the hall. She looked at herself in the foyer mirror before opening the door. God, she was horrible. Still looking at her reflection with an expression of intense disgust on her face, she opened the door.

“Aleix! What are you doing here?” She didn’t move, momentarily thrown by this unexpected visit.
“You didn’t think I was going to leave you here alone with the fuzz, did you?”
He was smiling and his brow gleamed with sweat. He took off his sunglasses and winked at her. “You going to let me in or what?”
Gina stood aside and he strode across the threshold. He was wearing a faded blue t-shirt and loose, checked Bermuda shorts. He was perfectly bronzed. Beside him, Gina’s pale skin seemed like a consumptive’s.
“You should get dressed, shouldn’t you?” Not waiting for a response, he strolled toward the kitchen. “Hey, I’m going to get a drink. I came on my bike and I’m parched. What time are they coming?”
She didn’t answer. Slowly, she went upstairs. Before he could follow her, she closed her bedroom door, though she knew that wouldn’t stop him. Sure enough, she was still deciding what to wear when he appeared at the door. He was still smiling and had a can of Coke in his hand.
“Are you in a bad mood?” He went toward her and started tickling her. He smelled faintly of sweat and she moved away.
“Leave me alone . . .”
“Leave me alone,” he repeated, mocking. He gave her a kiss on the lips. “Do you really want me to leave you alone? Shall I go?”
“No.” The answer came out much faster than she’d expected. No, she didn’t want him to leave. “But wait outside while I get dressed.”
He raised both hands, like a robber caught with his fingers in the dough. He closed his eyes and kept smiling.
“I promise not to peek . . . Although I can’t help remembering!”
“Do what you want,” she replied, turning to the clothes folded on the chair. She grabbed a pair of denim shorts and a black, low-cut t-shirt with very short sleeves. Rapidly she took off her pyjamas, but before she could dress herself he came up behind her.
“I’m still not looking, I swear.” He kissed her again, this time on the neck. As he did so, without meaning to, he brushed Gina’s skin with the still-cold can and she flinched. “OK, OK, I’ll leave you alone. I’ll be good! By the way, have you got rid of the teddies? About time . . .”
Gina got dressed. He sat down in front of her computer and started typing. She watched him, annoyed: she hated him using her things without even asking, as if they belonged to him.
“Let’s go downstairs,” she said to him. “My mother will be here any minute.”
“One second, I’m just looking at Facebook.”
She went over and positioned herself at his shoulder. Then she saw the same message she’d received less than an hour before. “Alwaysiris wants to be friends on Facebook.” The blurred photo of a blonde little girl, squinting in the sunlight.
“You too?” she asked.
“Screw them,” he replied. Without hesitating, he hit the “Delete Request” button.
“I did the same a little while ago.” Suddenly, without knowing why, she realized tears were running down her cheeks. She tried to control herself but she couldn’t.
“Gina . . .” He rose and hugged her. “Sweetheart, that’s enough. That’s enough.”
She leaned against his chest. Hard, smooth, a strong and unyielding washboard. She sobbed like a little girl, ashamed of herself.
“Enough, enough, enough. It’s all over.” He moved away a little and brushed away her tears with his fingertips. She tried to laugh.
“I’m stupid.”
“No. No.” He looked at her tenderly, with a kind of olderbrother affection. “But we have to forget about all this. It was Marc’s business, we have nothing to do with it.”
“I miss him so much.”
“Me too.” But she knew he was lying. The thought made her uneasy and she moved away from him. “By the way, give me the USB stick. Better that I have it.”
She didn’t ask why. She opened a drawer and gave it to him. Aleix delayed a second in putting it in his pocket and smiled at her.
“Come on, let’s go downstairs. See if they’ve arrived yet and finish with this once and for all. And remember, not a word. About anything.”
Gina saw it in his eyes. A flash of fear. A gentle threat. This was why he’d come: not because he wanted to keep her company, not because he was worried about her, but because he didn’t trust what a girl like Gina would say if the police pressured her. The memory of Marc’s face came to her, a shadow over it, and she heard his quivering voice, almost inaudible, “You’re a motherfucker, a real motherfucker,” while fireworks exploded in the sky on the other side of the window. She felt a hand forcefully grasping her arm. He was still looking at her intently.
“This is important, Gina. No messing around.”
He let go and she rubbed her wrist.
“Did I hurt you?” It was he who rubbed it then. “Sorry. Really.”
“No.” Why did she say no when she wanted to say the opposite? Why did she let him kiss her again, on the forehead, when his sweaty smell made her feel sick?
The buzz of the intercom interrupted her seeking an answer she didn’t wish to find anyway.

The porter of the building, situated in Via Augusta, just before Plaça Molina, showed no sign of being shocked that two agents of the law were coming to visit one of the building’s inhabitants. He rose from his chair as if doing so were an inconceivable effort, an indecent thing to ask of a man at ten to five on one of the hottest days of the summer, while he was honorably working by leafing through the sports pages with his headphones on. It appeared that the person who answered the intercom from the flat had given them permission to go up, because, with a lethargic gesture, the porter pointed them toward the lift and mumbled, “Top floor, second door,” before falling back into his chair.

Héctor and Leire went toward the lift, which was slow and gloomy like the porter. She looked at herself in the dark mirror and saw that her face was starting to show signs of a definite bad mood. However curious she’d felt about Inspector Salgado before meeting him, working at his side was rather uncomfortable. After leaving the school she’d tried to discuss what the teacher had told them, but to no avail. Apart from answering in monosyllables, Salgado had spent the journey— not very long, it must be said—looking out of the window, in a posture that clearly showed that he’d prefer to be left in peace. And still the same: politely he’d let her go ahead of him into the foyer and the lift, but his face, which she was watching out of the corner of her eye, still had the same impenetrable, worried expression. Like a civil servant obliged to stay late at work.

Gina Martí met them at the door, and one didn’t have to be a master of observation to see that she’d been crying not long before: the red nose, the glazed eyes. Behind her was a boy with a serious, respectful expression whom Leire instantly recognized as Aleix Rovira.

“My mother will be back soon,” said the girl after Héctor introduced himself. She seemed to hesitate as to whether it was right to bring them into the lounge or remain standing in the hall. Aleix decided for her and invited them in, as if it were his home and not Gina’s.

“I came to see Gina,” he commented, as if to justify his presence. “If you want to speak to her alone, I’ll go,” he added. His tone was protective, affectionate. But the girl remained serious, tense.

Once seated in the lounge, Salgado looked at Gina Martí and for the first time all afternoon Leire saw a glimmer of empathy in the inspector’s eyes. While he explained in a calming voice that they were just there to ask some questions and Aleix was nodding, standing at Gina’s side with a hand on her shoulder, Leire contemplated the Martís’ lounge and decided she didn’t like it at all. The walls were lined with bookshelves crammed with books, the table and the rest of the furniture were dark wood and the armchairs were upholstered in a deep green. The whole place—finished off by dense still lifes in huge gilt frames and walls painted in a clear ochre—gave off a slightly antiquated, claustrophobic air. Dusty, although she was sure that if she ran her finger across the table she wouldn’t pick up even a speck of dirt. The curtains, thick and the same green as the chairs, were drawn, which added to the feeling of semi-darkness and lack of air. Just then she heard the inspector’s last words.

Gina shrugged her shoulders. She avoided looking directly at her questioner. Might be simply shyness, Leire said to herself, or the desire to hide something.

“You both knew Marc for a long time, didn’t you?” Aleix spoke before Gina could do so.
“Gina most of all. We were just talking about that. This

summer’s been so strange without him. And also, I can’t get it out of my head that we parted half angry. I went home earlier than I meant to, and I didn’t see him again.”

“Why did you argue?”
Aleix shrugged.
“Something stupid. I can barely remember how it started.”

He looked at his friend seeking confirmation, but she didn’t open her mouth. “Marc came back from Dublin different, much more serious, irritable. He’d get angry over anything, and that night I was sick of it. It was San Juan and I didn’t feel like putting up with it. It sounds awful now, doesn’t it?”

“According to your previous statement, you went straight home.”
“Yes. My brother was awake and he’s confirmed it. I was in a bad mood because of the argument, and a bit drunk as well, so I went to bed straight away.”
Salgado nodded and waited for the girl to say something, but she didn’t. Her eyes were fixed on a point on the floor and were only raised when she heard the key turning in the lock and someone calling from the hall.
“Gina, angel . . . Are they already here?” Rapid footsteps preceded Regina Ballester’s entrance. “God, what are you doing here in the dark? This young lady wants us to live in a tomb.” Not paying them the least attention, the blonde apparition walked rapidly toward the curtains and pulled them. Light streamed into the room. “Now it’s completely different.”
And it was, but not only because of the light. There are people who fill spaces, people whose presence changes the atmosphere. Regina Ballester, in less than a minute, had transformed a stale library into a light-filled catwalk, on which she was the principal—and only—model.
Salgado had risen to extend his hand to Señora Ballester, and in her eyes Leire saw an appreciative yet cautious expression. “I believe you already know Agent Castro.”
Regina gave a quick nod, indifferent. Agent Castro, it was clear, didn’t hold much interest for her. However, her coldest greeting was without doubt for the visitor she hadn’t expected to see. Aleix was still beside Gina, whispering something in her ear.
“Well, then, I’ll go. I only came to see Gina.”
“Thanks, Aleix.” It was clear that the boy’s departure didn’t upset Regina Ballester in the slightest.
“We’ll talk, OK?” he said to his friend. He went toward the door, but before leaving he turned. “Inspector, I don’t know if I can help you in anything, but if so . . . I’m at your disposal.” From any other boy the phrase would have sounded hollow, excessively formal. But from him it was respectful, friendly without being obliging.
“I don’t think it will be necessary, but thank you,” replied Salgado.
As Professor Esteve had said, Aleix Rovira could be a charming boy.

The lights of a parked car swept over him when he turned the corner of his street on his bike. Old, with a dent in its side, the car attracted attention in this peaceful neighborhood of houses with gardens and private garages. For a moment he was tempted to turn around or to speed past, but he knew that only meant postponing the inevitable. Also, it wouldn’t do at all for someone from home to see him with a chav like Rubén. So, trying to appear calm, he approached the window and got off his bike.

“Hey, you appear at last, man,” said the guy in the driver’s seat. “I was about to go looking for you at home.”
Aleix forced a smile.
“I was thinking of calling you just now. Listen, I need—”
The other shook his head.
“We have to talk. Get into the car.”
“I’m going in to leave my bike. I’ll be back in a second.”
He didn’t wait for him to answer: he crossed the street, opened the white garden gate and pushed the bicycle inside. In less than a minute he was sitting in the car: he turned to check if anyone at home had seen him going in and out.
“Hit it,” he said.
The other didn’t say anything. He started the car and moved slowly along the road.
Aleix fastened his seatbelt and inhaled deeply. It didn’t help much; when he spoke his voice still sounded nervous.
“Listen, you have to give me more time . . . Fuck, Rubén, I’m doing what I can.”
Rubén remained silent. Strangely quiet. Like a driver instead of a colleague. He wasn’t much older than Aleix, and in fact his thinness made him seem even younger. Despite the tattoo descending his arm and the sunglasses, he had a childish air, accentuated by his tracksuit bottoms and white t-shirt. No one would have said he’d been grafting for years, first as a waiter then on a building site, until first the bar closed and then so did the scaffolding. He didn’t turn to his companion until he had to stop at a traffic light.
“You fucked it up, man.”
“Fuck it, I know. What do you want me to do now? Do you think I can get the dough just like that, in a couple of days?”
The other shook his head again, glum.
“By the way, where are we going?” asked Aleix.
Again, Rubén didn’t answer.

In the Martís’ salon, Héctor attentively observed the little girl in front of him. Despite her eighteen years, Gina had the air of a defenseless child. And for a while now, uneasy. He told himself the best thing to do was ask her direct questions, at least at the beginning; direct the questioning with neutral inquiries until she felt more comfortable.
“Listen,” he repeated, aiming to reassure her, “we’re only