The report continues with Amanda, who could well be the model for the campaign, speaking about the packaging design, moving away from the classic pot that evokes creams our mothers used. After her, Brais Arjona, brand manager for the Y line, explains the marketing concepts: youth, innovation, freedom. All mixed together in the campaign presented by a Paula de la Fe who’s just woken up, obliged to go to work after a night of partying, the ravages of which are rapidly diminished by a light coat of After Hours, the star product of the range. While she applies the product, a tired but happy Paula with bags under her eyes hums the chorus of a Supergrass song; finally, when the mirror reflects a perfect image, the song is turned up to full volume.
At the end of the presentation a friendly and almost sincere applause can be heard. Víctor abandons the role of orator and, before returning to the table, to his sister, to the others, he decides to go to his office for a moment and leave his notes there. He walks quickly; speaking in public has always made him nervous.
Before entering his office he sees a light in Sílvia’s and moves closer to the door. It is ajar. Víctor is astonished when, pushing it open, he encounters Sara.
“Sara! What are you doing here?”
Sara Mahler, always so efficient, seems embarrassed. And awkward, because, as she stammers that she suddenly remembered that Sílvia had asked her for some papers, the file she was holding falls from her hand. Her boss, friendly, makes as if to help her, although she ducks and scrambles to pick up the contents. But something catches Víctor’s eye, although at that time he attaches no importance to it.
A photo in the country, a mountainous landscape. Víctor barely has time to distinguish the image of a tree, seen from a distance, and even less to notice something hanging from its branches, before Sara, efficient once again, puts it into the file and leaves the office with a simple “Come, Víctor. The host shouldn’t absent himself from the party.”
21
In little more than twelve hours the rumor about the argument between Salgado and Bellver had spread throughout the station; and in barely another hour, it would reach the higher-ups. Héctor had appeared at his place of work at eight in the morning and en route to his office he’d already noticed the odd sideways look, an interrupted conversation. He was sure that he’d have to bring up the subject with the super at some point, but he had another hour of peace before that chat could take place. Enough time to look over the Ródenas and Mahler files for the last time before going to Alemany Cosmetics, although he harbored few hopes that this visit would give him anything useful. The autopsy on Sara Mahler, routine given the circumstances, didn’t contribute any information that would suggest that the victim hadn’t jumped onto the tracks of her own will. That of Ródenas, along with those of his wife and daughter, was if possible even more conclusive. And yet, the suicides of two people from the same company, who to all appearances led lives as normal as most people’s, kept alerting the instinct that Héctor had learned to trust over the years.
He studied the photo of the group once more, trying to read those unmoving faces, immortalized for posterity in an unflattering portrait. He focused especially on Gaspar and Sara. She was smiling, confidently obeying the instructions of whoever was holding the camera. Gaspar Ródenas was concentrating on looking ahead, as if he had in front of him a balance sheet that wouldn’t tally: the furrowed brow, the tense body. An expression rather similar to that in the photo taken at the beach that appeared in Lola’s article. Maybe it was the face he put on in photos, Héctor said to himself, leaving both on the desk. He trusted his instinct, yes, but he knew it was sometimes very easy to be swayed by false impressions.
If he’d spent another two minutes thinking, he wouldn’t have done it. Especially because half past eight in the morning was no time to call anyone. And even less so someone he hadn’t seen in more than seven years. In fact, he rang partly because he didn’t think that Lola would still have the same number after so much time and partly because he’d wanted to do so since the first time he saw her name on the byline of that article. When the sleepy voice of someone recently awakened picked up, he didn’t know what to say.
“Yes?”
“Lola?”
“Says who?”
“Lola. Did I wake you?”
There was a pause, a silence during which Héctor imagined her in bed, with the cloudy look of interrupted sleep.
“Héctor?” The voice sounded completely awake now.
“The very same.”
“Fuck. I’m going to sue my horoscope. It promised me a peaceful week, with no surprises.”
He smiled.
“It’s Friday. It was almost right.” Silences on the phone are as bad as on the radio, thought Héctor. Static nervousness. “How are things?”
Lola’s laugh suggested more sarcasm than humor.
“I don’t believe it.” She laughed again. “So many years of silence and you call me at half past eight on a January Friday to ask me how I am? This is like an episode of Sex and the City, although without sex. And in Carabanchel.”
He was about to respond when she cut him off.
“Héctor, forgive me, but I think I need a shower and a coffee before talking to you.”
“No cigarette?”
“I don’t smoke anymore.”
“Listen, have breakfast and I’ll call you later. I’m on a case you wrote about a few months ago and I’d like your input.” He was hoping she would ask what case he meant. “Gaspar Ródenas. The guy who-”
“Who killed his wife and daughter and then shot himself. I remember.”
“Could I take a look at your notes?”
“I suppose it’s important if you’re asking me like this.”
“I’ll leave you in peace to wake up. Lola,” he said, “it’s good to talk to you.”
He didn’t know if she’d heard him or not, because the line was cut immediately, but a goofy smile must have been on his face long enough to be seen by Superintendent Savall, who summoned him to his office five minutes later.
“Are you in an especially good mood, Héctor?” he said by way of a greeting.
“Well, Superintendent, they say skulls smile too. And they don’t exactly have many reasons to be happy.”
Lluís Savall looked at him without fully understanding his answer.
“Never mind skulls, Héctor, sit down. Tell me what the hell happened with Bellver yesterday.” His tone didn’t bode well.
There was something about that woman he found repellent, although he wouldn’t have been able to say exactly what it was. Up to now, Sílvia Alemany had been as friendly as she was efficient and had answered his questions without hesitation. And yet Héctor Salgado couldn’t shake the irritating feeling that he was attending a forced performance. Something he’d become used to after so many years of service, given that generally he believed everyone lied to a greater or lesser degree. Self-deception, or deception of those around you, was as natural as breathing; very few people would tolerate a crude, honest judgment on themselves or their loved ones. But even taking that into account, Sílvia Alemany’s acting revealed an academic edge, somewhere between feigned and condescending, that was starting to grate.