There’s nothing worse than the truth that seems to be a lie, thought Héctor. However much he argued, the super had been unwavering, and he’d also accused him of using Sergeant Andreu to carry out “what you don’t have the balls to do yourself.” Héctor, who’d called Martina Andreu twice since the night before without getting an answer, reiterated his ignorance, although he was hurt that Savall didn’t believe him. At least this will be cleared up soon, he thought as he started to notice the heat of the exertion: Martina will be back on Monday from Madrid and everyone will have the chance to talk. In fact, he also found it strange that the sergeant had done something that in other circumstances wouldn’t be that important. In these, however, Ruth on one side and Bellver on the other, she must have realized that the result could be catastrophic. The superintendent’s final words, expressed in that tone of paternal anger that Héctor hated above all other things, left no room for doubt: “You’re making too many enemies, Héctor. And you can’t permit yourself that luxury. Not now. And the time will come when even I can’t defend you.”
If the gossip had pointed out the possibility that he’d smash Dídac Bellver’s face in, the superintendent had reason to worry. It had been a long time since he experienced that blind fury, the physical need to hit someone, and only Agent Fort’s appearance had stopped that from happening. Bellver’s face, when he made conjectures about Ruth’s emotional instability and Héctor’s humiliation on being left for another woman, was crying out for a punch that would dislocate the jaw with a dry, painful crack. As he ran, Héctor guessed that that was exactly what Bellver wanted: to make him lose his temper, to demonstrate once again that Salgado was a crazy, violent Argentine, capable of assaulting not only a suspect but a colleague as well.
I managed to control myself, thought Héctor, although he knew it wasn’t altogether down to his own merit. On Monday it’ll all be cleared up, and this gave him the strength to accelerate even more on an almost deserted promenade, beside waves that seemed to become more furious as he calmed down. It was going to rain; the sky was swarming with dirty clouds and in the distance he sensed an isolated bolt of lightning. The most intelligent thing would have been to turn around, but Héctor was determined to reach the goal he’d set himself before leaving home, the chimneys of the old Sant Adrià power station, and he hadn’t the least intention of giving up the little he was able to control himself, through his own efforts. The only aim of the day that didn’t depend on other people’s will, on people like Sílvia Alemany telling him the truth.
In short, he thought, the visit to the labs had been as fruitless as he’d feared and, as they discussed during the journey back, Agent Fort’s inquiries hadn’t thrown up any exceptional revelations. The employees seemed appropriately shaken by the news of two consecutive deaths, but didn’t make any connection between them. The comments, according to Fort, indicated that Sara Mahler was a strange woman, “no man by her side”-something that sounded to Salgado like the most antiquated machismo-and that Christmas was sad for those who were alone. With that he did agree, he said to himself as he noticed the first drops of rain. The subject of Gaspar Ródenas was already a remote event for the majority of the workers; they’d spoken about it ad nauseam when it happened and had little more to add.
The only significant information had been the confirmation of his suspicions regarding the promotion of Ródenas. According to what Agent Fort had been told while chatting to the people at the coffee machine, Martí Clavé, the other candidate, had taken it more to heart than Sílvia Alemany had admitted. “It seems they almost came to blows,” Fort confessed, not looking at him, probably uncomfortable at a situation similar to the one he’d witnessed in his boss’s office the previous afternoon. “This Clavé confronted Ródenas during his first days in the job and didn’t hide that he felt it an unfair promotion.”
They said that Gaspar hadn’t reacted to the outburst; he’d stayed quiet. They also said that when he heard the news of his death, of the murder of his whole family, Martí Clavé, taciturn and remorseful, had gone a number of days without speaking to anyone.
All this was logicaclass="underline" promotions, undeserved or not, people who felt undervalued; it happened everywhere, all the time, and didn’t merit much comment. Even in times of crisis, it was unthinkable that someone would kill a whole family to get a promotion. On the contrary, maybe in another era Martí Clavé, offended, would have left the company, but as things were his protest had been only vocal, not active. And in any case, none of it was at all related to Sara Mahler, the hanged dogs or the feeling that Sílvia Alemany and the other participants in the away days had lied to him with insulting nerve.
The rain was now a reality and Héctor knew he’d end up soaked, but he kept going. Too much accumulated frustration for him to give up now. A dissatisfaction that had grown during the walk around the factory with Saúl Duque, who was a pleasant guy and chatty enough to have some information wheedled out of him, although in the end what he revealed wasn’t much use: he was happy working there, under Sílvia Alemany, a hard but fair boss; the economic crisis wasn’t affecting them too badly, although it was feared the situation would get worse, given that the green shoots announced by the government didn’t seem to be flowering; there was a good atmosphere, despite these sudden tragic deaths. In that, at least, Saúl had been adamant: “Gaspar was on edge, but I never thought he’d lose his head that way. I’m sure that there must have been something else, some marriage problem we don’t know about.” With regard to Sara, Saúl hadn’t been able to conceal a certain dislike, a reaction the poor girl seemed to arouse in most people. “But that doesn’t mean anything, Inspector. And I never thought she was depressed, just that she didn’t fit in.”
The guided tour was as uninteresting as he’d expected. With Saúl Duque at his side, he met Brais Arjona and Amanda Bonet, who confirmed the version given by Sílvia Alemany. Héctor didn’t even bother to speak to the others: he was sure Manel Caballero and César Calvo would have said the same in different words. Perhaps the only point he scored was when he casually asked Amanda if she was good friends with Sara Mahler. The girl had blushed, a reaction that could be shyness with the police, but which Héctor felt was a little excessive, and she just said that she’d gone to her house one evening for coffee. All very reasonable, all stinkingly normal. He and Fort had returned to the station more despondent than when they left. Just one more loose end to cover: Sara’s supposed boyfriend, if he existed, something Héctor was beginning to doubt …
Héctor turned around when a bolt of lightning showed he’d reached his goal. The hardest bit was still to come: the way back, retracing his steps. And thinking about the way home took him directly to the image of Lola, whom he still hadn’t called back. Later he would, but at that moment he just ran, drawing strength from weakness to flee from the rain, flee from memories. To flee from Ruth’s wounded face when he confessed what had been going on. And above all, flee from the bitter moment he decided to leave Lola forever.