“Are you going alone?” He asked more for reasons of safety than anything else, but he immediately regretted it and Ruth’s tone confirmed it had been an ill-timed intrusion.
“That’s none of your business.”
“Sorry. I don’t. . didn’t want to interfere in your life.”
“Yeah.” Ruth bit her tongue so as not to be unpleasant. “Well, it sounded like it. Good-bye, Héctor, speak to you Monday.”
“Yes, enjoy yourself. And Ruth. .” He realized he didn’t know how to say it. “Like I said, if you see anything strange, call me immediately, OK?”
“Bye, Héctor.” Ruth hung up straight away, and saw that she had two missed calls from Carol. The last thing she felt like doing was arguing, so she opted to ignore them and began to prepare the couple of things she wanted to take with her.
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?”