There was a moment of hesitation before Salgado answered.
“Maybe. No,” he corrected himself, “he has.”
Dr. Santacruz could have smiled out of pure satisfaction, but his expression changed to express clear, frank worry.
“That’s what I was afraid of. Look, you have to understand something. However powerful his magic-as they sometimes call it-is, it remains totally innocuous to those who don’t believe in it. Am I mistaken in thinking that you are rather skeptical, Inspector? Not only toward this subject, but toward anything related to the occult? No, I thought not. But you fear for your family, for the safety of your loved ones. .”
“Might they be in danger?”
“I daren’t say so, and I don’t wish to alarm you. It’s just. . how would I put it? They want you to feel afraid, unsettle you. Remove you from your rational, Western thinking and draw you toward theirs: more atavistic, subject to supernatural elements. And therefore they are using paraphernalia that anyone could understand.” He turned to Andreu. “Your colleague told me you searched this Omar’s clinic. Did you find anything that backs up what I’m saying?”
Martina looked down, obviously uneasy.
“He already said it. Some photos of Héctor and his family.” “Nothing else?”
“Yes. Sorry, Héctor, I didn’t tell you because it seemed ridiculous: something had been burned in a corner of the room. And the ashes were placed in an envelope, along with one of those grotesque dolls made of rope. All of it was inside the file with your photos, the ones of Ruth and Guillermo. I took it out before you arrived.”
Dr. Santacruz intervened before Héctor could say anything.
“I thought it strange you hadn’t found it, simply because it’s the most well-known ritual of voodoo: something we’ve all heard of.” He looked at Salgado and said frankly, “They want to scare you, Inspector. If there is no fear, their power is nil. But I’ll tell you something else: from what I can see they seem determined to awaken that fear in you, scaring you with things you do fear. Your family’s safety, the sanctity of your home. Even that of your close friends. If you play their game, if you start to believe that their threats can become real danger, then you are in their hands. Like that girl.”
16
As soon as they got to the station Héctor noticed that Leire had something to tell him, but before he had a chance to go over to her, Savall called him into his office. By his face, the meeting behind closed doors didn’t bode well, and Héctor mustered all his patience to get through the sermon, which he guessed related to Dr. Omar. However, he realized it wasn’t going in that direction on seeing that there was another person sitting in front of the super’s desk: a fair-haired woman, about fifty, who turned toward him and gazed at him intently. Héctor wasn’t surprised when Savall introduced them: he was sure she had to be Joana Vidal. She greeted him with a slight movement of her head and remained seated. Tense.
“Héctor, I’ve been informing Señora Vidal of your inquiries.” Savall’s tone was smooth, conciliatory, with a hint of warning. “But I think it’s better for you to tell her yourself.”
Héctor took a few seconds before speaking. He knew what the superintendent was asking of him: a neutral, friendly tale, and at the same time persuasive, which might convince this woman that her son had fallen from the window. The same argument a teacher would use with a pupil who has failed by one point: you can walk with your head held high, it is a worthy failure, come back in September and I’m sure you’ll pass. In Joana Vidal’s case, better to go and not come back. But at the same time, something told him that this woman, legs still crossed and clutching the arms of the chair tightly, was keeping an ace up her sleeve. A bomb she’d drop at the opportune moment, which would catch them all unawares, not knowing what to say.
“Of course,” he said at last, and fell silent again to weigh his words. “But first perhaps Señora Vidal has something to tell us as well.”
The woman’s quick glance told him he’d hit the nail on the head. Savall raised his eyebrows.
“Is that so, Joana?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Perhaps. But first I want to hear what Inspector Salgado has to tell me.”
“Fine.” Now yes, thought Héctor, noting that the woman sitting beside him was relaxing a little. He moved his chair to see her face and spoke to her directly, as if the super wasn’t in the room. “From what we know, the night of the festival of San Juan your son and two of his friends, Aleix Rovira and Gina Martí, had a little party in Marc’s attic. The kids’ stories generally match: the party seemed to develop normally, until for some reason Marc’s mood changed, he turned off the music and argued with Aleix when he accused him of coming back very much changed from Dublin. Aleix went home, but Gina, who was rather drunk, stayed over in Marc’s room. His anger had affected her as well, and as soon as Aleix left he sent her to bed, telling her she was drunk, which annoyed the girl. Then she lay down and fell asleep immediately. For his part, Marc stayed alone in the attic and did as he usually did: smoked a last cigarette sitting on the window sill.”
He stopped there, although this woman’s face showed only concentration. Not sorrow or pain. There was something Nordic about Joana Vidal’s features, an apparent coldness that might or might not be a mask. It was, thought Héctor; but it was a mask that had been in place for a long time and was beginning to merge with the original features. Only her eyes, an even dark chestnut color, seemed to contradict it; they hid a sparkle that, in the right circumstances, could be dangerous. Unable to help it, he mentally compared Joana to Enric Castells’ second wife and told himself there was a superficial likeness, a pallor common to both women; however, the similarities ended there. In Glòria’s eyes there was doubt, insecurity, even obedience; Joana’s hinted at rebellion and challenge. There was no doubt that Castells hadn’t wanted to run the same risk twice and had chosen a softer, more docile woman. More manageable. Héctor Salgado told himself that the woman in front of him deserved to know the truth and went on in the same tone, ignoring the expression of impatience coming over the super’s face.
“But the kids are lying, at least partly. I’m not saying they had anything to do with what happened,” he clarified. “Only that there’s a part of the story they’ve smoothed over, if I might put it that way.” He went on to refer to what Castro had discovered on seeing the photos on Gina’s Facebook profile, as well as the finding of the T-shirt Marc was wearing during the party: clean but with some stains that might well be blood. “So the next step is to question Aleix Rovira closely’-he said this without looking at Savall-“because the alleged fight they’ve told us about may have been somewhat more violent than the story suggests. And speak to Aleix’s brother to confirm once again that the boy arrived home and didn’t go back out. Honestly, I think that is the most likely thing. Perhaps that’s all that happened, a fight between friends, nothing too serious but enough for Marc to stain his T-shirt and change his clothes. A fight that maybe caused Marc’s laptop to fall to the floor and break. .”
He remained thoughtful. Why hadn’t Gina said anything about the broken laptop? Even if it was a matter of a simple argument, as she said, it was less suspicious to tell them something they would find out anyway. He forced himself to slow down: his thoughts were moving too quickly and he should continue. “It doesn’t change what happened afterward,” he said, but his voice didn’t sound too convincing. “Only that we need some pieces to complete the picture. For the moment we’ve taken Marc’s laptop and mobile to see what we can extract from them. And we should question Aleix Rovira again.” Then he did look at the super. He was pleased to see he was nodding, although with a bad grace. “And now, is there something you wish to tell us, Señora Vidal?”