By one of life’s coincidences, Leire wasn’t the only one thinking of Africa that afternoon. And not just because the heat besieging Barcelona that day was closer to that continent than to moderate Europe, even in its south.
The sun was still punishing when the taxi left Martina Andreu at the door of the block of flats where Héctor Salgado lived. A pair of agents were guarding the door on the first floor, anxious to leave: there was nothing else to do there and they were happy to go. When they emerged, one of them commented that the stairwell smelled awful, and she merely nodded. She’d noticed it before, although perhaps not so strongly, but she didn’t want to keep them, nor did they want to stay. The sergeant wanted to be alone, without witnesses in uniform, to explore on her own. Something told her the assault on Carmen wasn’t a random incident. Héctor was right: too many things were happening around him, none of them good. On the other hand, the statements of the witnesses-Rosa and the butcher-were still fresh in her mind. Héctor could ask blind faith of her and she gave it, as a friend. But the part of her that was a cop demanded proof. Tangible proof that might counter the effect of these testimonies, which in all honesty she had no reason to doubt.
Once alone, she closed the door of Carmen’s flat and took a quick look around. She’d found her in the short passage separating the hall from the kitchen. The attack had been faceon, so it stood to reason that the poor woman had opened the door to a stranger who had attacked her after entering. But for what? They hadn’t searched the house-nothing seemed to be missing; there were no drawers on the floor or open cupboards. Maybe the guy had got scared after the assault and opted to get out of there? No, she didn’t like that explanation at all. Carmen had been hit twice with a metallic object. There was no trace of the weapon in the flat. Fuck, there was no trace of anything in this flat, cursed the sergeant. She looked toward the cupboard that hid the electricity meter. If she wasn’t mistaken, there were the keys to Héctor Salgado’s flat. Someone else might have felt a pang of conscience, but not her. It was what she had to do.
Keys in hand, she went up the stairs. The foul smell became more intense for a moment, then faded. Martina was in a hurry to search the inspector’s flat before he decided to return. The qualms hit her when chance awarded her first prize and the key chosen turned in the lock, but she rejected them without banishing them completely, as if putting them in a recycling bin. Once inside, however, she considered what she was doing there and what she hoped to find. The blinds were lowered and she switched on the light. She scanned the flat. Nothing seemed out of place. She went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, where she just saw some beers and a jug of what looked like gazpacho. She couldn’t imagine Héctor making it, in all honesty, and it seemed homemade. From the kitchen she returned to the dining room and from there she walked to the bedroom. Unmade bed, suitcase open in a corner. . The typical state of a single man’s room. Or a separated one.
She was about to leave, feeling like a hypocritical intruder, but, crossing the dining room again she made out a flicker on the television. Héctor had left it on. No-it wasn’t the television. It was the DVD screensaver that was moving. If Salgado hadn’t mentioned the recordings to her, it would never have occurred to her to press the play button.
When the first few images hit the screen, she was overcome by an instinctive, visceral repulsion and a suspicion that now there was no going back. Despite herself, she had to watch the recording twice more to take it all in. Luckily it wasn’t very long, lasting only a few minutes, but within that time one could clearly see the bruised face of an old black man bleeding profusely, on the verge of slipping into unconsciousness. His parched lips could barely emit a slight moan and his eyes didn’t succeed in focusing on whoever was being forced to record his agony. On the blurry screen, Dr. Omar tried to open his eyes for the last time, but the effort was too much for his battered body. Martina Andreu heard his last breath clearly and witnessed death overcoming his face. The recording ended there, giving way to a dark gray cloud. And then, with the coldness that comes with years of service, the sergeant knew what the next step was. The separate pieces came together to form an unpleasant but logical whole. The witness statements, Omar’s disappearance, that horrendous film-and yes, the stench on the stairwell-fell magically into place and showed her the road to follow.
Taking the next step, however, wasn’t easy. She had to call it in, but first she wanted to be sure. It took her an eternity to leave Héctor’s flat. She descended a flight of stairs to the second floor, walking with the rigidity of an automaton. Carmen’s keyring had all the keys and she had to try a couple before finding the right one. The stench hit her full-blast on simply pushing the door open. She felt her way forward, as the flat wasn’t connected to the electricity mains. She followed her nose until she came to a small room in which she thought she could make out a little window. When she raised the blind, light invaded the space. Although she knew what she’d come looking for, the sight of Omar’s body made her jump backward. And she ran, ran to the front door, went through it and leaned against the door frame, eyes squeezed shut, blocking the space as if someone were pursuing her. As if the soul of that dead body could abandon its casing of flesh and seek to possess her. Seconds, maybe minutes had to pass before she was calm, before she was sure he was inside and couldn’t hurt her. Finally she managed to open her eyes, and she suppressed a scream of surprise and fear on seeing before her, with a serious expression, the friend she now feared with all her heart.
There’s nothing less bearable than waiting for a phone call with nothing to do. Agent Castro had many virtues, but patience wasn’t one of them. So, after forty minutes of chatting to María, during which she never stopped checking her mobile, she reluctantly decided to take the initiative and contact Inspector Salgado. The only response was his voicemail, offering as usual the opportunity to leave a message after the tone. She hesitated before doing so, but finally opted to cover her back and inform him of her plans.
“Inspector, Castro here. I’ve been waiting for your call and it’s after seven. With your permission, I’m going ahead on the Rubén Ramos thing. If you have anything to say to me, call me.”
She didn’t know if that was what Salgado would want, but that day Leire Castro wasn’t inclined to take the feelings of the other sex into consideration. Because of that, and although she knew she was taking a risk, she looked in her notes for Rubén’s number and dialled. A young voice answered with an insecure “Yes?” She took on a similar, slightly nervous tone as she explained to her listener that Aleix had given her his number, tonight was her birthday and she wanted to celebrate in style with her boyfriend. Yes, one would do, she assured him, trying to sound like the silly girl from a good family who could be a customer of Aleix’s. They agreed a time and place for the meeting without saying anything else, and she signed off with a quick “See you later.”
When she hung up, Leire asked herself if what she’d just done would make things awkward with the inspector, and, just in case, she rang him again. Sick of the neverending voice, she hung up without leaving a message.
33
Martina didn’t move even a millimetre from the door. She looked intently at Salgado, trying to read her colleague’s mind through his eyes. She didn’t succeed, but this gaze did at least manage to alleviate the panic that had overwhelmed her minutes before.
“Don’t come any closer, Héctor,” she warned him, in a firm, neutral voice. “This is a crime scene. You can’t go in.”