35
Leire picked the inspector up at the foot of the tower without asking questions, and tried not to notice his tired appearance. He was still wearing the same shirt she’d seen on him that morning and he spoke slowly, as if he had to make an effort to pay attention. But as she was bringing him up to date on Rubén’s statement, those tired eyes took on an interested gleam.
“I’m sorry I acted off my own bat,” she said when she finished her tale.
“It’s done now,” he replied.
“See, Inspector? We have a witness, a stoned witness who believes he saw someone push Marc Castells. Not the testimony of the year, but I’d swear he was telling the truth.”
Héctor tried to focus on the case, but it was difficult. Finally, when they reached the city centre, it occurred to him, not without a certain shyness, to invite her to dinner. If it seemed odd to her, she said nothing, probably because she was dying of hunger and had nothing at home she felt like eating. The thought of some duck dim sum, the speciality of a Chinese restaurant she knew, overcame all other considerations.
“Do you like Chinese food?”
“Yes,” he lied. “And don’t be so formal. At least for a while.” He smiled at her and continued in a low voice, thinking that by the following day he might no longer be an inspector but someone charged with murder. “Maybe forever.”
She didn’t fully understand the phrase, but sensed that questions were out of place, so she bit her tongue.
“Whatever you say. But, in that case, we split the bill.”
“Never. My religion forbids it.”
“I hope it doesn’t forbid you eating duck as well.”
“I’m not sure about that. I’ll have to seek advice.”
She laughed.
“Well, seek it tomorrow. . just in case.”
Héctor’s decision to pay for dinner had been unyielding, so it was Leire who, in a fit of female equality, suggested going for a drink in a small bar nearby where they served “the best mojitos in Barcelona.” REC was a small space, decorated in white, gray and red, which was usually full in winter, when the customers preferred cosy interiors to street terraces. That night there were only a couple of people at the bar, chatting to the owner, a muscular guy who greeted Leire with two kisses.
“From what I see you’re well known here,” commented Héctor, when they had sat down at a table.
“I come a lot,” she replied. “With a friend.”
“Leire, two mojitos?” asked the owner.
“No. Just one. A virgin San Francisco for me.”
He winked at her, with no comment; if Leire wanted to abstain that night in front of this companion, that was her business. He brought them the two drinks and returned to the bar.
“Is it good?” she asked. She was actually dying to have one, but the image of a baby with three heads suppressed any temptation to try it.
“Yes. Are you sure you don’t want one?”
“I’m driving,” said Leire, grateful for once in her life for the hundreds of checkpoints scattered across the city on Saturday nights.
“Good girl.” He stirred the sugar at the bottom of the glass and took another gulp. They’d been going over the case during dinner and come once again to a dead end: Iris, or, more accurately, Inés Alonso. They’d agreed that Leire would go to the airport to collect her and ensure that the young woman arrived safely at Joana Vidal’s flat, or wherever she wanted to go first. Obviously, en route she would talk to her about Marc. Héctor had opted to stay on the margin, though Leire didn’t know why. Nor could he tell her without getting Andreu into trouble. For the umpteenth time, he looked at his mobile, which remained insolently silent on the table. Not even Ruth had bothered to answer.
“Expecting a call?” asked Leire. She hadn’t been drinking, but something in her impelled her to be forward. “A friend?”
He smiled.
“Something like that. And tell me, why is a girl like you free on a Saturday night?”
Leire shrugged.
“Mysteries of the city.”
He looked at her with that old-dog irony, and all of a sudden she felt a huge wish to tell him everything: her conversation with Tomás, her fears.
“I don’t think I can handle any more mysteries,” he replied. She took another sip and lowered her voice.
“That’s easily resolved, really.” He was going to be the third person to know, after María and Tomás and before her parents. But she couldn’t take it any more. “Can I give you an exclusive piece of news? Not to Inspector Salgado from the morning but to Héctor from tonight?”
“I love exclusives.”
“I’m pregnant.” She smiled as she said it, as if she were confessing a major indiscretion.
The words caught him mid-gulp. Smiling, he moved his glass to the San Francisco and touched it lightly.
“Congratulations.” His smile was warm, and despite the wrinkles and the fatigue in his features, he seemed to be happy.
“Don’t say anything, OK? I’m only a few weeks and everyone says not to announce it in case something happens, and-”
“Yeah, yeah,” he interrupted her. “I know. And I’ll be as silent as the grave. An Egyptian grave. I promise. I’m getting another mojito. Another old-lady fruit juice for you?”
“No. It’s awful. It must have kilos of sugar.”
While she waited for him to return from the bar, she felt disappointed. Stupid, she scolded herself. What did you expect? He’s your boss, not a friend. And even as a boss you’ve known him for only four days. Héctor returned with his mojito and sat down again. The mobile remained silent.
“I told you a secret,” she said. “It’s your turn.”
“When did we make that deal?”
“Never. But it’s a craving. .”
“Oh no. My wife harped on at me with that for months until I found out it was completely untrue. My ex-wife,” he pointed out, before drinking.
“Do you have children?”
“Yes, one boy. They never become exes.” Unless they’re ashamed of a father convicted of murder, he told himself. He didn’t want to think about it. “I warn you, and tell your boyfriend too.”
He realized he’d put his foot in it when he saw her face.
“OK.” He took refuge in his mojito, which was tart and strong. “Fuck, your friend’s made this one strong.” He stirred it vigorously. “You know what? You don’t need him. I mean the father. I swear I could have lived without mine.”
Leire watched him as he took another long drink. When he put the glass on the table and she could see his eyes she believed she understood the depth of the darkness glimmering in them and felt what her friend María called “the seductive power of sad childhoods.” A mix of attraction and tenderness. She looked away so he wouldn’t see while she cursed these turbulent hormones that seemed to be plotting against her. Luckily, just then some late customers took the table right beside them, so close that any confidence between them would have been an indiscretion. Both she and Héctor did everything they could to restore informal conversation but their efforts resulted in a chat so forced that Leire was glad when he finished his drink and suggested that perhaps she might be tired.
“A little, to be honest. Do you want me to drop you somewhere?”
He shook his head.
“See you tomorrow.” At least I hope so, he thought. “Drive carefully.”
“I haven’t been drinking, Inspector Salgado.”
“Not Héctor any more?” he asked, half smiling.
Leire didn’t answer. She went to the bar and paid for the drinks, ignoring his protests. Héctor watched her from the table as she chatted to the owner. He heard her laugh, and he told himself that was exactly what he had been missing in his life lately: not someone to fuck, or walk with, or live with. Someone to laugh about this shitty life with.
He was in the bar, alone, until it closed, like a local drunk who didn’t want to go home. However, that night the mojitos had no effect on him. He thought ironically that the heroes in the movies drink bourbon or whisky. Not even in this do you measure up, Salgado. When the bar owner discreetly said it was closing time, he went out into the street. He wandered aimlessly for a while, trying not to think, to let his mind go blank. He didn’t succeed and, just as he was about to enter another joint to add more alcohol to his body, his mobile took revenge for being so long silent. He answered immediately.