Excited, with adrenalin pumping through her body, Martina Andreu knew that she didn’t yet have all the answers, but she did have many questions to put to Rosa and Damián Fernández. And she didn’t plan to wait until the next day to start asking them.
Héctor listened, somewhat astonished and overwhelmed, to the tale that a sergeant seemingly possessed by an inexhaustible energy was telling him at four in the morning.
“We have them, Héctor! Maybe it would have been more difficult if we hadn’t caught them in bed together in his house. Fernández was a tough nut to crack, but she went to pieces straight away. She told us everything, although obviously she denies knowing anything about the murder. And when we put Rosa’s confession before him, he couldn’t keep putting on an innocent face.”
“Robbery was the motive?” After thinking about curses and dark rites, the explanation almost disappointed him.
“Well, a relatively meaty robbery for two wretches like Fernández and Rosa. We found more than a hundred thousand euros in the lawyer’s house, which no doubt were stolen from Omar’s office.”
“How the hell did he get my house keys?”
“He didn’t open his mouth, but Rosa told us when we leaned on her a little. He boasted to her, saying he’d passed himself off as an air-conditioning salesman. Poor Carmen showed him the house, had a nice long chat with him, and he took advantage of a moment of distraction to take those keys. He arranged a second visit for the following day and returned the originals.”
She lowered her voice.
“He was spying on you the whole time, Héctor. He took advantage of your movements to go into your house and leave those discs.”
“He did that too?”
Andreu frowned.
“It’s strange. He recorded you beating Omar with the camera in his clinic and they were thinking of presenting it as evidence against you, so it occurred to him to use it to back up the other one, the one showing the doctor’s death. With regard to your ex. . I don’t know what to think. Fernández says he found it among Omar’s recordings.” Andreu paused. “He added something about the doctor having been preparing something in the days before his death, one of his rituals.”
“Against me?”
“It doesn’t matter now, Héctor. He’s dead. Forget all this. Just think that we have enough proof to charge them both. And to exonerate you. .”
There was a brief silence, charged with complicity, with gratitude. With friendship.
“I don’t know how to thank you. Really.” It was true.
She raised her hand to her brow. The long night was catching up with her.
“Don’t worry, I’ll think of something. It’s late. . or early,” she added, with a smile. “What are you going to do? Go home?”
“I suppose I’ll have to go back tomorrow. But for tonight I’d prefer to sleep in my office, believe me. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
That night Héctor didn’t sleep at alclass="underline" he stayed awake, asking questions and setting out interrogations. It also helped, he knew deep down, to drive the memory of Leire Castro’s laugh out of his mind.
SUNDAY
37
The airport was a seething mass of tourists pushing trolleys and suitcases on wheels. Some turned their heads for a last glimpse of that sun that had accompanied them, bronzed and hot on the beach and in front of the Pedrera; a star which, once they arrived at their northern destinations, would have disappeared or at best would appear timidly from behind a mass of clouds. Others moved toward the exits with excitement etched on their faces, although they stopped just after going through them and leaving behind the air-conditioned new terminal, with floors like black mirrors, to receive the first shock of heat.
Leire had picked Héctor up at his house, at his request. She had been surprised to receive his call, since they’d arranged that she would go to the airport alone to search for Inés. Having gone to his house first thing-just as long as was necessary to shower and change his clothes-he seemed to be in an excellent mood. The shadows under his eyes were still there, no doubt about that, but the spirit had changed. She hadn’t slept much herself, and the bout of nausea that morning had been the worst yet. Worse than an awful Sunday hangover.
The flight was only slightly delayed, and it took even less time to recognize the girl from the photo, although the blackand-white had definitely flattered her. The young woman moving toward the door, not very tall, with curly hair and somewhat plumper than could be seen in the photograph, had little of the enigmatic about her. Héctor got there first.
“Inés Alonso?”
“Yes.” She looked at the inspector apprehensively. “Is something wrong?”
He smiled at her.
“I’m Inspector Salgado and this is Agent Castro. We’ve come to collect you and take you to Joana Vidal’s house. Marc’s mother.”
“But-”
“Relax. We just want to talk to you.”
She lowered her head and nodded slowly, then followed them to the car without saying another word. She said nothing during the journey, although she answered a couple of trivial questions politely. She sat on the back seat, pensive. She was carrying only a type of rigid backpack and kept it firmly at her side.
She remained silent as they ascended the steep stairs leading to the flat where Joana lived. Héctor realized, with a pang of remorse, that he hadn’t heard from her since the day before, when they had breakfast together. However, as soon as Joana received them, he noticed that something had changed in her in the last few hours. Her footsteps and her voice revealed a composure he’d only briefly glimpsed before.
She showed them to the dining room. The windows were open and the light streamed in.
“I had to inform the police of your arrival,” said Joana, turning to this stranger, who had sat down, like the others, but with her back straight, as if she were about to undergo an oral exam.
“Maybe it’s for the best,” she murmured.
“Inés,” Héctor interjected, “you met Marc in Dublin, didn’t you?”
She smiled for the first time.
“I would never have recognized him. But he saw my name on the student residence’s list. And one day he approached me to ask if I was the same Inés Alonso.”
Héctor nodded, encouraging her to continue.
“He introduced himself and we went for a drink.” She spoke tenderly, simply. “I think he fell in love with me. But. . of course, though we avoided it at the start, in the end we had to talk about Iris. Always Iris. .”
“What happened that summer, Inés? I know you were only a little girl and I understand it must be painful to think about her. .”
“No. Not any more.” She was flushed, tears shone in her eyes. “I’ve spent years trying to forget that summer, that day. But not any more. Marc was right about that, although he didn’t know part of the truth. In fact, I didn’t know it either until a little while ago, until last Christmas, when my mother moved flat and we packed up everything from the old house. There, in one of the boxes, I found Iris’s teddy bear. It was torn, the stuffing was coming out of a rip, but when I picked it up I noticed something inside.”