Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

Martina nodded. The news of the supposed vor v zakonye , or “thieves in law,” had been current in newspapers and official circles for some time. They were the equivalents of the capos of the Italian mafia, residing comfortably and luxuriously in different parts of Europe, especially in the south, and they laundered money thanks to the great bottomless well that had been property investment, in coastal developments in particular.

“Good,” Héctor continued. “As you also know, property is no longer what it was and, according to Calderón, some of those who up to now focused only on investment are changing their strategy. They are moving their money somewhere else more profitable, and they’re beginning to think of Spain as a place of business. You know-drugs, girls, everything …

“It seems they’re scattering. Previously they all lived together, on the coast generally, with the intention of going unnoticed and being taken for foreign residents seeking a more favorable climate than their own. According to Calderón, the moves began a few months ago. The boss stays in place, but his associates have been dispatched to different points on the peninsula: Valencia, Madrid, Galicia, Tarragona …”

“They think they are building a kind of organized network?”

“Exactly. Tough times, Martina, as we all know. And at a time like this, money is well received everywhere without anyone asking too many questions.”

“You mean corruption?”

“Corruption, necessity … Poverty, at the end of the day. The best incentive for crime. The poverty of the new rich, especially those who don’t want to go back to being poor.” Héctor shrugged. “I don’t know the details. Apparently the thing is just starting, and perhaps for once we have an advantage over them. At least we know their movements, which is something. And the Ministry of the Interior is firmly resolved not to allow their businesses to flourish. Whatever happens.”

Martina Andreu said nothing, but it was clear from her body language that she didn’t understand what she had to do with it all.

“Good. This firm resolve translates into funds for a special unit headed up by Calderón. And with colleagues from all the different autonomous forces. I think Savall called it a ‘built-in unit.’ ” He smiled.

“And?” Martina didn’t dare to ask the question directly.

“And they want you in. Well, actually, they want you to coordinate our part. You’ll be in charge of a small group of agents and will report directly to Calderón.”

Martina leaned back in the chair, as if someone had pushed her.

“But …” She wasn’t diplomatic, she never had been, and she put the question to him straight. “Wouldn’t it be more logical for you to take charge of this? Or some other inspector?”

Salgado raised his eyebrows.

“Well … Martina, let’s not kid ourselves, you know I’m more or less on the bench at the moment.” With a movement of his head he hushed the sergeant’s imminent protest. “It’s how it is. I asked for it, partly.” He lightly hit his chest. “Mea culpa. Don’t worry about it.”

“Of course I’ll worry. It’s not fair, and-”

“Martina! As the tangos say, life isn’t fair. I pity anyone who believes otherwise. I broke Omar’s face-that’s a fact that, on record, translates as violent tendencies, with no space for explanations. And then”-his voice became more serious-“there’s the matter of Ruth.”

Martina looked away. She’d come to dislike that name and all it implied, although she’d never say so to her boss. She cared about Héctor a lot; she’d seen him so obsessed with finding an answer that when Savall held firm and took him off the case she’d almost felt relieved. It wasn’t fair, but as he’d just said, was life ever?

“So now all you have to consider is whether you’re interested or not.” They both knew that was stupid. If the superintendent had put her forward, there was little to be considered. “Martina, this is a good opportunity. You know it is.”

Héctor was aware, or at least guessed, that there was something else. Savall had wanted to rescue Martina Andreu, a woman he cared about personally and professionally, from the camp of exiles. For better and above all for worse, Andreu’s name was associated with Salgado’s, and the sooner this bond was broken the better it would be for the sergeant’s career. Of course, he wasn’t going to tell her so. Martina was so loyal she wouldn’t hesitate in raising hell if she suspected anything of the sort.

“My situation is complicated,” she clarified. “You know Rafa is still unemployed, right?”

He nodded. The sergeant’s husband was a technical architect and had been one of the first to feel the pinprick in the property bubble. First he went months without being paid and finally had been left with no work, and with few prospects of finding any, the previous September.

“I don’t know if this is the best time for me to …”

Héctor understood, but his obligation was to bring her around to the contrary.

“Martina, don’t scupper it. Don’t sacrifice a great opportunity through misguided loyalty. That won’t do either of you any good, not him and not you.”

“You can’t imagine what it’s like to see him at home.” She wasn’t given to discussing personal subjects, even with him. “He’s irritable, he gets angry at the kids over stupid things. Sometimes I think I’m not going to put up with it anymore. It kills me to see him depressed and at the same time it makes me angry, as if it’s partly his fault. As if the solution is that he should accept anything. And then I hate myself … Fuck.”

“It’s not his fault and you know it. But if you let this opportunity go, then you really will have something to blame him for.”

She forced herself to smile.

“So you want to get rid of me, Inspector Salgado.”

“Of course,” he admitted, feigning seriousness. He looked at the roof, as if he were giving thanks to a supreme being. “All this is a conspiracy I dreamed up to finally be free of your nagging.”

They looked at each other more affectionately than usual. Neither of the two was exactly effusive in their affections; perhaps that was why they had always understood each other so well.

“And if I accept, when does it all start?”

“Savall is waiting for you in his office … now. There’s a meeting in Madrid the day after tomorrow.”

“Fuck. Is someone at home packing my suitcase without me knowing?”

“I thought of sending Fort, mainly so he’d do something useful …”

Héctor’s joke hung in the air like an aimless arrow as the door opened and the person in question appeared on the threshold.

“Excuse me,” Roger apologized.

Salgado almost blushed, and Martina Andreu took advantage of the moment to rise.

“I’ll leave the boss all to you. We’ll talk,” she added, turning to Salgado. She winked at him before leaving and murmured, “Go on making friends.”

Héctor spent the first few minutes trying to figure out if Fort would have heard his unfortunate comment; he cursed himself for having said it and yet he couldn’t help thinking that that boy had the gift of bad timing. So when he suddenly saw in his face that Fort had just asked a question he hadn’t heard, he didn’t know how to answer and looked at the photo the agent had placed on his desk with unusual intensity.

“So, Fort,” he finally said, in an attempt to summarize, “you found this photo in Sara Mahler’s apartment and spoke to her roommate. Don’t rush, describe the interview slowly.”

His subordinate looked at him, flushing.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and Héctor felt even worse than before. “I suppose I’m in a hurry to get to the end.”