Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

Inspector Salgado was putting the facts in order following reasoning that led him to the only conclusion possible.

“So the night before Reyes you decided to meet her to insist once more she tell you what you didn’t know. And she flatly refused. You argued. By the way, you were blond then, weren’t you? You both had dyed hair: you blond and she jet black.”

Mar turned to him. A slight trace of fury still shone in her eyes.

“She tried to dissuade me, and I knew she was just like the rest. And I told her so.” The fury in her eyes became rage. “I blurted it all out, I insulted her. I reminded her that any moment what she feared so much could happen again.”

“Sara Mahler had been the victim of sexual assault, hadn’t she?” Given what he knew of Sara it was a reasonable possibility.

“Years ago,” she said scornfully. “Sara was frigid and men terrified her. She couldn’t even take a taxi; anything not to be alone with a man.”

“What did you do to her?” said Héctor quietly.

“I didn’t do anything to her. I just told her my fiancé and his friends would take care of her. I’d decided: if Sara didn’t respond to the easy way, we’d do it the hard way.”

Héctor shook his head, tried to piece it all together.

“I don’t know how you arranged it-while she was in the bathroom, I suppose-but you took her cell phone and deleted all the data to avoid, at least for that night, her being able to call anyone when you pursued her. And then it was also very convenient that we wouldn’t find any trace of your friendship.” Héctor’s tone changed. “You called Iván, your fiancé. To wait for Sara in the station. Sara left upset and went to the metro. She felt awful: she’d betrayed her colleagues and you had disappointed her. What’s more, she was terrified by your threats.”

Héctor had the projection ready.

“Neither of you anticipated that Sara would die. It was enough to frighten her. But things got out of hand,” he said, thinking of Fort’s explanation, which had turned out half true. “This morning the images recorded on the other platform arrived. I think you’ll find your Iván in them. Your great hope was anonymity, that no one would link you to this. That they’d suspect each other. That we wouldn’t know who to look for.”

Mar looked away from the screen and fixed her eyes on the inspector.

“No,” said Héctor. “I want you to see how Sara died. You deserve to see it.”

He started the recording: the gray platform appeared before them. And Sara, anxious, looking behind her, with her cell phone in her hand.

“Seeing her phone blank she must have realized you were plotting something,” Héctor continued. “That your threats weren’t a joke. Look at her!” he ordered. “Have the decency to see what you did.”

Mar Ródenas obeyed. Then she really did become upset.

“Then you sent her the photo, from an Internet café near the restaurant. It could have arrived later, but she received it on the platform. She became more afraid. And Iván, who’d seen her descend, only had to come out for a moment: call her, or show her a knife. And Sara was so desperate that she did the only thing she could think of to get away.”

The metro was arriving in the station. The Dominicans took up the foreground, but Héctor could almost see what the images didn’t show: poor Sara leaping onto the tracks to avoid something that in her mind was worse than death.

“You have no proof of this, Inspector,” Mar challenged him.

“Well, I’m sure your fiancé will confess when we put the other possibility to him: that he deliberately pushed her. I don’t think he did, to be honest. Too risky, and also you need a real motive to kill someone in cold blood … No, Iván wanted to frighten her.”

Mar Ródenas hung her head. By then there was palpable fear in her expression.

“So once the rough patch was over you decided to go ahead with your plan and send the photo to everyone. They began to get nervous. Sara always had her computer on, so on a visit to her house you had obtained the email addresses. Not knowing all the details of the story didn’t matter: there was no longer any way of finding them out and you weren’t planning on giving up what you considered yours. What’s more, you guessed Sara’s death would have unsettled them all. But Sílvia didn’t prove easy: she refused. You were so furious, I’m sure. Your threats weren’t being taken seriously.”

Héctor saw the tears brimming in Mar’s eyes. Of self-pity, rage or simply fear. He didn’t care; he pressed on without a break, raising his voice, accusing this girl of the crime she had to have committed.

“By this point nothing mattered anymore: Sara’s death had made you both unwilling killers, so the next step wasn’t so difficult. And Amanda was the perfect victim. Sara, scandalized by such practices, had told you about their games, and also told you where Amanda left the key every Sunday evening. Finding her half-asleep suited you: I don’t know if you’d have been capable of killing her in any other circumstance.”

“This is no more than supposition, Inspector.”

“Come on, Mar! Don’t try to fool me: you set up the blackmail, you threatened Sílvia with someone else dying if she didn’t deliver the money. Amanda died to make your threats credible. Don’t expect anyone to believe it was chance.” Héctor smiled. “Right now one of my men is charging Iván, and however much he loves you he won’t take the blame for this. You know it.”

Héctor lowered his voice and looked intently at Mar Ródenas.

“Just answer me one thing: why do you hate them so much?”

Mar held his gaze unblinkingly. Then she said, “You paint me as a monster, Inspector, and you speak of poor Sara as if she were a saint. But they were the monsters. They’d killed two people and went on with their lives, with their money, with their jobs, with their partners. Even after my brother. I just wanted the same as them: work, a house, a future. Don’t tell me I don’t have a right to that. You know how all this will end? I’ll go to prison and they’ll still be free. Because no one will bother looking for the bodies of the wretches they killed. The poor men who don’t matter to anyone.

“Read the note Gaspar left, Inspector. I carry it with me always. Read it and don’t tell me those bastards don’t deserve to die. Read it in front of me and I’ll confess everything in writing.”

And Héctor read it to her.

Alba is crying. I can’t make her stop. I had written a full confession, but I don’t have the time or energy to repeat it now … what does it matter, anyway? This world doesn’t let you do things properly. I told Susana everything, I said the only decent thing I could do was confess. I can’t live with those deaths in my head. With the image of those dead dogs, the sound of that spade. With a promotion that is payment for the crime. A crime we hid among ourselves: Sílvia, Brais, Octavi, Sara, César, Manel and Amanda. I told Susana, I explained it to her, but she didn’t understand.

Fuck, she won’t stop crying … I told Susana and she didn’t understand, she told me it was fine, I wasn’t any more to blame than the others, she wouldn’t let me throw it all away. It was like talking to Sílvia or Octavi …

I wrote my confession anyway. Tonight. While they were sleeping. I put everything in, without forgetting a single detail. And when I’d finally finished I felt like a new person. Calm, for the first time in months. I went into Alba’s room … Her bedroom smells so good, of clean dreams, of sleeping baby. I gave her a kiss and left.

Susana was in the bathroom. She’d torn my confession into pieces, she was throwing it down the toilet. I heard the water flushing away the truth, as if it were shit.