Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

The investigations into her disappearance immediately came to a dead end. The street where she lived, located in the old industrial area of Poblenou, not very far from where her ex-husband still lives, was fairly deserted during the summer weekends, and the few neighbors interviewed didn’t contribute any significant information.

There are, a priori, two alternatives that, despite being mere supposition, must be taken into account:

1. Dr. Omar and his people, including the curse, whatever it means.

2. Someone close to Ruth, however improbable it may seem. Her ex-husband, her girlfriend, a friend.

Leire inhaled. Something in the last sentence made her feel like a traitor. She was very fond of Héctor Salgado. She respected him as a boss, and got on well with him as a person. And she found him handsome, she thought with a smile. Abel seemed to protest from her womb, or perhaps to warn her that it was late and she should just go to bed. “I’m going, kid. But you should know if he hadn’t been my boss, if you weren’t here, and if everything were different, mama would have hooked up with that Argentine.” The baby kicked again and Leire caressed her belly. Although initially it had seemed strange, now she loved feeling how he moved. It was irrefutable proof that he was alive.

Rapidly she wrote one more paragraph.

As always, there is a third option. Persons unknown. Someone we don’t know anything about, someone who had something against Ruth Valldaura and turned up at her house that Friday before she left. Someone Ruth knew and whom she allowed into her house not suspecting anything strange.

This killer or kidnapper X would have benefited from the clues pointing to Dr. Omar and would have had time to hide their trail.

To the point, Leire thought before going to bed, that six months later no one had managed to find them.

Sara Mahler. The name came back into Salgado’s head during the interminable meeting in one of the rooms at the station. Not the whole time, since the meeting was intense and required concentration, but in flashes, unable to avoid it, his mind went back to that woman who had jumped onto the tracks early on Thursday morning. By her passport photo, which he’d seen again a few hours before, Sara Mahler wasn’t pretty. She had a pale complexion, wide nose and very small blue eyes. Central European features betrayed by obviously artificial jet-black hair, which made the pallor of her skin stand out even more.

When the meeting finished it was almost seven in the evening. The inspector hurried toward Fort’s desk; he hadn’t seen him since the day of the incident. The agent was there with Martina Andreu.

“Do we know any more about Sara Mahler? Have you tracked down the family?”

Fort almost stood to attention before answering.

“Yes, Inspector. It took me all day Friday and part of Saturday to find them, but I got there in the end. Her father arrived this morning from Salzburg.” It took him a few seconds to add, in an almost mysterious tone, “Honestly, he’s a strange one. I haven’t been able to communicate with him much because he only speaks German, but all the same it was clear that he wasn’t too upset. According to the little I know, they haven’t seen each other in years. Sara came to Barcelona in 2004 and, from what I understand, she only went back to her country on one occasion, the following year. And her father has never been to Spain, so he said.”

The agent kept the additional words the interpreter had translated for him to himself. Joseph Mahler, taking advantage of the journey, planned to spend a few days in Mallorca, where he had friends. The fact that someone might consider such a journey as the excuse to take a holiday had left poor Agent Fort speechless. And saddened.

“Okay,” said Salgado. “And Sara? What else do we know?”

Fort consulted his notes, as if he feared forgetting something.

“Sara Mahler, thirty-four. As I said, she arrived in Barcelona seven years ago, around the middle of the year. She lived on Passatge Xile, near Collblanc market, and shared an apartment with another girl. Kristin something … I didn’t catch the surname. She’d also been away over the Reyes bank holiday, so I only spoke to her today.”

Héctor nodded, encouraging Fort to continue.

“According to Kristin, Sara was personal assistant to the managing director of Alemany Cosmetics, a company that develops and markets cosmetic products.”

“Did she give you any motive that might explain Sara’s suicide? An unhappy love affair, problems at work?”

Fort shook his head.

“No, sir, but that doesn’t mean there wasn’t any.” Seeing his boss’s perplexed face, he hastened to add, “I mean that Kristin had been sharing an apartment with Sara for barely two months. They weren’t friends or anything like it. I asked her if she’d found a note in Sara’s bedroom. You know …”

“Yes, I know. And?”

“She found it hard to go and look. It seems Sara didn’t like anyone going into her room. I told her she wasn’t going to know now and then she went. But nothing. No note, or anything resembling one.”

For the first time, Martina Andreu, who had been listening silently, turned to Salgado.

“Is there anything, apart from that macabre message, that might indicate it wasn’t a suicide?”

“Quite honestly, no. The most likely thing is that this woman, in a state for whatever reason, threw herself onto the metro tracks of her own will. But I don’t like the message and photo. Do we know who sent them, Fort?”

“It’ll be tricky, Inspector. It was sent from a free texts website. We’re waiting for the IP, but it doesn’t usually help much.”

“Then focus on more concrete things,” Héctor advised him. “Andreu, I know all this will go nowhere, but it can’t hurt for Fort to go to see this Kristin something. And Sara’s work-you called them too, right? Strange no one has turned up. No boyfriend, no friend …” And he added, with his usual half-smile, “Or girlfriend or friend.”

“Maybe that’s why she threw herself onto the tracks,” said the sergeant. “Because she knew no one was going to miss her much.”

“Not her father, anyway,” Fort said. That man’s lack of emotion had unsettled him.

At that moment the telephone on the desk rang and the agent answered. It was a brief conversation.

“Well, speak of the devil.”

“The boyfriend?”

“No, Inspector. Her boss. Sara’s boss, I mean.”

“Yeah, I got that.”

“He’s at the door and wants to see the inspector in charge of the case.”

Héctor glanced at his watch. He was dying to go out for a cigarette, but his curiosity stayed him.

“Bring him in. What did you say his name was?”

“Sorry, I didn’t say.” Fort seemed not to notice the irritated expression that came over his boss’s face. “His name is Víctor Alemany, managing director of Alemany Cosmetics.”

Before Fort could conclude that, given the coincidence of the names, it was a family business, and even worse, say so aloud, Héctor turned and went to his office. At the door, he turned to add, “Martina, tomorrow we need to talk. About the meeting with Savall. First thing, okay? It’s important. Fort, you get to go alone to speak to Sara’s roommate. Have a look at the poor girl’s bedroom.”

Víctor Alemany was definitely upset, Héctor said to himself. Or uncomfortable, at least. He had sat down at Héctor’s desk just a few minutes before and his face expressed something that could only be defined as bewilderment.

“Inspector Salazar-”

“Salgado.”

“Oh yes, I beg your pardon. All this seems terrible …” He gave the impression that he was seeking another adjective, but immediately gave up and said again: “Terrible.”