Antonio Hill - The Good Suicides

Héctor observed him. In his line of work he tended to evaluate people quickly, and after those few minutes he could say that Víctor Alemany was a decent sort. In his forties, not much older than Salgado, Alemany had an almost Nordic appearance. Blond, with some gray; he wore a good suit and glasses that looked expensive, hiding a pair of sky-blue eyes. Despite the attire, there wasn’t much of the aggressive executive head honcho in him. In fact, as soon as he walked through the door he’d reminded Héctor of Michael York’s student character in Cabaret . A few years older, of course.

“When did it happen? We didn’t hear until this morning, when we realized Sara hadn’t come to work …”

“Was that unusual? That she didn’t come to the office, I mean.”

“I don’t think it’s ever happened. Actually, I’m sure of it. Sara was never absent. Or even late. On the contrary, she was usually one of the first to arrive.”

“Your company produces …?”

“We’re a cosmetics company.” Víctor Alemany smiled. “All sorts of face and body creams, makeup … My grandfather founded it, in the forties, and we’re still here.”

“Tough times?”

Alemany shrugged.

“We can’t complain. Although I fear the worst is yet to come.”

“What exactly did Sara do?” asked Héctor, directing him back to the subject at hand.

“She was my secretary for five years.”

“And were you satisfied with her?”

“Of course,” the other man answered with what seemed complete honesty. “There were no complaints with her work. She never made an error.”

Never late, never made mistakes, never absent … Salgado thought Sara Mahler did everything to perfection. Even committing suicide.

“Did you know her well?”

“I told you. She was my secretary. If you mean did I know anything of her private life, I’d say no, at least not that she told me. She simply completed her tasks to an excellent standard, but she didn’t tell me too much about herself.”

“And the rest of the staff?” asked Salgado. He was proceeding a little blindly, since he was unaware of the size of the company in question and thought it preferable not to ask. He would know soon enough if it were necessary.

“Sara was a reserved woman. I’m not sure she had friends at work.”

And it appears not outside it either, Héctor said to himself. But Víctor Alemany continued, “I think it was a question of mentality, you know? Sara was Austrian, she had a very strict upbringing. There are still certain cultural differences.”

“Yes.”

There was a pause while they both reflected. Salgado began to consolidate his profile of Sara Mahler: organized, punctual, unsociable, demanding of herself and of others; no important family ties.

“Do you know if she had a boyfriend?” the inspector finally asked.

Alemany seemed to come back to himself.

“I don’t know, although honestly I don’t think so. I suppose at some moment or other she’d have talked about it.”

Héctor nodded.

“Listen, Inspector Salgado, if there is something we can help with … Anything. I know she scarcely had family, so if money is required to repatriate the remains or …” The word “remains” suddenly didn’t feel adequate, given the circumstances of the death. “You understand me. I still can’t believe that … It could have been an accident, couldn’t it? Maybe she got dizzy and fell …”

“It’s always difficult to accept. Although you are right: there is the possibility of an accidental fall.” He paused, “Or that someone pushed her deliberately.”

“Who would do such a thing?”

That’s the big question, thought Héctor. From the little he knew of Sara Mahler, she seemed to be a woman capable of provoking dislike but not hatred.

“Well, if you need anything else, you know where to find us. By the way, I have to go away tomorrow and won’t be back until Friday. Contact the company for anything you need.” Víctor Alemany took out a business card and scribbled a phone number. “It’s my sister Sílvia’s direct number. We work together.”

Boss together, Héctor corrected him mentally. That kind of business had always fascinated him: the complexity of familial relations made even more tangled by business matters.

Víctor Alemany was making as if to rise when Héctor stalled him with a suave gesture.

“One moment. Does this photo remind you of anything?”

The image of the strangled dogs made Víctor whiten. He was the sensitive type, no doubt about it.

“What’s this?”

“Someone sent it to Sara’s cell phone, with a message that said: ‘Never forget.’ ”

Víctor remained uneasy, but chose to say nothing more.

“You’re sure you’ve never seen this before?”

“Yes,” he lied.

It was obvious that Víctor Alemany would tell him nothing else. Héctor knew when people were clamming up, and he also knew when not to persist.

While the taxi he’d caught at the station exit advanced as much as the traffic lights on Paral·lel-designed to slow traffic already unmoving at this time of the day-would allow, Víctor Alemany resisted the conversational attempts of the driver, an older man with a desire to talk about the economic crisis and the “gang of thieves” that made up the government. Víctor, who considered himself progressive and who hadn’t the least intention of discussing politics with an old-school taxi driver, resorted to giving a couple of monosyllabic answers and consulting nonexistent messages on his phone. The driver took the hint and avenged himself by connecting to his colleagues via the service radio, so the vehicle filled with faltering, harsh, somewhat sinister voices communicating in a code which to the passenger’s ear was reminiscent of that used by a gang of bank robbers in a film.

He noticed the vibration of his cell phone and looked at the screen, despite having few doubts as to who it was. Sílvia. Impatient as ever, incapable of waiting for the customary phone call. Not enough that she’d insisted on his going to the station … For an instant he felt like ignoring his sister, but habit, instilled in him from tenderest infancy, forced him to answer. “Hello. Listen, I’m in a taxi. I’ll call you when I get home. Yes, yes, all fine. No, they said nothing about that. Don’t worry.”

His own words provoked a feeling akin to remorse in him. “All fine.” All fine for him, of course. All fine for them. And above all, with regard to Sílvia, all fine for the company. He almost laughed out loud thinking how much his sister had changed. When they were teenagers no one would have predicted that the rebellious Sílvia-the same one who shaved half her head and decorated her bedroom with graffiti and anarchist symbols, the one who ran away from home at eighteen to join a group of squatters, who yelled opinions taken from radical pamphlets-would exchange holey tights for tailored suits, graffiti for framed paintings and leftist slogans for others that could generously be described as practical and, realistically, neo-liberal.

A competent executive, strict mother to a teenage girl and an eleven-year-old boy, Sílvia was the antithesis of what she had been. Víctor remembered his father: the old fox must have been the only one to guess what would happen, since he never took his daughter’s defiance seriously. “Give her enough rope and she’ll hang herself,” he said the second time Sílvia left home. “When she gets tired of it, that will be the time to shoot her down.” And so he did: years later, when the prodigal daughter knocked on his door with two children around her neck and no one at her side, the old man imposed his conditions with a simple “Put up with it, or go.” The surprising thing was that Sílvia not only accepted his authority, but rather, probably weary of her previous wanderings, her lifestyle took a hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. Or maybe, Víctor suspected, his sister was more ready to convince herself the old man was right than to admit she’d been forced to give in. Now, forty-five and after many years of voluntary celibacy, she’d started a relationship with an employee of the company. Of course, given that in the new Sílvia there was no place for spontaneity, the wedding was already planned for spring that year. Time enough for Víctor to become accustomed to the idea that César Calvo, in addition to being responsible for logistics and storage for Alemany Cosmetics, was going to become another member of the family. A member with a voice, although not too loud, and whose vote would be merely advisory, thought Víctor. He hoped César was aware of it …