Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

But the night before, Héctor hadn’t only checked that his family was safe and sound. He’d worked on the case of the Nigerian girls. He’d made an appointment to meet Álvaro Santacruz, doctor of theology specializing in African religions who gave classes in the Faculty of History. His name had emerged as an expert in the subject during his previous inquiries but he hadn’t managed to speak to him. Now he felt the pressing need to obtain the help of someone who could shed a little light on the matter, someone who might be able to give a degree of clarity to his suspicions. Dr. Santacruz was expecting him and Martina Andreu at half past ten in his office at the History Faculty, and he headed there. He’d met Andreu a little beforehand so he could be brought up to date with the news, if there was any.

There were still more questions than anything else. Sergeant Andreu, whose dark-circled eyes suggested she hadn’t slept well that night either, informed him of what they knew while they had breakfast in a café close to the faculty.

“There’s definitely something weird about this Dr. Omar,” said Andreu. “Or at least, what little there is is quite strange. Let’s see, our dear Dr. Omar arrived in Spain eight years ago and settled in Barcelona five years ago. Before that he was in the south, although it’s not very clear what he was doing. We do know he arrived here with enough cash to buy that flat and start up his thing. And he either kept his money in a drawer at home or the businesses he was involved in didn’t pay much. His banking movements are few and he didn’t live in luxury, as you’ve seen. There’s always the possibility he sent the money abroad, but at the moment we have nothing. To all appearances, Dr. Omar, whose real name is Ibraim Okoronkwo by the way, lived modestly from his appointments. If it wasn’t for what that girl said-and she could have been confused-we’ve got nothing that connects him to the trafficking ring, or to any other crime apart from selling holy water to cure gastritis and banish evil spirits.”

Héctor nodded.

“And what about his disappearance?”

“Nothing. The last person to see him was that lawyer of his,

Damián Fernández. The blood on the wall and the floor points to a kidnapping, or worse. And the damn pig’s head seems to be a message, but directed at whom? Us? Omar?”

Héctor got up to pay and Andreu joined him at the bar. They crossed the street and together they looked for Dr. Santacruz’s office.

The history department was an ugly, unwelcoming building, and the wide corridors, half-empty in the middle of July, didn’t help either. Doctors of theology were somewhat intimidating for a confirmed atheist like Héctor, but Dr. Santacruz was a man with little resemblance to a mystic, closer to sixty than fifty, and his knowledge was based on a broad foundation of research. His books on culture and African religions were classics studied in anthropology departments all over Europe. Despite his age, Santacruz seemed to keep himself in good shape, which contributed to his six-foot-two figure, with shoulders like a Basque jai-alai player. He was the least likely looking theologian Héctor could imagine, and that made him feel more comfortable.

Santacruz listened to what they put to him attentively and with absolute seriousness. Héctor went over the operation against the traffickers and Kira’s death, and went on to tell him the latest events, although he withheld the beating he’d doled out to Omar, as he did those mysterious DVDs that had appeared the night before and of which even Andreu didn’t know a thing. He spoke of the disappearance, the pig’s head and the file with his name. When he’d finished, the theologian remained quiet for a moment, pensive, as if something he’d heard didn’t quite convince him. He shook his head slightly before speaking.

“I’m sorry.” Uncomfortable, he shifted in his chair. “Everything you’ve told me surprises me greatly. And worries me, to be honest.”

“Something in particular?” asked Andreu.

“Yes. Various things. Well, the part with the prostitutes is nothing new. Voodoo in its worst sense has been used as a tool of control. These rituals you’ve heard of are absolutely real and, for those who believe in them, greatly effective. These girls are convinced that their lives and those of their families are at risk and, in fact, in a way they are. I could describe various cases I witnessed during my studies in Africa and in certain parts of the South Caribbean. The condemned spends days plunged into the most profound terror, and it is this terror that causes death.”

“Well?” asked Héctor, somewhat impatient.

“Absolute terror is a difficult emotion to explain, Inspector. It doesn’t obey logic, nor can it be cured with reasoning. It’s more a case, as certainly happened in this instance, of the victim choosing an expedient way to die, to relieve panic and in doing so save her family. Don’t doubt that the poor girl sacrificed herself, to put it like that, convinced that it was the only way out. And, although it may seem absurd to you, for her it was.”

“That I understand. At least, I think I understand it,” replied Héctor, “but what is it that surprises you?”

“Everything that has happened since. This individual’s disappearance, the grotesque episode of the pig’s head, your photos in a file. . This has nothing to do with voodoo in its purest form. It seems rather like a set. A mise en scène dedicated to someone.” He paused and looked closely at both of them. “I’m guessing there’s something you don’t want to tell me, but if you want me to help you, you must answer a question. Does this man have a score to settle with either of you?”

There was a moment of hesitation before Salgado answered.

“Maybe. No,” he corrected himself, “he has.”

Dr. Santacruz could have smiled out of pure satisfaction, but his expression changed to express clear, frank worry.

“That’s what I was afraid of. Look, you have to understand something. However powerful his magic-as they sometimes call it-is, it remains totally innocuous to those who don’t believe in it. Am I mistaken in thinking that you are rather skeptical, Inspector? Not only toward this subject, but toward anything related to the occult? No, I thought not. But you fear for your family, for the safety of your loved ones. .”

“Might they be in danger?”

“I daren’t say so, and I don’t wish to alarm you. It’s just. . how would I put it? They want you to feel afraid, unsettle you. Remove you from your rational, Western thinking and draw you toward theirs: more atavistic, subject to supernatural elements. And therefore they are using paraphernalia that anyone could understand.” He turned to Andreu. “Your colleague told me you searched this Omar’s clinic. Did you find anything that backs up what I’m saying?”

Martina looked down, obviously uneasy.

“He already said it. Some photos of Héctor and his family.” “Nothing else?”

“Yes. Sorry, Héctor, I didn’t tell you because it seemed ridiculous: something had been burned in a corner of the room. And the ashes were placed in an envelope, along with one of those grotesque dolls made of rope. All of it was inside the file with your photos, the ones of Ruth and Guillermo. I took it out before you arrived.”

Dr. Santacruz intervened before Héctor could say anything.

“I thought it strange you hadn’t found it, simply because it’s the most well-known ritual of voodoo: something we’ve all heard of.” He looked at Salgado and said frankly, “They want to scare you, Inspector. If there is no fear, their power is nil. But I’ll tell you something else: from what I can see they seem determined to awaken that fear in you, scaring you with things you do fear. Your family’s safety, the sanctity of your home. Even that of your close friends. If you play their game, if you start to believe that their threats can become real danger, then you are in their hands. Like that girl.”