Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

“And he got angry?” asked Héctor.

She shrugged her shoulders.

“I suppose it was a rude awakening. From then on his emails became less and less frequent until he almost stopped writing. But toward the end of his stay in Ireland he sent me this email.”

She unfolded the pages, chose one and gave it to Savall. He read it and then passed the sheet to Héctor. The text read:

Hello, I know it’s been a long time since I gave any signs of life, and I won’t insist on us seeing each other, at least for the moment. In fact, I have to return to Barcelona to sort out some unfinished business. I don’t even know how to do it, but I know I have to try. When all this is over, I’d like us to meet. In Paris or Barcelona, wherever you like.

A kiss,

Marc

Héctor lifted his eyes from the page and Joana answered his question before he had even formed it.

“No, I have no idea to what business he’s referring. At the time, I thought it must be something to do with studying, focusing on a degree or something like that. The truth is, I didn’t place that much importance on it until yesterday afternoon. I started reading all the emails, one after the other, like it was a real conversation. This is the last one I received from him.” Héctor and Superintendent Savall exchanged glances. There was little to say. That message could refer to anything, and nothing.

“I know this may seem a little far-fetched, but I don’t know. . maybe it’s something else, maybe it has something to do with his death.” Her hands moved restlessly, more out of impatience than sorrow, and she stood up. “Well, I suppose it’s just foolishness on my part.”

“Joana.” Savall stood up as well and walked around the table to her. “Nothing is foolish in an investigation. I told you we’d get to the bottom of this and so we will. But you must understand, accept, that perhaps the obvious explanation is what really happened. Accidents are difficult to come to terms with, and yet they happen.”

Joana nodded, although Héctor had the feeling that wasn’t what was worrying her. Or at least not only that. She must have been a very pretty woman, and she still was in a way, he thought. Elegant and stylish, although her face showed a glimpse of the passing of the years which she did nothing to disguise. No make-up, or operations. Joana Vidal accepted maturity in a natural way and the result was a dignity lacking in other faces of her age. He watched her, taking advantage of the fact that she seemed absorbed in what the super was saying to her.

“We’ll keep you informed. Personally. Inspector Salgado or myself, I promise you. Try to relax.”

Savall offered to see her to the door, but she refused, with the same impatient gesture that Héctor had noticed a few minutes before. She couldn’t be an easy woman, of that he was sure, and as he watched her walk away the image of Meryl Streep came to mind. The figure of Leire Castro, who’d approached as soon as Joana Vidal emerged, brought him back to reality.

“Do you have a moment, Inspector?”

“Yes, but if I’m honest I need a cigarette. Do you smoke?” he asked her for the first time.

“More than I should and less than I feel like.”

He smiled.

“Well, now you will on your superior’s order.”

Without knowing why, Leire continued the game. “I’ve been asked to do worse.”

He raised his hands in a gesture of mock innocence.

“I don’t believe you. . Let’s go and contaminate the air in the street and you can tell me about it.”

They managed to find a corner in the shade, although shade in Barcelona is a false refuge. The midday sun was beating down on the city and the humidity increased the temperature to African levels.

“That was Marc’s mother, wasn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes.” He took a long drag and blew the smoke out, slowly. “Tell me, was there anything on the laptop or mobile?”

She nodded.

“We’re investigating the numbers, although the majority of calls and texts in the days before his death are to Gina Martí and Aleix Rovira. And some Iris, although in her case they are basically WhatsApps.” He showed his discomfort, and she explained what she was talking about. “It’s free, and by the prefix we know this girl was in Ireland. In Dublin, I suppose. They spoke very little English-the girl must be Spanish-and from what I’ve read, Marc was crazy about her. I’ve transcribed all the messages to see if there’s anything, but at first glance they seem normal: I miss you, wish you were here. I think they were planning to see each other because there’s some reference to ‘soon this will all be over’.” She smiled. “All with very unromantic abbreviations, to tell the truth. With regard to the laptop, they’re trying to repair it but they told me it’s pretty wrecked. As if it was broken on purpose.”

“Yeah.” The laptop worried him. He was going to voice his doubts out loud, but Leire didn’t let him.

“There’s something else I realized last night at home.” Her eyes shone, and Héctor noticed for the first time that they were dark green, at least in the sun. “There’s no way to sleep in this heat, so I went out on to the terrace to smoke a cigarette. I forgot the ashtray and ended up stubbing it out on the terrace, thinking I’d pick it up later. I know, it’s not very hygienic. Then, when I was in bed it occurred to me. What would you do if you were going to smoke a cigarette sitting at the window?”

He thought for a second.

“Well, I’d either flick the ash into the air or I’d bring an ashtray and have it nearby: beside me or even in my hand.”

“Exactly. And from what the cleaner told me, Glòria Vergès is obsessive about cleaning. She can’t stand smoke, or cigarette butts. I suppose that’s why the boy smoked at the window.” She paused briefly before continuing. “The butt wasn’t on the ground, at least not below the window, when we processed the scene. Yes, he could have thrown it further, but I can’t imagine Marc dirtying the garden anyway. The most logical thing was that he brought the ashtray to the window to save him the bother. But it wasn’t there. It was inside, I remember perfectly, on the shelf beside the window. I think it even appears in some of the photos we took.”

Héctor’s brain was working at full speed, despite the heat.

“It means Marc put out his cigarette and came back in.”

“I thought that. I’ve been mulling it over and it’s nothing definitive. He could easily have smoked, come in and then returned to the window. But according to what we’ve been told, it wasn’t something he usually did. I mean the idea we’ve been sold is that Marc used to sit at the window to smoke. That’s it. Not to think, not to kill time.”

“There’s another possibility,” he rebutted. “Someone might have brought in the ashtray from the window.”

“Yes, I thought of that as well. But the cleaner had to take care of Gina Martí, who had a nervous fit when she woke up; she didn’t go up to the attic before we got there. Señor Castells arrived with his brother, the priest, at the same time as us; his wife and daughter came down afterward; Glòria Vergès didn’t want her daughter to see the body, which is logical, so she stayed in the Collbató chalet until the afternoon.”

“Are you sure Gina didn’t go back into the attic in the morning?”

“According to her statement, she didn’t. The cleaner’s screams woke her and she ran downstairs to the door. Seeing Marc dead brought on a nervous fit and the woman had to make her a herbal tea, which she didn’t drink. Then we arrived. And I can’t see her taking the ashtray from the window and putting it in its place.”

“Let’s see.” Héctor half-closed his eyes. “Let’s imagine the scene: Marc has been hanging out with his friends and the night ends badly. They’ve fought. Badly enough that his t-shirt is bloodstained. Aleix leaves and he sends Gina to bed. It’s almost three a.m. and it’s hot. He changes his dirty t-shirt and before going to bed he does what he always does: smokes a cigarette sitting at the window. We’ll assume that he brought the ashtray-I’m sure he did it out of habit. So he smokes peacefully, stubs out the cigarette, and goes back into the attic: he leaves the ashtray. .”