Antonio Hill - The Summer of Dead Toys

There’s nothing less bearable than waiting for a phone call with nothing to do. Agent Castro had many virtues, but patience wasn’t one of them. So, after forty minutes of chatting to María, during which she never stopped checking her mobile, she reluctantly decided to take the initiative and contact Inspector Salgado. The only response was his voicemail, offering as usual the opportunity to leave a message after the tone. She hesitated before doing so, but finally opted to cover her back and inform him of her plans.

“Inspector, Castro here. I’ve been waiting for your call and it’s after seven. With your permission, I’m going ahead on the Rubén Ramos thing. If you have anything to say to me, call me.”

She didn’t know if that was what Salgado would want, but that day Leire Castro wasn’t inclined to take the feelings of the other sex into consideration. Because of that, and although she knew she was taking a risk, she looked in her notes for Rubén’s number and dialled. A young voice answered with an insecure “Yes?” She took on a similar, slightly nervous tone as she explained to her listener that Aleix had given her his number, tonight was her birthday and she wanted to celebrate in style with her boyfriend. Yes, one would do, she assured him, trying to sound like the silly girl from a good family who could be a customer of Aleix’s. They agreed a time and place for the meeting without saying anything else, and she signed off with a quick “See you later.”

When she hung up, Leire asked herself if what she’d just done would make things awkward with the inspector, and, just in case, she rang him again. Sick of the neverending voice, she hung up without leaving a message.

Martina didn’t move even a millimetre from the door. She looked intently at Salgado, trying to read her colleague’s mind through his eyes. She didn’t succeed, but this gaze did at least manage to alleviate the panic that had overwhelmed her minutes before.

“Don’t come any closer, Héctor,” she warned him, in a firm, neutral voice. “This is a crime scene. You can’t go in.”

He obediently took a step back on the landing. With the door open, the stench from inside the flat was spilling out on to the landing, completely undiluted.

“What did you find in there?”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“Omar’s in there, Héctor. Dead. Beaten to death.”

Héctor Salgado had learned to keep calm in tense situations, to control his emotions so they didn’t surface on his face. They remained face to face for a few seconds, like two expectant duellists, while she tried to work out what she should do next. She had a murder suspect before her: someone who’d been seen with the victim the afternoon he disappeared, someone who had a score to settle with the dead man lying inside, in whose home there was evidence linking him to the case. And above all, someone who lived in the flat above the place she’d just found the body. She knew there was only one option. If he were in her place, Salgado would do exactly the same.

“Héctor, I have to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of Dr. Omar. Don’t make it any more difficult for me, please.”

“Are you going to cuff me?”

“I hope I won’t need to.”

“Does it make any difference if I tell you I had nothing to do with it?”

“At this moment in time, no.”

“Yeah.” He hung his head, like someone accepting the inevitable. The gesture made the sergeant take a step toward him.

“I’m sure it will all be cleared up, but right now it’s best for you to come with me. For your own good.”

He nodded slowly; then he lifted his head and the sergeant was shocked to see a smile on his face.

“You know what? The only thing I care about right now is that Carmen is going to be all right. That old lady is tougher than you and I put together!”

“You’re very fond of her, aren’t you?”

Héctor didn’t answer. There was no need. And that peaceful expression, more grateful than afraid, made the two Martinas struggling within the sergeant suddenly establish a truce, a non-aggression pact.

“Héctor, I’m the only one who has seen the body.” She silenced the start of a protest. “Shut up and listen for once in your life! Nothing can be done for Omar, so it’s all the same if I find him today or tomorrow.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“That I can take a few hours to investigate this case without any pressure. Not even from you.”

He still didn’t fully understand.

“Give me the keys to your house and get out of here. Disappear for a few hours until I call you. And promise me two things: first, that you won’t come near here or Omar’s flat under any circumstances.”

“And second?”

“Second, you turn up at the station as soon as I ask you to. No questions.”

Very slowly, he took the keys from his pocket and passed them to the sergeant. She snatched them roughly.

“Now get out of here.”

“Are you sure about this?” asked Héctor.

“No. But I am sure that as soon as I call in the discovery of the body the entire investigation will centre on you, Inspector Salgado. And no one, not me, not anyone, will be able to prevent it.”

He began to go down the stairs, but turned around mid-flight.

“Martina. . Thanks.”

“I hope I won’t live to regret it.”

Héctor went out into the street and began to walk toward the seafront where he usually went running. He walked slowly, not looking at anyone, carried by inertia. A while later, sitting in front of the twinkling Agbar Tower, that blue-and-red monolith that seemed to have been plucked from a Tokyo street, he realized he had nowhere to go. He felt like an accidental tourist, a poor Buenos Aires imitation of Bill Murray who didn’t even have the excuse of being “Lost in Translation.” No, he was alone in the city where he’d lived for nearly twenty years. He took out his mobile, an act as instinctive as it was useless: what the fuck was the point of it if he had no one to call? To make him even more fucked, he thought, smiling bitterly. He was checking his missed calls when it rang again, curbing that incipient melancholy for an instant. It wasn’t Scarlett Johansson, of course, but an excited and satisfied Leire Castro.

Hours before, Leire had parked the car she’d borrowed from the station on the kerb in an unloading bay, ten minutes before the time fixed for the meeting with Rubén. It was one of the unofficial cars, of course, those the Mossos used for trips when they didn’t want to attract attention. Nervous, she waited to see the boy in the photo appear, and once more she told herself she’d have been much more calm if someone, Salgado for example, had been ready as they’d planned, ready to intervene if things got ugly. She exhaled slowly: it was no big deal. She was only going to arrest a small-time dealer, to ensure his cooperation in putting pressure on the Rovira brat. And she could do that alone, fuck it.

She saw him arrive, on foot, his hands in his pockets and with the slick air of a third-rate delinquent. She was a little calmer. Leire considered herself a good judge of faces and this kid, barely twenty years old, didn’t seem particularly dangerous. She didn’t want to have to use her weapon, even to threaten him. He stood at the corner of Diputació and Balmes, and took a quick look around him. She flashed her lights, as if she were waiting for him. Rubén approached the car and, obeying the driver’s gesture to get in, he opened the door and sat in the passenger’s seat.

“I wasn’t sure if it was you,” she murmured in an apologetic tone.

“Yeah. Got the dough?”

She nodded and, while she pretended to search in her bag, she activated the car’s central locking. The kid gave a start which became a sigh of annoyance when Leire showed him her badge.