Southern Seas (3 page)

‘I was just filling in Señor Carvalho on the background.’

‘I’m glad to hear it. Viladecans will have told you that I require discretion at all costs.’

‘The same discretion with which the case has been reported in the press. I see that none of these stories carries a photo of your husband.’

‘That is correct.’

‘Why is that?’

‘My husband went off at the height of a personal crisis. He wasn’t in his right mind. On those rare occasions when he calmed down a bit, he would grab anyone who cared to listen and tell them the life story of Gauguin. He wanted to be a Gauguin too. Leave everything and go off to the South Seas. Leave me, his children, his business and his social world—everything. A man in that state of mind becomes easy prey, and if too much had been said about the case, all kinds of unscrupulous characters could have come out of the woodwork.’

‘Did you come to some understanding with the police?’

‘They did all they could. So did the Ministry of External Affairs.’

‘External Affairs?’

‘There was a possibility that he had actually set off for the South Seas.’

‘But he hadn’t?’

‘No,’ she replied, with a certain satisfaction.

‘And you’re pleased about that?’

‘Yes I am, a little. I got fed up with the whole business. More than once I told him: “Stop talking about it. If you’re going to go, then go!” He was suffocated by his money, you know.’

‘Mima …’

Viladecans tried to cut her short.

‘Everyone round here feels suffocated. Everyone except me. When he went, I was finally able to breathe properly. I’ve worked hard. I’ve done his work as well as he ever did it. Better, in fact. Because I’ve done it without complaining all the time.’

‘May I remind you, Mima, that we’re here for a very special purpose.’

But Carvalho and the widow were looking each other up and down, as if to gauge each other’s capacity for aggression.

‘In other words, you have a certain attachment to the job.’

‘Laugh if you like. A certain attachment, yes. But not a very great attachment. This business has shown me that no one is indispensable. But then we are all usurpers in the positions we hold.’

Carvalho was troubled by the dark passion emanating from those black eyes, from the two lines that curved round a mature and knowing mouth.

‘What exactly do you want to know?’

‘What exactly did my husband do during that year? A year when we all thought that he was in the South Seas, but when he was God knows where, doing God knows what. I have an eldest son who’s turned out like his father—and, what is worse, who is going to inherit even more money. Another two are probably
at this minute doing motorbike trials on one of the hills around here. I have a daughter whose nerves have never recovered since her father’s body was found. And a young son whom the Jesuits have expelled from school. I have a great many things that I need to keep an eye on.’

‘What do you know so far?’

Viladecans and the widow looked at each other. It was the lawyer who replied.

‘The same as you.’

‘Wasn’t there anything on the dead man that might give us a lead?’

‘They’d emptied his pockets.’

‘This is all they found.’

The widow took from her bag a crumpled page from a diary. Someone had written on it with a felt-tip pen:
più nessuno mi porterà nel sud
.

‘I don’t even know you.’

He had short hair and was wearing a brown suit and no tie. A pair of very dark sunglasses threw into even sharper relief the gleaming pallor of an adolescent face. Despite the lightness of his figure, there was something oily in his manner, as if his joints had been greased.

‘If they find out that I’m giving you this information, they’ll run me out of the force.’

‘Señor Viladecans is a very influential person.’

‘All his influence wouldn’t save me. Besides, they’ve got their eye on me. For political reasons. This place is full of hypocrites. Everyone talks about how terrible things are, but they won’t do
anything. They’re all too worried about promotion and not losing their cushy jobs.’

‘Are you a socialist?’

‘No way! I’m a patriotic policeman.’

‘I see. Were you involved on the Stuart Pedrell case? Tell me everything you know.’

‘There’s not much to tell. At first we thought it had something to do with queers. It’s not very often that a rich guy disappears and turns up stabbed, a year later. It looked like a clear case of buggery. But then the forensic people told us that he had a virgin arse, and none of the male prostitutes had heard of him. Then there were the clothes. They weren’t his own. He’d been dressed in a set of shabby old clothes, second or third hand. Obviously they didn’t want to leave any clues.’

‘But why did they leave that note?’

‘To keep us chasing around, I guess. Do you understand it?’

‘No more will anyone carry me south.’

‘Yes. We found that much out. But what was he trying to say?’

‘He’d been planning a trip to the South Seas, to some place in the Pacific.’

‘But look at the note carefully. No more … will anyone … carry me … me … me … south. It refers to someone who might have taken him, but didn’t. That’s where we got stuck. And why in Italian?’

‘Was it his handwriting?’

‘Yes, it was.’

‘Conclusion …?’

‘He must have been suffering from amnesia or something. He got caught up with the underworld, and they stuck a knife in him. Unless he was kidnapped and the family kept very quiet about it. Maybe they didn’t want to hand over the bread and left him to croak. Another idea is that it was something to do with business, but that’s been more or less discarded. The roughest business he was involved in was construction, and there he always used front
men. Anyway, here’s a list of all the people we’ve been chasing: partners, friends, associates and rivals. I’ve already told Viladecans that we’re not taking it any further.’

‘The police have dropped it?’

‘Yes. The family did everything they could to stop us continuing. They waited a reasonable time and then moved in to close down the inquiries. For the good of the family, and all that …’

The young policeman made a strange sound with his tongue against the inside wall of his cheek, which Carvalho took to be a sign of departure. He stood up to walk to the door, but the dog waylaid him and started snapping at his heels.

‘Down, boy!’

‘It’s a she.’

‘That means trouble! You having her neutered?’

Carvalho frowned, and the policeman departed. Feeling hurt by the snub, the dog bent her head to left and to right, as if to work out which way lay good and evil in the world.

‘You’re very soft.’

‘A
bleda
.’ Biscuter used the Catalan word as he appeared from behind the curtain.

‘That’s right. We’ll call you Bleda because you’re a real softy.’

‘And she shits wherever it takes her fancy,’ added Biscuter. Reproachfully.

The difference between Biscuter and Bleda was that, more or less, and for better or worse, Bleda had a certain breeding, and Biscuter did not. In Carvalho’s old prison companion nature had produced the miracle of an innocent ugliness: a fair-haired and nervous ugly duckling condemned to premature baldness.

He heard Charo’s footsteps on the staircase. The landing door opened.

‘So you’re still in the land of the living! Don’t tell me you were just about to ring.’

‘All right, I won’t.’

Carvalho took a bottle of wine from a metal bucket, dried it
with a napkin, and filled the three glasses that Biscuter had laid on the table.

‘Try it, Charo. The Catalans are learning to make wine. It’s a
blanc de blancs
. Excellent. Particularly at this time of day.’

‘Which time?’

‘This time. Between lunchtime dessert and the first course of dinner.’

Charo fell into the trap. Sitting with her knees together and her feet apart, she drank the wine, taking her rhythm from Carvalho. Biscuter tried to do the same.

‘Ugh! What’s that?’

‘A dog. Or rather, a bitch.’

Charo rose to her feet, alarmed by Bleda’s insistent sniffing.

‘Is this your new girlfriend?’

‘Brand new. I bought her yesterday.’

‘Bit scruffy, isn’t she? What’s her name?’

‘Bleda.’

‘Sleepy?’

‘In Catalan,
bleda
doesn’t just mean sleepy. It also means softy.’

Having contributed his expert knowledge, Biscuter disappeared into the kitchen. As the dog sat on her lap and tried to lick her face, Charo directed a string of accusations at Carvalho. His mind was on something else, but he refilled the glasses, and they drank with thirsty boredom. The fresh, acidic flavour of the wine caused a tingling sensation behind his ears, and the whole of his mouth worked to counteract it. He felt somehow authenticated, as if he had recovered a little corner of his homeland within himself.

‘I’m sorry, Charo, but I’ve been very tired. I still am. How’s business?’

‘Bad. The competition is getting out of hand. The economic crisis has got even nuns screwing for money.’

‘Don’t be so vulgar, Charo. Anyway, I thought your clients were pretty select.’

‘Why don’t we talk about something else, darling?’

Pepe had forgotten that she didn’t like discussing her work with him. Or maybe he hadn’t forgotten? He wanted Charo to leave, but didn’t want to offend her. He looked at her as she raised the glass to her lips. Sitting there with her legs apart, she had the awkwardness of a visitor. Carvalho gave an enigmatic smile that puzzled her. He had suddenly realized that, for all his efforts not to get involved, he was now morally and emotionally responsible for three people and a dog: himself, Charo, Biscuter and Bleda.

‘Come on, Charo, let’s go out for a meal.’ He went over to where Biscuter was bustling about behind the door.

‘You too, Biscuter. It’s on the firm.’

They ate at the Túnel restaurant. Biscuter was surprised at the dish of haricot beans and shellfish that Carvalho decided to order.

‘What will they think of next, boss?’

‘The recipe’s as old as the hills. Before the potato reached Europe, people had to find something to eat with their meat and fish.’

‘You’re a mine of information, boss.’

Charo decided on a vegetable casserole and grilled tuna. Carvalho was still obsessively absorbed with his wine, as if performing a transfusion of chilled white blood.

‘What are you working on at the moment?’

‘A missing corpse.’

‘Someone’s stolen a corpse?’

‘No. A man disappeared and showed up dead a year later. He
wanted to find a new life, a new country, a new continent, a new world … and he ended up dead on a pile of old cans and rubble. Stabbed. A stiff. A rich stiff.’

‘He was rich?’

‘Rolling in it.’

Carvalho took out his notebook, and started to recite:

‘Tablex Incorporated, specialists in the manufacture of plywood; Argumosa Dairy Industries; Iberia Construction Inc.; advisor to the Banco Atlantico; member of the Chamber of Commerce and Industry; consultant to Privasa Construction and Demolition. Plus fifteen other companies. The most surprising thing is that two of them are pretty low-key publishing outfits. One brings out volumes of poetry, and the other a left-wing cultural magazine. Looks like he used to dabble in charity.’

‘You mean flinging his money around. Just look at the number of magazines there are nowadays, boss. And books. If you go to a bookstall, there’s nothing worth reading.’

‘It’s all rubbish,’ Charo commented, as she lifted a forkful of tuna with garlic and parsley.

‘Full of women and blokes with no clothes on.’

Biscuter left as soon as he had finished eating. He was sleepy, and he had to get up early to tidy the office and go to the market. Carvalho pictured him a few minutes later sleeping alone on the office’s folding bed.

‘Or wanking.’

‘Who are you talking about?’

‘Biscuter.’

‘Why does he have to be wanking?’

Carvalho waved his hand as if to erase what he had said, and gave Charo a look that suggested she finish her meal quickly. He had the feeling that she would want to go back with him to his house in Vallvidrera, and he didn’t see how he could stop her. She polished off the ice cream in three or four mouthfuls and attached her arm to Carvalho’s. She got into the detective’s car, whereupon
Bleda began barking loudly and licking every bit of flesh within reach. The drive was silent, as was the ritual of checking the mailbox, climbing the stairs to the front door and turning on the lights. The garden vegetation absorbed some of the lamplight and cast patches of darkness onto the gravel. Carvalho breathed in the air, looking at Vallés far off in the distance and listening indifferently to Charo’s chatter from inside.