A Shortcut to Paradise (14 page)

14

Deputy-Inspector Maria del Mar Alsina-Graells, of the
Mossos d'Esquadra
of the Generalitat, was twenty-nine and had been assigned twenty-five-year-old Marc Serra to accompany her on this mission. It was Tuesday, and as one thing always leads to another, Maria del Mar's period had started the moment she went to get the patrol car to drive to Vic. She and Marc were the
mossos
charged with starting “that second line of investigations just in case”, as her boss had described it the day before while putting Maria del Mar in the picture and telling her what she was expected to do. Visibly in a foul temper at having to go to Vic and suffering that untimely onset from her female metabolism, she went to the lavatory to insert a Tampax and take an Espidifen while she was about it, which would make her slightly hazy but would at least curb the stabbing pain in her nether regions. She asked her colleague to drive, without telling him why, and spent the whole journey smouldering in a sulky silence. She found Serra intolerable, perhaps because he was a good lad but rather slow on the uptake, or perhaps because he always seemed to accompany her the day her period started and she was beginning to think the two things were related. Maria del Mar and her husband, who also a
mosso
, wanted to have a child, and it wasn't going to plan. If Maria del Mar was usually in a bad mood when menstruating, for the last year she'd been extremely irritable, worryingly so, on such occasions.

“Anything wrong, Maria del Mar? Don't you feel well?” Serra asked, genuinely concerned to see his colleague looking so sour.

“Concentrate on the road and don't give me hassle. I just want us to do a good job, so don't land us in it and don't speak to me,” she cut him dead.

Serra had landed them in it a couple of times, which was perfectly understandable if you considered how he'd only just joined the force and was still in his probationary period. Thanks to his well-exercised athletic physique – over one metre ninety with impressive pecs – he'd passed the physical tests with flying colours. He'd struggled, however, with the intelligence and psychometric tests. But the boy was from Badalona, from a well-connected family, and as there wasn't much to choose from among the candidates, the examiners decided to turn a blind eye, let him pass and see what happened. The truth was he wasn't performing so badly, except when he had to work with Deputy-Inspector Maria del Mar, because then he became stressed and did and said foolish things. Serra had no idea about the Deputy-Inspector's maternal frustrations, and, although he knew she was married to an inspector and he himself had a steady girlfriend, he looked at her as any young heterosexual man looks at a pretty woman who deliberately mistreats him: with desire and deep admiration.

“You look on the pale side, Maria del Mar,” her colleague insisted.

“Deputy-Inspector Alsina-Graells, if you don't mind, Serra. And stop getting on my nerves.”

“Hell, I'm really sorry. It's just that everyone calls you Maria del Mar…”

The aspiring
mosso
Marc Serra decided it would be better to shut up and concentrate on his driving. The Deputy-Inspector was clearly not having a good day. Better not harass her. If she wanted him quiet, he'd keep quiet, but for heaven's sake it wouldn't do any harm if she told him what the hell they were going to investigate in Vic when they had Marina Dolç's murderer locked up in the Model.

“Mrs… I mean, Deputy-Inspector, at least you could tell me why we're going to Vic,” he asked just as they were almost there.

“Serra, I'm sorry, I've got a very bad headache today.” That seemed like an apology. “You're right, I should tell you what it's all about.”

She paused, wondering how to angle her explanation. She didn't want to frighten her colleague, but sooner or later he would have to know the kind of monster they were after in Vic. She knew that Serra had been assigned to her for two reasons: first, because he'd studied Catalan literature, since both victim and suspect were writers; second (and this was her assumption), because he was as tall as a lamp post with a useful physique if anyone tried to mix it.

“Don't get into a state,” the Deputy-Inspector began, “but there are rumours going around that this isn't the first murder committed by the suspect. Moreover, the rumours point to him having rather strange eating habits.”

“You mean he's vegetarian? That he prefers a macrobiotic menu?” suggested Serra, for whom a jamón serrano roll or Majorcan spicy meat were pure ambrosia.

“No, Serra, by strange, I mean strange. Cannibalistic, to be precise.”

“Fuck!… I mean, heavens!”

“It's important not to alarm anyone, right? We've got to approach the matter with the utmost tact. Imagine the panic that might spread through Vic if this news got out.”

“Count on me,” Serra assured her. “I give you my word.”

Suddenly, as if the news the Deputy-Inspector had given him had hit home, Serra gave a start.

“But we won't find anything nasty in Vic, will we? I did what the psychologist told me and went to see lots of films full of blood and guts, but I still can't get used to…” he said anxiously, beginning to sweat.

“Serra, if you faint like last time, I swear I'll put in a complaint and get you expelled from the force. Who's ever heard of a
mosso
who's afraid of a drop of blood?”

“
Doña
, if it's a small wound… But I really can't stand mutilated bodies or corpses that have been opened up down the middle. I told the shrink that.”

“Psychologist, Serra, psychologist!”

“Sorry, Deputy-Inspector. Do you want me to park here?”

Deputy-Inspector Alsina-Graells had decided they would first visit Amadeu Cabestany's home to talk to his wife. It was half-past ten and she knew Mrs Cabestany didn't go out to work. She hoped she'd not gone shopping or taken her daughters for a walk.

“Don't you think it would be better to ring first?” asked Serra, who wasn't as dim-witted as the Deputy-Inspector thought.

“I'd rather catch her by surprise and not give her time to think… Serra, not a word about the cannibalism business, right?”

“Don't you worry, boss.”

After checking it was the right address, the Deputy-Inspector knocked at the door. Mrs Cabestany – Clara to her friends – opened it immediately, and as soon as she saw a couple of
mossos
in uniform, she looked even more stressed. She was wearing no make-up, had bags under her eyes and looked tired. She seemed to have lost several kilos in a few days, because the clothes she was wearing – jeans and a crumpled, short-sleeved blouse – looked big on her. Her hair was dyed brown but a closer look revealed a number of grey roots. She'd obviously not been to the hairdresser's or bothered to see to her hair herself, so she looked both down and dowdy. The Deputy-Inspector, who'd attended a course on the subject, realized she was thoroughly depressed and made a mental note of
her
state of mind. After introducing herself and showing her badge, she politely enquired whether she could ask a few questions, but didn't seem to leave her any option.

“Come in, if you wish, I don't know what else I can tell you…” she said nervously as she ushered them into her living room. “Are there any developments? Have they let him go?”

The Deputy-Inspector shook her head. The Cabestanys lived in a smallish, very central flat that was modestly but tastefully decorated. In the living room there were a couple of ashtrays full of butts and a number of strategically scattered boxes of tissues. The walls were lined with bookshelves, mostly poetry written or translated into Catalan, while the smell of stew from the kitchen made Serra feel peckish.

“The girls are on a school trip. They'll be back this evening…” she explained as she invited them to sit down and made every effort not to burst into tears. “Well, if there are no developments, you must tell me what you want to know.”

“This is a routine check,” began the Deputy-Inspector, trying to use a light touch. “I know your husband is currently the main suspect, but that doesn't mean we can't find new evidence that could lead us to rethink our investigation,” she declared as if she were quite convinced of that.

“But do you think he did it?” piped up Clara as she dried her eyes with a tissue.

“Do
you
think he is capable of doing such a thing, Mrs Cabestany?” asked the Deputy-Inspector, intelligently firing her question back at her.

Tears streamed down Clara's cheeks again, but she tried to stay strong. Her world had collapsed on her eleven days ago, and she'd been trying to answer that question ever since. Could her husband, who was so sensitive and vulnerable, smash a woman's head in? She should have said: “Of course not! My Amadeu couldn't kill a fly! You're crazy!” But she didn't. In fact, Clara was absolutely beside herself.

“I… would never have imagined he could do such a thing,” she mumbled, “but if the police are so certain… he'd set so much store by that prize!…”

“So you did know about it.”

“Not exactly. I knew he'd been acting strange for days, but he'd not said anything to me about entering for a prize. He told me just before going to Barcelona.” She
seemed slightly resentful. “When he did so, he told me he knew for sure that he'd won and made me promise not to tell anyone. Poor fellow! He seemed so sure he'd get it!…”

“And had you noticed anything strange recently? I mean, were you having any problems, was he spending lots of time away from home or did he seem unusually hungry?…” she asked tactfully.

“‘Did he seem unusually hungry?…' What do you mean?” The question not only sounded stupid, it
was
stupid.

“Mrs Cabestany.” The effect of the painkiller the Deputy-Inspector had taken was beginning to wear off and she was on the verge of showing her foul temper. “We are the ones asking the questions, if you don't mind. Now, does your husband like cooking?”

“Does he like cooking? How the hell is that relevant?”

“Just please give me your answer,” said Deputy-Inspector Maria del Mar, getting increasingly agitated. “Any small detail can be vital.”

“Well, he sometimes cooks, when his friends or the family come for lunch…” she admitted, rather put out. “He always cooks the paella. And his pasta dishes are always very good. But why do you need to know?”

“And is he a hearty eater? Does he like gutting chickens or chopping up rabbits?” the Deputy-Inspector persisted, unable to think of any better way of broaching the suspect's culinary preferences.

“Look, miss, I don't know what all this is leading up to, but—” Clara was beginning to think, quite reasonably, that these
mossos
were making fun of her.

“Deputy-Inspector. I am a Deputy-Inspector. Please answer the question or—”

“I know these questions may seem strange, Mrs Cabestany,” intervened Serra diplomatically, “but we are trying to assess your husband's personality using the latest test from the United States to determine whether he's the kind of person who is capable of committing a crime.”

On this occasion, the Deputy-Inspector gave her colleague a look of gratitude. She was conscious her foul mood had been about to divert the conversation down a cul-de-sac. All in all, that boy wasn't perhaps as simple as she'd thought.

“All right then… If it's a test from the US… Amadeu never cleans anything, chicken, rabbit or whatever. He likes to cook, but he's one of those men who needs helpers, if you know what I mean…” she added, trying to smile through her tears.

“And has your husband been coming home later than usual or behaving strangely?” continued the Deputy-Inspector, making an effort to soften her tone of voice.

“You mean is he having an affair?” The Deputy-Inspector hadn't in fact been thinking of that possibility, but rather whether he disappeared now and then to go down to the woods or elsewhere to prepare a
carpaccio
of human flesh. “Well, I'm not entirely sure there isn't something going on with Clàudia what's-her-name, the woman who acts as his agent.” She paused to smile her long-suffering smile. “You know what it's like being married to a writer… The fact is, I prefer not to know. We have two daughters, and I'm not… I wasn't prepared to break up my marriage if I found out he was carrying on with someone. If it was just an affair…” she shrugged her shoulders and wiped her eyes again.

Most conveniently, the telephone rang at that moment. Clara Cabestany whispered, “Excuse me,” and went to pick the phone up. From the one side of the conversation she could hear, the Deputy-Inspector deduced it was a relative or friend who wanted to know how she was or if she had any news. Clara ended the conversation with the excuse that someone was knocking at the door. She didn't want to have to embark on explanations about the fact that two
mossos
were interrogating her about her husband's culinary preferences or his little bit on the side.

“That's a really nice smell coming from the kitchen,” said the Deputy-Inspector. “Have you by any chance got one of those freezers that are the size of a wardrobe?” she asked, trying to make her question sound innocent enough, but it didn't work.

“A freezer the size of a wardrobe? You must be joking!… I don't know how we'd fit one into this flat.” Mrs Cabestany was beginning to think Deputy-Inspector Alsina-Graells wasn't right in the head. “Why on earth do you ask such a question?”

“The Deputy-Inspector is thinking of buying one and can't make her mind up about which make…” lied Serra.