All Yours (6 page)

There are various ways to die.
(Or to kill!)

In comparison with earlier times, it is no longer easy to obtain effective poisons. These substances are also easier to detect using modern forensic methods.

Firearms, although increasingly available to the public, present a significant complication: it is relatively straightforward, should this be desired, to match the weapon to the victim, and even to the perpetrator. For that reason, firearms are mostly used in assaults that have been carried out with a degree of premeditation.
(XXXXXX)

In the case of unpremeditated attacks, the weapon of choice may be less sophisticated, from a simple kitchen knife to scissors, or a penknife. Or any object sufficiently heavy to produce serious injury, such as a hammer, a bedside lamp, an ornament
(XXXX a tree trunk XXX)

Forensic medicine describes as “trauma” any violence inflicted on a human organism. When the trauma is produced by the impact of an object with a regular or irregular surface, on any human or animal body, we call it “contusion”.

One of the possible medico-legal forms of contusion is contused wounds, including within this category those caused by various kinds of fall. Forensics would only classify the event as a fall if the subject was standing.
(Standing and pushing)

When the subject falls from a height of between 30 and 160 feet, this is known as “defenestration” and when it is more than 160 feet, “precipitation”. An unqualified “fall”, and this is the most important point, is nearly always accidental.
(XXXXXXXXXX)
Defenestration and precipitation, on the other hand, may be accidents, homicides or suicides.
(OK, this was a “fall”)

14

The following days were hellish. Nothing happened. How to enjoy the simple pleasure of dish-washing, of sweeping and ironing, when one has something as significant as the concealment of a murder to contend with? How to concentrate on making a perfect caramel, defrosting frozen goods, or cleaning the lavatory? How to tolerate the eternally sour expression of a teenage daughter?

It wasn’t until Friday that things began to change. I was eating a bit of lunch while watching the news on television. I always watch the lunchtime bulletin while I’m eating, but with the sound down. So much of the news would make you choke on your food! I only turn the volume up when the entertainment report comes on, or the weather. That day, however, I spotted a familiar face and turned up the volume earlier than usual. It was Charo, Truelove’s niece, leaving a police station with an older couple who turned out to be the murder victim’s parents. I say the “murder victim”, but the reporter referred simply to “Doctor Soria’s missing daughter”. The news had attracted greater publicity than might usually be expected precisely because Truelove’s father was a retired but much respected doctor, which lent the affair extra sparkle for journalists. Her parents looked downcast and the dark-haired girl was helping them get to the car, amid microphones and camera flashes. She was the only one of them answering any questions. I found myself studying her. She certainly wasn’t pretty. Eye-catching, perhaps, because she was very tall, very poised. Not pretty. Something about her was extremely irritating but, much as I kept looking at her, I couldn’t work out what it was. Until she faced the camera full-on just before getting into the car. The tits on that woman! They were the sort of tits that annoy the hell out of me! Round, firm, proud. Young tits. Although, come to think of it, I never even had them when I was young. Neither did Mummy, which was why she hated that popular adage about the perfect breast fitting inside a champagne glass. I do mean one of those round glasses, not the long, thin ones, obviously. Or are they for cider? I fantasized about this as a girl. I sized myself up. Mentally, I mean. I never dared actually to carry out the test. I was too afraid of a possible suction effect and my boobs getting stuck inside two champagne glasses for ever. What rubbish fills the minds of the innocent. Nowadays I don’t entertain those sorts of fears. But I’m conscious of my limitations: my tits wouldn’t pass the champagne test any more. Charo’s would.

Enough thinking about breasts. I changed channel, hopping among various bulletins and news channels, but all were reporting the same sparse information about the “strange disappearance of the daughter of Doctor Soria”. I felt sorry for Truelove. Not because she was dead. That’s life: some are born and others die. You never know when your time’s up, just that one day it will be. No, I felt sorry about the way they referred to her. Alicia was for ever “the daughter of Doctor Soria”. Of course, she could only ever have been “Truelove” in secret. In my own case, the law had promoted me. I flung off the “Blanca’s daughter” label when I became “Ernesto’s wife”. And I love being called that, I feel it accords me a certain position in the world. My own territory. Besides, it’s good for other people to know that you are not alone, that there is a man behind you, that if your tyre gets a puncture, someone will change it for you. There’s no getting around it – society is very chauvinist. That’s why Mummy called herself “Lamas’s widow”. Even though my father was alive, somewhere or other.

I had to let Ernesto know that Truelove’s disappearance had been made public. But it didn’t seem right to tell him on the telephone. In this country it’s too easy to listen in on other people’s conversations. I myself had learned of Ernesto’s tragic rendezvous with Truelove by picking up an extension. As for crossed lines or phonetapping and tracing – let’s not even go there. I only use the phone for unimportant things. And where Truelove was concerned, we had to be very careful. Anyway, it was easy to go to Ernesto’s office and tell him face to face.

When I arrived at the office, the receptionist was busy signing for a package, so I went to wait for the lift without reporting to her. I got out on Ernesto’s floor. Obviously his secretary wasn’t there, so I headed straight for his office and went inside. Ernesto wasn’t alone; there was a woman sitting across the desk from him.

“I’m sorry,” I said, “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

The woman turned around. It was Charo. She was crying. Ernesto introduced us. The dark-haired girl stood up, wiped away her tears and shook my hand. God I hated her tits. They were even more impressive in real life than they were on television. White T-shirt, nipples clearly delineated.

“I’m so sorry about your aunt,” I said.

“Let’s hope that there’s nothing to be sorry about,” she replied.

Talk about rude! All I was trying to do was show empathy with her family’s grief. Some people are just like that.

Ernesto walked with her to the lift. I stood and waited for him.

15

“Stop crying – I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”

“Everything’s awful, don’t you understand?”

“Worse than before?”

“…”

“Tell me, come on.”

“My dad…”

“You told him!”

“No!”

“Well don’t shout at me, woman, I haven’t done anything to you.”

“…”

“Come on now…”

“…”

“Come on, don’t cry.”

“…”

“Calm down a bit, then you can tell me.”

“My dad’s seeing some girl!”

“I don’t believe you!”

“He is.”

“He always looks so saintly!”

“He’s a bastard!”

“But are you sure?”

“Yes, I read the girl’s letters.”

“Where did you find them?”

“In the garage, in my mother’s secret hiding place.”

“So your mum knows, too.”

“And she’s being a complete moron. My mother’s even worse than my dad.”

“What a nightmare!”

“It’s horrible, disgusting.”

“And to think you were worried about telling your dad about your own stuff.”

“I was an idiot.”

“Now you need to go and throw it in his face.”

“Why?”

“So that he can at least help you out with some money.”

“He can stick his money for all I care!”

“…”

“…”

“So, is everyone behaving as normal in your house?”

“Yes, they’re a pair of hypocrites. They sleep in the same bed and everything.”

“Wow, are they screwing?”

“What do I know?!”

“No, it’s just that you’ve got to have a strong stomach to screw a guy you know is sleeping with someone else…”

“…”

“I’m sorry – I know he’s your dad, but I mean, it’s true, isn’t it?”

“My mother’s behaviour doesn’t surprise me in the least. But my dad… I never would have thought it of him.”

“They’re all the same: they tell you what to do, then they go off and do whatever suits them.”

“Well, I’m going to take a leaf out of their book.”

“Yes, just do your thing, and don’t think about them any more.”

“…”

“Have you got the money together yet?”

“I still don’t know what to do.”

“Look, I can lend you what I said I would.”

“I still don’t know what I’m going to do.”

“But the day’s getting closer now.”

“Yes, I know.”

16

Ernesto walked Charo to the exit. While they were waiting for the lift, since nobody was looking, he gave her a kiss. It was a stupid thing to do: if Inés had seen them it would have screwed everything up. But he kissed her all the same. Charo shook him off. She was annoyed. It wasn’t the time or the place. She was upset. Everything had turned out badly. She kept pushing the button for the lift. Finally the doors opened, and she got in. She kept her eyes on Ernesto as the doors closed. Not saying anything, just watching him.

Ernesto returned to his office. It irritated him to know that Inés was waiting, but nothing could be done about it. He had to keep her on side. The day of Alicia’s death, by the lake, he had seemed to see her getting into her car and driving off. He thought that this must be a delirium provoked by the extreme experience he was having. But seeing how she behaved the next day, he realized that it had been no vision. Inés had indeed been there, she had seen everything. She made that obvious.

And Ernesto needed to be sure that she would not say anything, under any circumstance. For that reason he had to make her feel a part of his plan, a fundamental cog. This would be enough to ensure her cooperation. Ernesto knew that. Leaving her on the margin, however, would be dangerous. Like the cog in some mechanism which has no function on its own. Which, worse still, could force out of alignment other parts that had been working smoothly.

Ernesto wasn’t wrong. As soon as he entered the office and sat down, he could see that his wife knew what was going on. Without preamble, Inés laid out an alibi that she had clearly prepared earlier. They had been at home together, watching the film
Psycho
, which was shown on Channel 23, at ten o’clock on the night of Alicia’s death. Afterwards they had made passionate love, switched off the light and gone to sleep. Seamless stories, both the same. That bit about the passionate lovemaking wasn’t strictly necessary, but Inés seemed attached to it, and Ernesto did not dare put up an objection.

While he was listening to her talking, he thought of Charo. He desired her. Charo, that is. He wanted to be with her. He couldn’t believe how she had changed his life from one day to the next. The previous week he had made a plan to travel to Brazil. With Charo. She had suggested it. He had spoken to the agency and bought the tickets. And that was the beginning of the end. Ernesto had asked the agency to send the tickets to him, marked “personal”. But they were sent to Alicia, instead. As his secretary she took care of all the arrangements with the agency whenever he travelled somewhere. Not this time, though. Because this time he was travelling with Charo, and he hadn’t wanted Alicia to find out. When Alicia saw the tickets she got excited, thinking that “A. Soria” referred to her, Alicia, and not to her niece, “Amparo” – for that was the full Christian name that had been given to Charo. To “Truelove”, as she liked to sign her letters.
All yours, your true love
. That is what Alicia had been for the last seven years. Until her niece appeared on the scene. Alicia herself had introduced them one day at her flat, and they had been together ever since. Alicia never realized it, though. She noticed that Ernesto seemed more distant, but didn’t think that was significant. Until the tickets arrived and it was clear that Alicia had to be told. Charo was the one who told her. Alicia had slapped her across the face, then thrown her out of the apartment.

Inés was still talking but Ernesto wasn’t listening. He wanted her to go away. She was asking what Charo did, what her job was. What did it matter to her? He told her the truth, that Charo was a photographer, that she worked for a magazine. His mind was on Charo. He imagined going to look for her. In some club. Charo was often to be found in clubs, taking photographs. She scoped out all the nightspots looking for famous people to photograph. He imagined her standing at the bar, her top falling over her shoulder, her bra strap showing. A white bra. No – black’s better. She was drinking something. He was just about to touch her – then Inés stood up to go.

Ernesto took her to the lift, but didn’t wait for it to come. Instead he returned to the office and rang Charo. There was no answer. He rang again. The phone was switched off. He went out to look for her, trying a few different places until he found her in a new nightclub, under some railway arches. She looked annoyed to see him. Ernesto had known he ran that risk: Charo thought it dangerous for them to be seen together in public. He didn’t care. He wanted to touch her. His eyes fixed on her. She was talking to some guy at the bar. Ernesto started to walk towards her. Charo said goodbye to the man at the bar, picked up her camera and motioned to Ernesto to follow her, forging a way through the crowd. There was so much noise. And smoke. For a moment Ernesto thought he had lost her. Then he spotted her leaving by a side door and followed her, finding himself in a storeroom where drinks and other provisions were kept. Not seeing her, he took a few steps into the room. Charo surprised him, stepping out from behind a fridge and standing in front of him. “Are you mad?” she asked him. And right there Ernesto pushed her against the wall, frenziedly kissing and running his hands over her, fumbling at her clothes. Charo made protestations, telling him he was crazy. Ernesto couldn’t stop himself. She protested, but he carried on. Until she stopped protesting.