straight away.”
Salgado nodded and waited for the girl to say something, but she didn’t. Her eyes were fixed on a point on the floor and were only raised when she heard the key turning in the lock and someone calling from the hall.
“Gina, angel . . . Are they already here?” Rapid footsteps preceded Regina Ballester’s entrance. “God, what are you doing here in the dark? This young lady wants us to live in a tomb.” Not paying them the least attention, the blonde apparition walked rapidly toward the curtains and pulled them. Light streamed into the room. “Now it’s completely different.”
And it was, but not only because of the light. There are people who fill spaces, people whose presence changes the atmosphere. Regina Ballester, in less than a minute, had transformed a stale library into a light-filled catwalk, on which she was the principal—and only—model.
Salgado had risen to extend his hand to Señora Ballester, and in her eyes Leire saw an appreciative yet cautious expression. “I believe you already know Agent Castro.”
Regina gave a quick nod, indifferent. Agent Castro, it was clear, didn’t hold much interest for her. However, her coldest greeting was without doubt for the visitor she hadn’t expected to see. Aleix was still beside Gina, whispering something in her ear.
“Well, then, I’ll go. I only came to see Gina.”
“Thanks, Aleix.” It was clear that the boy’s departure didn’t upset Regina Ballester in the slightest.
“We’ll talk, OK?” he said to his friend. He went toward the door, but before leaving he turned. “Inspector, I don’t know if I can help you in anything, but if so . . . I’m at your disposal.” From any other boy the phrase would have sounded hollow, excessively formal. But from him it was respectful, friendly without being obliging.
“I don’t think it will be necessary, but thank you,” replied Salgado.
As Professor Esteve had said, Aleix Rovira could be a charming boy.
10
The lights of a parked car swept over him when he turned the corner of his street on his bike. Old, with a dent in its side, the car attracted attention in this peaceful neighborhood of houses with gardens and private garages. For a moment he was tempted to turn around or to speed past, but he knew that only meant postponing the inevitable. Also, it wouldn’t do at all for someone from home to see him with a chav like Rubén. So, trying to appear calm, he approached the window and got off his bike.
“Hey, you appear at last, man,” said the guy in the driver’s seat. “I was about to go looking for you at home.”
Aleix forced a smile.
“I was thinking of calling you just now. Listen, I need—”
The other shook his head.
“We have to talk. Get into the car.”
“I’m going in to leave my bike. I’ll be back in a second.”
He didn’t wait for him to answer: he crossed the street, opened the white garden gate and pushed the bicycle inside. In less than a minute he was sitting in the car: he turned to check if anyone at home had seen him going in and out.
“Hit it,” he said.
The other didn’t say anything. He started the car and moved slowly along the road.
Aleix fastened his seatbelt and inhaled deeply. It didn’t help much; when he spoke his voice still sounded nervous.
“Listen, you have to give me more time . . . Fuck, Rubén, I’m doing what I can.”
Rubén remained silent. Strangely quiet. Like a driver instead of a colleague. He wasn’t much older than Aleix, and in fact his thinness made him seem even younger. Despite the tattoo descending his arm and the sunglasses, he had a childish air, accentuated by his tracksuit bottoms and white t-shirt. No one would have said he’d been grafting for years, first as a waiter then on a building site, until first the bar closed and then so did the scaffolding. He didn’t turn to his companion until he had to stop at a traffic light.
“You fucked it up, man.”
“Fuck it, I know. What do you want me to do now?
Salgado nodded and waited for the girl to say something, but she didn’t. Her eyes were fixed on a point on the floor and were only raised when she heard the key turning in the lock and someone calling from the hall.
“Gina, angel . . . Are they already here?” Rapid footsteps preceded Regina Ballester’s entrance. “God, what are you doing here in the dark? This young lady wants us to live in a tomb.” Not paying them the least attention, the blonde apparition walked rapidly toward the curtains and pulled them. Light streamed into the room. “Now it’s completely different.”
And it was, but not only because of the light. There are people who fill spaces, people whose presence changes the atmosphere. Regina Ballester, in less than a minute, had transformed a stale library into a light-filled catwalk, on which she was the principal—and only—model.
Salgado had risen to extend his hand to Señora Ballester, and in her eyes Leire saw an appreciative yet cautious expression. “I believe you already know Agent Castro.”
Regina gave a quick nod, indifferent. Agent Castro, it was clear, didn’t hold much interest for her. However, her coldest greeting was without doubt for the visitor she hadn’t expected to see. Aleix was still beside Gina, whispering something in her ear.
“Well, then, I’ll go. I only came to see Gina.”
“Thanks, Aleix.” It was clear that the boy’s departure didn’t upset Regina Ballester in the slightest.
“We’ll talk, OK?” he said to his friend. He went toward the door, but before leaving he turned. “Inspector, I don’t know if I can help you in anything, but if so . . . I’m at your disposal.” From any other boy the phrase would have sounded hollow, excessively formal. But from him it was respectful, friendly without being obliging.
“I don’t think it will be necessary, but thank you,” replied Salgado.
As Professor Esteve had said, Aleix Rovira could be a charming boy.
10
The lights of a parked car swept over him when he turned the corner of his street on his bike. Old, with a dent in its side, the car attracted attention in this peaceful neighborhood of houses with gardens and private garages. For a moment he was tempted to turn around or to speed past, but he knew that only meant postponing the inevitable. Also, it wouldn’t do at all for someone from home to see him with a chav like Rubén. So, trying to appear calm, he approached the window and got off his bike.
“Hey, you appear at last, man,” said the guy in the driver’s seat. “I was about to go looking for you at home.”
Aleix forced a smile.
“I was thinking of calling you just now. Listen, I need—”
The other shook his head.
“We have to talk. Get into the car.”
“I’m going in to leave my bike. I’ll be back in a second.”
He didn’t wait for him to answer: he crossed the street, opened the white garden gate and pushed the bicycle inside. In less than a minute he was sitting in the car: he turned to check if anyone at home had seen him going in and out.
“Hit it,” he said.
The other didn’t say anything. He started the car and moved slowly along the road.
Aleix fastened his seatbelt and inhaled deeply. It didn’t help much; when he spoke his voice still sounded nervous.
“Listen, you have to give me more time . . . Fuck, Rubén, I’m doing what I can.”
Rubén remained silent. Strangely quiet. Like a driver instead of a colleague. He wasn’t much older than Aleix, and in fact his thinness made him seem even younger. Despite the tattoo descending his arm and the sunglasses, he had a childish air, accentuated by his tracksuit bottoms and white t-shirt. No one would have said he’d been grafting for years, first as a waiter then on a building site, until first the bar closed and then so did the scaffolding. He didn’t turn to his companion until he had to stop at a traffic light.
“You fucked it up, man.”
“Fuck it, I know. What do you want me to do now?
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