Chapter 19 Outstanding Debts
Outstanding Debts
Five minutes later, he was sitting in a small room with a mug of hot soup in his hands while Antía stoked the fire. Sitting by him, Rosalía Freire waited patiently for him to compose himself.
“So,” she said, “what is it that’s so urgent?”
Roberto placed the mug carefully on the table. “Someone’s been murdered,” he said.
“We already know that.” Rosalía’s face hardened, and her lips became a thin line. “But it was an accident. Diego didn’t mean to hurt him.”
“I’m not talking about Pampín,” Roberto said, rubbing his eyes. God, I’m so tired . . . “There’s another man dead,” he went on. “I just came upon the body, not twenty minutes ago, on the path from the cottage.”
Antía whimpered with surprise, and Rosalía Freire’s expression softened for a moment, giving way to perplexity.
“What are you saying?”
Roberto began to explain how he’d happened upon the decapitated body.
“It’s the Tangarano,” muttered the man who’d opened the door and who was now leaning against the mantelpiece. Shaking his head, he crossed himself.
“Don’t talk nonsense,” Antía spat. “Old wives’ tales. There’s no such thing.”
But Roberto noticed that the slightest doubt had entered her face.
“Do you know who the dead man is? Someone from the island?”
“I don’t know everyone on the island,” he replied, exasperated. “And besides, his head’s been cut off. That makes it kind of hard to tell.”
“We have to go and see for ourselves, right now,” said the woman. “Come and show us the way.”
“Thank you,” he muttered. “That’s what I needed to hear.”
Ten minutes later, a group of them—Roberto, Rosalía, Antía, and two men from the clan who looked so alike that they could only be brothers—were moving swiftly along the winding path back to the cottage.
The rain was coming down hard, and they were all wearing oilskins, except for Roberto, whose elegant parka—bought in an exclusive Madrid store and more suited to strolling in fashionable neighborhoods on a Sunday than stepping out in a storm—was letting in water at all points.
He was soaked from head to foot, and with every step came an uncomfortable squelch inside his equally unsuitable boots.
When they reached the curve in the path before the body, Roberto stopped and turned to the others.
“I just want to warn you,” he said, raising his voice over the gale. “It’s not a pretty sight.”
“We’re no strangers to seeing injuries,” Rosalía said sharply. “Someone’s always got some wound or another. The island’s a pretty harsh place.”
Roberto shrugged, feeling no desire to argue. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
When they finally came in sight of the body, Roberto had the small satisfaction of seeing all the blood drain from Rosalía Freire’s face.
One of the two men went over to one side and vomited, just as Roberto had done before.
The other man crossed himself, made a sign with his fingers to ward off the evil eye, and seemed about to speak, but Rosalía silenced him with a hydra-like glare.
“This is . . .” stammered Antía, her eyes wide. “It’s hideous. Who could have done such a thing?”
“Have you ever seen anything like it before?” asked Roberto.
Antía just shook her head.
“Are you sure?” he insisted. “No decapitated animals? Severed heads?”
“No, of course not!” she snapped, glaring back at him. “What are you getting at?”
He was silent for a moment, aware that what he said next could change everything completely.
“Your brother, Diego . . .” Roberto hesitated. “He says there’s a monster on the island. And I think you know exactly what I mean.”
Antía looked dumbfounded.
“Diego has the mental age of a ten-year-old!” she replied, wiping away the water dripping from her hood into her eyes. “He lives in a fantasy world! Half the stuff he comes up with isn’t real!”
“Well”—Roberto gestured to the body—“this looks pretty real to me! And the night I arrived, someone left a rabbit’s head on my doorstep, and I assure you that was real too. For a fantasy world, it’s all disgustingly convincing!”
“It wasn’t Diego!” she shouted. “He’s been at home with me all day.”
“I don’t mean to imply that it was him.” Roberto squeezed his temples, trying to ward off a growing headache. “But he must know something.”
“Oh? What do you think he knows, exactly?”
He was silent for a couple of seconds. Finally, he let out a sigh. “The dead man’s kiss,” he said. “You know what I’m talking about.”
“The dead man’s kiss?” Antía shook her head. “That kids’ story? It’s just some absurd legend, a folktale!”
“Well, someone clearly doesn’t think so,” he said gloomily, pointing at the corpse. “The question is, who.”
Everyone was momentarily lost in thought. The rain was coming down hard. At last, Rosalía Freire went over to the body and started carefully patting the pants. She extracted a battered wallet from one of the back pockets and opened it.
“Fuck!” The curse word took him by surprise. “It’s Ricardo Docampo, one of Ramón’s nephews.”
“We have to tell the family,” said Antía in a low voice.
“And although I know you won’t like it,” said Roberto, “we also have no choice but to notify the authorities. This is getting way out of control.”
“That’ll be their call,” said Rosalía, steadying herself. “After all, he’s one of theirs. But there’s hardly any point. In this storm, it’s going to be quite a few days before anyone can get to the island.”
Roberto again looked at the body, and he had to admit that the woman was right. The torrential rain was doing its best to wash away any possible clues or prints that the murderer might have left behind. By the time the Guardia Civil showed up, nothing of any use would be left.
“Antía, Roberto, go tell Ramón Docampo. We’ll wait here until you get back. And another thing . . .”
“Yes?”
Rosalía looked from the headless body to the two of them, worry etched in her face. “Be careful on the footpath. Whoever did this might still be out there.”
The warning, though unnecessary, did little to raise their spirits. Antía produced a flashlight and shone it on the path. The swirling, relentless rain enveloped them, setting strange figures dancing in the beam.
They set off, walking in silence for a while until she stopped suddenly and gave him a grave look.
“Okay, I need you to explain something,” she said. “Why me?”
“What do you mean?”
“You could have gone to the Docampos, or asked for my mother when you came to the house. That would have made sense. But you came in calling my name. Why me?”
Roberto hesitated for a moment. “You’re the only person on this island I can trust. The only person who can help me figure out what’s going on and solve the situation with the money.”
“What makes you think that?”
“First, because you’re clever, and I think you’ve got a good heart. I get the feeling that you actually care about people. Plus, you’re not letting yourself get swept up in all the madness.”
It all came out at once. The last part he’d let slip with no forethought.
Antía blinked pensively. Then her face relaxed, and she smiled.
“Well, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in quite some time,” she said, looking down, “but the timing’s pretty awful if you’re trying to flirt with me.”
Roberto felt his face flush. “You’re totally right that it’s all getting to be too much,” he said, changing the subject. “All that money stashed in the church, Pampín’s death . . . and now this.”
Antía winced at the mention of the poacher’s name, and tears sprang to her eyes. “Poor Diego,” she sobbed. “He’s just a kid! I don’t know what we’re going to—”
“Listen to me carefully,” he said, taking her hands in his. “This is why I had to speak to you alone. There’s something you need to know.”
And Roberto began.