It was pretty disgraceful on his part, but he had no choice. With the plan he’d just come up with, he could see a way out of this whole mess.
First, the hammer, the only physical evidence linking him to Pampín’s murder: If it wasn’t in Luis Docampo’s possession, there was nothing to link Roberto to the murder. At a stroke, the noose around his neck would be gone.
That would put the ball back in the Freires’ court, since Diego would once again be the prime suspect in Pampín’s murder. More than a dozen witnesses had seen the boy hit Pampín with the hammer, and they had all presumed the poacher dead on the spot.
He still had no way of proving that Luis Docampo was responsible, but that was a bridge he would have to cross later.
As for Antía Freire, if he managed to get her alone, he could tell her the truth. From there on, he was counting on the hatred between the families, and the need to prove Diego innocent, to do the rest. As long as Antía believed him, of course.
However, none of this would help him unmask the mysteriousTangaraño. Nor would it solve the problem of the seventy-five million euros sitting inside the church in a couple of duffel bags, but again that was something to deal with later. For the moment, he was taking steps to ensure his own survival.
He felt relieved: He realized that it was the first time since the previous day that he had actually felt a smile spreading on his face. He even found it in himself to whistle a tune as he made his way back to the cottage.
Everything was going to be all right. Somehow, it would all work out.
At least that was what he was telling himself.
16
Following the Light
After a rough night for Roberto, it rained almost the whole of the next day. It cascaded down out of glowering skies. An occasional, particularly violent gust rattled the windows, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. Sitting at his computer, Roberto was unable to write more than two coherent lines.
When he’d returned the previous evening, he realized his elementary mistake. He should just have asked Helena for Antía’s phone number. He could then have called her and told her, in complete privacy, about what had happened to Pampín. But that obvious solution simply hadn’t occurred to him, and after such an uncharacteristic oversight, he had no choice now but to show up at the appointed time. Presuming, of course, that she was going to be there.
Inside the cottage, he paced about like a caged lion. The dampness and cold had seeped steadily into his bones, so when the rain miraculously stopped midway through the morning, Roberto headed out, feeling relieved.
The gray skies had not cleared, the wind was still up, and the day felt far from settled, but at least he could get to the lovers’ hideaway to meet Antía. He had no way of knowing whether his message had indeedmade it to her and she would be there waiting, but the walk would calm his nerves in any case.
He didn’t see a soul. The few inhabitants of the island, seemingly more sensible than him, weren’t venturing out. Or maybe they were all too busy scheming over what to do with their share of the money. When he reached the house, he wasn’t surprised to find the door locked and no sign of human activity.
He waited on the porch for forty minutes before he gave up and decided to head back. When he had almost reached the cottage, he rounded a bend, and a couple of startled hares tripped over each other in their eagerness to flee. He found it so comical that, despite his sorry situation, he couldn’t help but smile. However, the smile was wiped from his face when he crossed the unkempt yard and got to the door.
Someone had been there. Again.
A clear path had been trampled in the long, uncut grass. The visitor’s boots had gone straight over the flower bed to the door, instead of following the cobblestone path.
Roberto was sure it wasn’t his own doing. Moreover, those footprints could not have been more than a few minutes old, half an hour at the most. The earlier downpour would have washed them away, so they had to have been made after it had stopped raining.
His whole being tensed. He wished he were armed, but he had only what was in his pockets and his bare hands. He inched warily closer to the door.
The wet imprint of a boot was clearly visible on the top step. It was at least two sizes larger than his own. The scene of Robinson Crusoe discovering a human footprint on the beach of his desert island burst forcefully and absurdly into his mind. He might have been on an island, but he was no Robinson Crusoe. Nor was he in an eighteenth-century novel, but in the real world.
He tried slowly turning the doorknob, but it was locked, just as he had left it when he went out. And the hair he had affixed to the doorframe was still there, so no one had opened it. It was then that henoticed something attached to the jamb of the doorframe, almost at eye level. He removed it as if he were handling a stick of lit dynamite.
It was a plastic ziplock bag, the kind used to store frozen goods, the same kind he had used to store the severed rabbit head a few nights before. But this one contained nothing so unpleasant. Rather, there was a sheet of paper inside, neatly folded.
Whoever had left the note there had taken precautions to prevent the rain from smudging it. He opened the bag and took out the piece of paper. It was handwritten, in elegant, somewhat old-fashioned handwriting.
Dear Mr. Lobeira,
It would be a pleasure for us to have the opportunity to meet you and talk together a little. If you would be so kind as to accept our invitation to lunch, we will expect you today at half past two at the lighthouse. Just follow the light.
Sincerely,
A. Ibaibarriaga
Head Lighthouse Keeper
