“Roberto! What are you doing here?”
Seeing Antía Freire’s surprised face, he was overcome with a great wave of relief.
The sensation was short-lived, however, because the compact figure of Rosalía Freire appeared at her side, swathed in a padded robe and with her hair tied back.
“This is no way to enter a house, Mr. Lobeira,” said the head of the Freire clan. “May I ask what it is that you want?”
“We have a problem,” was his terse reply. He felt so tired, so utterly and completely spent. “A very serious problem.”
19
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 theTangaraño,” 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 Robertohad 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.
