The Whispering City by Sara Moliner Read Free Book Online Page A

building’s walls and spread into those surrounding it, infecting them. It had reached her as far off as Condal Street, and had gradually tightened around her, crushing her a little more with each step. She had almost forgotten it as she spoke with Castro, but now it was back again, the fear.
    She saw the same fear in the face of the woman who was now entering Inspector Castro’s office.
    Carmen Alonso took a few shaky steps and sat down in front of the inspector in a chair indicated to her by Officer Sevilla. She was wearing her Sunday best to make her statement at the station; she was about Ana’s age, but infinitely more tired and afraid.
    Castro didn’t even greet her or say a word as she sat down. As if he didn’t see her, he picked up a piece of paper and started to write briskly. The other three remained in silence, their attention on the sound of the pencil that scraped against the paper as if trying to tear it. Footsteps were heard through the closed door, some muffled voices and the halting tap-tap of a typewriter.
    Carmen Alonso kept her gaze down. Ana hadn’t been able to see her eyes.
    The inspector finished writing, folded the paper and held it out to Sevilla, who was standing behind the maid. The woman shivered at the officer’s arm passing close to her shoulder as he took the paper. She looked around and saw Ana for the first time. Her gaze asked the question ‘Who are you?’, but Castro’s voice giving instructions to Sevilla attracted all of her attention.
    ‘While I take care of this, go to the Ramblas and bring me what I wrote down here.’
    Ana wondered if this exchange was already part of the interrogation. Carmen Alonso had to be aware of Sevilla’s body just a few centimetres from the back of her chair; she had to feel walled in between the two policemen, who seemed to regard her as just another piece of furniture. The woman remained immobile as Castro looked over her head at his subordinate.
    ‘Don’t be long.’
    Sevilla left.
    ‘OK,’ said Castro, and he addressed Carmen Alonso for the first time. ‘Let’s proceed.’
    He picked up another piece of paper where there were some handwritten lines and he began, ‘Your name is Carmen Alonso Ercilla, born on 8 January 1927, in Valencia de Alcántara, Cáceres. Father, Rafael Alonso García; mother, Belén Ercilla Montero?’
    ‘Yes, sir.’
    ‘How long have you been working for Señora Sobrerroca?’
    ‘Two years, since she was widowed.’
    ‘Did you live in her home?’
    ‘When I first started I did, because Señora Mariona was afraid to be in that big house alone, but for the last six months I’ve been sleeping at my sister’s, in Hostafranchs.’
    She had clearly been living in Barcelona for some time; she already referred to a house with a garden as a
torre
, thought Ana.
    ‘That night, too?’
    ‘No. I was coming from the house of some relatives in Manresa.’
    ‘What time did you get to Señora Sobrerroca’s home?’
    ‘At seven, like always.’
    ‘And she was no longer afraid?’
    ‘No, she didn’t seem to be.’
    Castro spoke as if he were having a friendly conversation with Carmen Alonso, who seemed less intimidated.
    ‘Tell me what you did on Sunday, and what you saw when you entered Señora Sobrerroca’s house.’
    She recounted the same things that Castro had told Ana. The inspector pretended to be checking her statement against the paper he held with both hands. From her corner, Ana could see the page – there was only the maid’s personal information on it.
    Her story ended with her calling the police after finding her employer’s corpse.
    ‘Very good, very good, Señora Alonso. You studied that perfectly.’
    ‘I beg your pardon?’
    ‘You understood me. You repeated word for word what you said to the officer who took your statement.’
    Carmen looked at him with wide eyes.
    ‘I don’t understand.’
    ‘You are reciting, ma’am. You are smarter than you look, and you know that the best way not to