Letters to a Stranger Read online

  ‘The hospital called me yesterday to pick up her things,’ I said, looking at the black bag.

  Teresa followed my gaze and asked: ‘Do you want me to take care of it?’

  ‘We’ll do it together as soon as we finish breakfast.’

  Once I’d finished my coffee and toast and fed Aris, I cleared the dishes and then placed the bag on the table. Teresa dried her hands and came over. There was no way to untie the knot.

  ‘Would you mind fetching the scissors, Teresa?’

  I cut the knot with one snip, and all of a sudden a terrible host of smells invaded my lungs. Once again I had to hold my nose and breathe through my mouth or I wouldn’t have lasted a second.

  A beige blouse and blue skirt told me that while I’d been gone Alberta had lost her perfect figure. Next I took out some black leather shoes, her pants and bra, and finally a smaller white bag, knotted as tightly as the outer one had been. Teresa was barely breathing in the effort to hold back her emotion, and I reflected briefly on the confusing strength of the ties that bound her to my mother. Once again I snipped through the knot, and an earring rolled to the ground. Teresa chased after it like a madwoman, then placed it next to the other items of jewellery we’d now found: the partner to the earring, a matching ring, her wedding ring demonstrating her false and eternal widowhood and a small key hanging from a golden chain.

  Teresa gathered the clothing and shoes back into the black bag, visibly upset. ‘I guess we could throw all this in the bin,’ she said with a deep sigh, not taking her eyes off the little key.

  ‘You guess right – get rid of it and as far away as possible,’ I snapped, although instantly regretted using such a sharp tone when Teresa was so sensitive. I grabbed the key and, coiling up the thick chain, held it out for her to see. ‘Look what we have here. What do you want to bet that I won’t need to break the lock of the old drawer in the attic after all? If she was wearing the key around her neck, there has to be something important in there.’

  ‘I’m glad you won’t have to break into it – that chest of drawers is a beautiful antique,’ she said, surely just to say something. It was obvious she was still shaken from seeing the clothes my mother had been wearing on the day she died.

  ‘As soon as I figure out what’s inside it, it’s yours. I can’t take it to London and I wouldn’t like having it around anyway,’ I answered, still stunned, staring at the key in my hand. ‘What a twisted woman she was, Teresa. Have you ever known anyone who wore one key around their neck and hung another on their cat’s collar to hide them away? Right, I’m going to pour myself a second cup of coffee and then head up to the attic. I simply have to know what she was trying so hard to keep hidden up there.’

  ‘I’ll make another pot of coffee, then I need to finish up my tasks for the day and go home. Darling . . .’ She stopped, staring at the jewellery for a few seconds, like someone gazing in devotion at her favourite saint.

  ‘Yes, Teresa?’

  ‘Your sister’s right. Sell up and go back to London – there’s nothing for you here but bad memories.’

  ‘You’re wanting to get rid of me too? Of course I’m going to go back – there’s no reason for me to stay. But I’ll go when I’ve finished piecing this whole damn puzzle together – it just gets more and more weird and complicated by the day.’

  Grabbing my second cup of coffee, I went to tidy things in my room for a while until Teresa had completed her tasks and left. I wanted to be alone in the house when I finally faced the mysterious old drawer.

  Just as I’d thought, the tiny golden key opened the drawer that had thwarted me on Sunday. Before looking inside, I swept the dust from the surface of the chest of drawers and wiped it clean, then sat Neca on it so she was right in front of me for support.

  It was hard to get the drawer open because it was so crammed full of letters, which were sorted into bundles tied with all manner and colours of string and ribbon. Nothing new, it seemed. I’d already found a whole bunch of old letters up here – the postman might just as well have delivered them straight into the attic. Somehow though, because of how these ones had been locked away and so neatly organised, it made me think they had to be the most important items in the attic.

  I grabbed a bundle and flicked through, reading the details on the envelopes: they all seemed to be addressed to my mother and to the very same house in which I now stood. Turning them over to see who they were from, I read the return address on the last envelope in the bunch: S.G.F., writing from the United States, and more specifically from the Olympic Peninsula of Washington State.

  It wasn’t terribly comfortable up there among all the mess and clutter. There was barely any light and the dust in the air made it hard to breathe, so I went over to an old basket I’d espied in the corner. Dumping out all the old dried flowers inside, I replaced them with the whole lot of letters from the drawer so they were easily transportable. I placed Neca carefully on top, but Aris would have to go down on his own. I was pretty sure he’d be all too glad to leave.

  I headed out into the garden and, passing through the kitchen, saw my lunch laid out on the counter. It could wait another hour – I’d had breakfast quite late. The clock seems to stop ticking when there’s nothing and no one waiting for you. Lying in the hammock, in the shade of the willow tree, I was ready to start reading.

  Taking a good look at the bundles of letters, I noticed two important details: firstly, that each bundle held all the correspondence from a particular year, and secondly, the odd fact that none of the letters had been opened. What kind of lunatic locks away dozens of letters without even reading them? All of a sudden my blood ran cold, in spite of the warm June afternoon. I would be the first person after all these years to read the contents of these letters from Washington State! I didn’t want to rip something that now seemed so precious, so went back into the house on the hunt for a letter opener, anxious to start reading. I found one right away, having remembered seeing a silver one bearing my mother’s monogram in the drawer of the sideboard in the hallway. Aris trotted along at my heels; his water bowl was empty, so I refilled it before returning to my hammock.

  Before getting started, I sorted through the heaps of letters by year: twelve of them, in consecutive chronological order from 2002 to the current year. The first bundle held fifteen letters and the postmark of the earliest letter was dated 22 April 2002; it seemed like the obvious place to start. Carefully, I drew it out from the rest, and placed the others back in the basket. Not all of the letters were sealed after all: the first one had been opened, although so carefully it was barely noticeable. There was a second envelope inside; when I took it out, a note fell on to my lap. The first thing that caught my attention was its gorgeously unique handwriting. The shape of each consonant and vowel was identical – as if all the letters had been learning the same dance for years and were now linking to form words across a fine, straight sheet that acted as the dance floor. All in all, it exuded a wonderful sense of harmony and integrity. The script was written in black ballpoint pen.

  Dear Doña Alberta,

  I’m taking the liberty of writing to you to ask you a very important favour. It may not help my cause, but from now on you will receive regular letters like this one for your daughter Yolanda. Please, please help us to stay in touch by passing on my letters to her. As I told her, I had no other choice but to run away – it was either that or be wrongfully imprisoned. I can only hope this nightmare ends soon so I can explain myself and thank you in person.

  With warmest greetings,

  Saúl

  I was dazed for a few seconds, but then understood immediately that the author of all these letters must be the young man accused of Bodo’s disappearance, and that in his concern that Yolanda was being kept under observation, he had sent all his letters to my mother for her to pass on to his beloved. Alberta, not a person known for her curiosity, had only had to open one to know that they had nothing to do with her, but rather something connected with recent
events not of her making, and so she had preferred to keep the lad at a distance and ignore him, while her daughter had clearly never received the correspondence. But why on earth would Alberta keep them locked up in the attic? My mother’s motive for saving them even though she hadn’t bothered to read them was – like everything else about my mother and my sister – quite beyond my understanding, at least for now.

  The inner envelope said ‘For Yolanda, from Saúl’. I put an end to my musings and opened the envelope.

  Olympic National Park

  4 April 2002

  My beloved Yolanda, my life,

  How are you? It’s only been three days since we said goodbye and already it feels like a lifetime. I don’t know if we made the right decision in parting; I don’t think I can bear it. The world has been so unfair to us . . . I refuse to endure this long exile to pay for a crime I didn’t commit – unless love itself is a crime? Maybe we should wait a little longer and then fight for the truth until it’s over. I would give my life to have you here with me for a moment, just a single moment in exchange for my whole life.

  You can’t imagine how beautiful this landscape is. It’s getting dark, and from the table where I’m writing, I’m watching as the day fades into an immense and silent lake. On the distant shore the sun is dipping behind an amazing forest that covers the whole of the mountain. A few steps from the door of the cabin, sinuous ripples dance an eternal waltz on the water. If it weren’t for how much I’m missing you, I’d swear that I’m in the middle of paradise. But no, paradise is being with you, my darling.

  Yolanda . . . what happened to us? How could our love possibly have ended in this fatal trap? How briefly our happiness lasted . . . I can’t believe there’s a whole ocean stretching between us right now. I’ve gone over what happened in those months so many times that sometimes I think I’ll go mad. But I will be a man and bear it, and when all this is over I will return to fulfil my promise to you. Hold on tight, my darling. If you can be strong, I can be too.

  I hope you can find a way to send word to me, and that your mother takes pity on us and sends your letters on. This silence, this not hearing from you, is killing me.

  I love you, my darling.

  Saúl

  Gripping the paper in my hands, nearly paralysed with emotion, I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had just read. These were the words of a man deeply, even desperately in love. I had the strongest sense that he’d fallen victim to a vile deception, since here he was, pleading his innocence to the one woman who would have known everything and whom he couldn’t deceive. Knowing Yolanda, this was far more than just a feeling. I seriously suspected that she was more to blame than he was. Even though Saúl’s first letter didn’t spell out what had happened in the previous few months, it seemed clear that he was referring to Bodo’s death and the unbelievable fact that all the evidence suggested he was the killer.

  I was shocked that someone could be so deeply enamoured of my sister. Maybe Saúl hadn’t known her for very long and had left without happening to see her dark side, although that’s assuming she even had a good side. The only thing I knew for sure was that this love-struck man had been yet another victim of the cold and heartless Yolanda. I snatched up the second letter from 2002 in excitement, and continued my exploration into the heart of this total stranger.

  Olympic National Park

  28 April 2002

  Hello, my darling,

  I know you asked me to be patient, and warned me that I wouldn’t hear from you until everything was sorted out and I was no longer a suspect, but this uncertainty is tearing me apart. I don’t even know that you’re getting my letters. If you’re reading this, please answer me – there must be some way to get in touch and put me out of my misery. At times I’ve even been tempted to call you, but I promise I won’t do that. I can hardly stand it.

  You can imagine how eternal the days are for me here. I’m living all but isolated from the world, and I don’t care. I don’t need anything except you. I was lucky Dylan offered to help me. Even though we’ve known each other since my childhood in Seattle, and we’ve stayed in touch by phone, we hadn’t seen each other for the longest time. He’s a great guy, you know. As well as giving me a cabin to live in, he’s brought me everything I need so I can start painting and fill all these long and lonely hours. I wish I could . . . No, I can’t – I can’t focus on that. Every day when I sit down in front of that blank canvas I freeze up. I think all my inspiration stayed over there where you are. Dylan also said it would be good for me to work, and he’s offered to get me a job renting out canoes down by the dock. I just don’t know how to motivate myself, when sometimes all I want is to die.

  I see your eyes everywhere. I wake constantly in the night thinking I’m holding you in my arms, just to be plunged straight back into despair when I realise how far away you are. I know I have to pull myself together and start making money so I can survive, but I just don’t have the strength, my love. I can’t find it without you. Maybe if I just heard something from you . . . I need to know that you’re all right so I can keep going and not lose hope. I pray every day that things get resolved so I can come back to you. You see, I’m appealing to the only one who can fix this for us, praying to Him like I used to when I was a boy. Before this, I don’t think I’d prayed since the day of my first communion.

  I pass the time by looking out over Lake Crescent, and all the while my mind races, trying to find an explanation for everything that happened after your husband disappeared – but I always come to a dead end. Who killed him and why did I get framed? It’s completely mad.

  I wonder how long it will be before I get a call from you, telling me that everything is finally over and I can come back – if, that is, I can get back to Spain at all on my fake passport. By the way, this may be a bad idea but I have to take the risk and give you my new phone number. I’ve noted it down for you at the bottom of this letter. I’ll keep it plugged in while I’m sleeping, in case it rings.

  Darling, give me a sign to help me find the strength to keep going. I need to know what’s happening over there in Spain and how the trial is progressing. I hope none of this brings you down yourself.

  Yours as always,

  Saúl

  The world seemed terribly unfair to me just then. I was deeply envious of the passion that Saúl felt for my sister, a love that I’d dreamt of my whole life and had thought was impossible in reality. She didn’t deserve it, wasn’t sensitive enough to appreciate it.

  I stayed out there in the garden for a long time, watching the breeze rippling the leaves of the willow tree, the letter on my chest, trying in vain to understand everything I’d found out since returning to this house with its dark and sinister secrets. I kept coming back to where I’d started: I hadn’t returned only in order to receive my mother’s inheritance. I was also here to untangle the tissue of lies surrounding Alberta and her elder daughter and, perhaps, to give this last victim back his freedom – all assuming that there’d been no more victims to follow. It wouldn’t be easy and there was a lot left to untangle, but I was ready to tackle it. This time I wouldn’t be taking the simple way out, if only to help this poor man who’d been waiting twelve years for an answer. For my mission to stand any chance of success, the first thing I’d need to do was hire the best detective in the country, even if I had to use up my entire inheritance along the way.

  After a light meal, I started work on finding a detective. I needed help with unravelling the mysteries around all the disappearances – Fabián, Bodo . . . and maybe I could even help Saúl, the man by the lake. I spent the whole afternoon researching online, hours going through page after page, forum after forum, and making calls. Something finally became crystal clear: the best detectives, according to the ‘experts’, had little or no web presence, or at least used third parties on their websites to filter potential clients. I don’t know how many calls I made before I finally got somewhere. On the other end of the line I was apparently dealin
g with the secretary of a detective agency, a type of agency responsible for sorting calls and putting clients in touch with the best detective for each case.

  ‘Associated Hispanic Investigators Agency. What can I do for you?’ said the woman, very energetic and business-like, a touch aggressive.

  ‘Hi, my name’s Berta de Castro and I’d like to hire a detective,’ I answered, not quite sure what to say.

  ‘All right. Tell me a little about what you want to be investigated.’

  ‘I’m sorry, but . . . shouldn’t I give that information straight to the detective?’ It didn’t seem right. I didn’t fancy telling my most intimate secrets to the secretary.

  ‘I understand your misgivings, but I need to know so I can assess whether we have a private investigator in our agency suitable to handle your case. You don’t need to tell me much; just the big picture will do.’

  I didn’t have much choice, and after hours of research was too tired to care whether this was right or not, so I gave in and told her. ‘I need information about two disappearances: one thirty-five years ago and the other twenty-three years later. It’s possible that they were both murdered—’

  ‘OK,’ she said, interrupting. She didn’t seem at all burning with curiosity or even surprised at my words, which I found reassuring. ‘I’ll pass this along to my colleagues and you’ll get a call back within twenty-four hours. Is this a good number on which to reach you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, this number is fine. Is that all?’

  ‘Yes. For the time being you’ll just have to sit tight and wait. It’s been a pleasure.’

  ‘Thank you. Goodbye.’

  After hanging up, I had a sinking feeling that I’d made a huge mistake. I didn’t trust this girl on the phone who, after I’d told her something so important, had simply said, ‘You’ll get a call back within twenty-four hours.’ I supposed to some extent it made sense that a detective agency would be extremely cautious, but I still felt dreadfully uneasy.