Letters to a Stranger Read online

  It wasn’t quite eight o’clock yet so I decided to read a few more of Saúl’s letters, and went back out to rest under the old willow tree. There was more than an hour of daylight left and the basket still lay there, waiting for me.

  Olympic National Park

  5 May 2002

  My dear Yolanda,

  It’s raining like mad here in Olympic Park – you can hardly tell where the surface of the lake ends and the sky begins. Looking out through my window, there’s a glorious landscape that only serves to emphasise my melancholy and how badly I’m yearning for you. I spend hours staring at this huge, dense, silvery curtain of grey, enchanted by the droplets that seem to rise from the water and float up towards the mountains. It’s like watching the flickering dancing of flames. It’s easy to imagine all kinds of mythical creatures emerging at any moment – I can almost see the elves scampering and the fluttering of playful fairies. But only almost, because the vision of your face fills everything. I see it over the lake, in the rain, on the peaks of the tree-covered mountains . . . I live for my obsession with seeing you again, with ending this nightmare so we can finally realise our dream of being together, loving each other for all eternity. On days like this, when I’m forced to spend hours shut up indoors, I miss you even more.

  I’ve started working down at the dock. Friday was my first day. The truth is that Dylan pays me very well for doing very little: in the three days I’ve been there I’ve only rented out four canoes, for an hour each. My cabin’s right near the dock and next to the restaurant, so the customers just ask the waiters about the canoes and they call me – I’m practically working from home. Dylan has been such a huge support for me in my darkest moments. When he closes the restaurant for the day, he comes over to visit me, and we talk for a while. I don’t know how he puts up with me . . . He says I should tell my mother that I’m back in Washington State, but no, I’m still not ready to tell her everything that’s happened – that’s assuming the police haven’t already been in contact and told her their version. Poor thing . . . I’m sure she’s worried because I’m not answering her calls and, if she already knows they’re looking for me, I don’t even want to think about what she must be going through. I’ll go and see her soon, but for now the only thing I want is to be alone and have the time and space to think about you. I hope I don’t go mad. I don’t know how long I can last in this state.

  Yolanda, write to me. Help me endure this dreadful punishment. Send me a sign that my words are reaching you.

  With all my love,

  Saúl

  Until this third letter, I hadn’t found an answer to any of my questions. It was as though Saúl cared about losing his beloved Yolanda above all else, even the grave accusation that had forced him to escape to the US. It frightened me to see how much he loved her, and to see how capricious and blind passion could be. She didn’t deserve his love, especially not to this extreme.

  I read one more letter before dinner. A photo fell on to my lap as I took it out of the envelope. It showed a young man sitting on a pier with his back to the camera, facing an enormous lake surrounded by lush forest. A note on the back read: ‘Thinking of you always, darling.’

  I liked the way he expressed his feelings, but was even more fascinated to see this figure in front of the lake. I couldn’t see his face, only his body language, his posture in front of the vast landscape, as though he were one with his environment, his long hair blowing in the wind, his arms outstretched and leaning on the pier, infinite . . . That wonderful picture said so much about this man . . .

  Olympic National Park

  14 May 2002

  My love,

  How are you, my darling? Nothing has changed with me. It’s as though my soul had stayed behind in your arms, forever in your arms, while my empty carcass wanders endlessly, aimlessly, on the interminable shore of this lake.

  It’s only about a month since we parted, and I still haven’t heard from you, haven’t heard how things are going in Spain, whether you’ve finally proved my innocence, found a way to free me . . . This whole situation is driving me mad – how could they not see that the evidence was all wrong? I’m so utterly miserable – I’m completely innocent, but apparently the only one paying for Bodo’s disappearance. Today this waiting seems harder on me than ever. I can’t stand it. There has to be some way for you to communicate with me.

  Sometimes I think you’re not getting my letters at all. This endless uncertainty is slow torture. But I’ve found a solution: Dylan has a friend in Boston who’s agreed to create an email account you can write to without any direct link between the two of us. You just have to create a new account too, not using your real information, from an internet cafe, and then write to me through Dylan’s friend. We can’t talk using Dylan’s laptop – who knows if the police will come here one day to interview him and search his computer, since we were neighbours as children, after all. There are no internet cafes here in Olympic Park, and no one else I can trust. Apparently it would be hard for the police to track your emails if we follow this route. If he hears from you, the friend in Boston will call Dylan. The email address is [email protected]. Please write to me, Yolanda – I desperately need to hear from you. It’s been so long . . . and the more time passes, the more likely it becomes that you’re not getting my letters. This is unbearable torment.

  Last night I dreamt of the last time we made love. It was so vivid . . . I wouldn’t have cared if I’d died right then between your breasts – that death would have been far better than waking up without you by my side. Do you remember it? It was on the morning of the day your husband disappeared. Who could have predicted, in the midst of so much joy, what was about to happen? While I think about it . . . a few days ago I found the ticket stubs for the movies I went to see that night – right when, according to the police’s version, I was in the middle of killing your husband. How ironic is that? I didn’t even bother looking for them at the time – I thought I’d thrown them away when I left the cinema, but it turns out they were there in my coat pocket the whole time. They came all the way with me to this lake as a reminder of that fateful day; here they are, right in front of me on the table . . . I guess it doesn’t matter now – I’m on the run, and now I really have committed a serious offence and it would be crazy to go back. I shouldn’t have left. I don’t know why I listened to you, but you were just so scared, thinking they’d lock me up . . . You have no idea how much I regret that decision. Well, what does it matter in any case – I’m trapped in the worst of all prisons: my own mind.

  Yolanda, forgive my insistence, darling, but if you are reading my letters, please write to me and give me hope.

  I’m sending you a photo Dylan took of me a few days ago, so when you look at it you remember where I am and that I’m always thinking of you.

  You are in my heart and thoughts every single moment of the day.

  Saúl

  I was deeply moved by the despair of this man from Washington State. What if I answered him? Why shouldn’t I? Of course, a lot of time had passed since he’d written the letters I’d just read, but I knew he must be waiting for an answer or he wouldn’t still be trying to reach Yolanda. After all, his most recent letters had arrived only a few weeks ago. Even if the response came from someone else and not from his beloved, I thought it would still be welcome news to him that someone had finally replied to his letters. I’d have to choose my words carefully. I didn’t want him to know in my first letter that I was Yolanda’s sister, because above all else I had no answers to the many questions I was sure he’d come up with. I could have called the phone number he’d sent, but, no, it would have been a lot harder for me to hide my identity that way.

  17 June 2014

  Hi Saúl,

  I’m the new owner of the house that used to belong to Doña Alberta de Castro. This morning, I was having a look in the attic and found all the letters you sent to this address over the past twelve years. If it weren’t for your last letter
having been sent just a few weeks ago, I probably wouldn’t have dared write back to you. I just wanted to let you know that I found them – almost all still sealed – and took the liberty of being the first person to open them. I read your second letter, the one you wrote on 28 April 2002, and couldn’t resist contacting you to say that I mean to keep on reading them. I hope you’ll be able to forgive me and that you won’t think poorly of me. And please don’t worry – I’ll keep this to myself.

  I hope also that it doesn’t come as too much of a shock to learn that the first person to read your love letters is a stranger. Maybe you would have preferred not knowing, still thinking that Yolanda had received them. I’m so sorry, but I thought it was about time you had an answer, although I would much rather it was coming from her.

  Lastly, I must tell you that with only four letters, you’ve shown me a side of the world I never knew existed – knowing that someone is capable of true love such as yours . . . It has been a complete revelation to me and has given me reason to hope. For that alone, I can assure you that it was worth your writing them, and I hope you don’t stop. Thank you so much.

  I sincerely hope that your pain passes quickly and you soon find the love you deserve. Maybe you already have.

  Yours,

  BC

  I decided to use only my initials, guessing they wouldn’t mean anything to him. I would sign it the same way on the return address – the address itself wouldn’t be a problem, because I’d told him I was the new owner of the house where he’d sent all his letters. I’d send him my own address in London just as soon as I left.

  I couldn’t resist and went to my laptop to write an email with the same words I’d just written out by hand, advising the recipient that the email was meant for Saúl, the man living in Olympic Park. The internet was much faster, but I would still send the letter as well, in case the email account no longer existed or the friend in Boston was no longer bothering to check the inbox after such a long period with nothing coming in. I hesitated a moment before finally hitting the send button.

  It was all too clear to me that Saúl was just another victim of the wicked Yolanda, one more name on her long list. This time my sister had really gone too far. She never could have guessed that Saúl’s letters would fall into my hands so many years later, now that I was no longer the fearful, timid girl she used to threaten and scare. No, I wouldn’t leave now until I’d won. It was plain to see from this last letter that Saúl had an alibi he hadn’t been able to prove at the time: he’d been watching a double feature at the cinema at exactly the same time as he was supposed to have been murdering Bodo. And as he said, he’d gone to the US at my sister’s insistence . . . Everything seemed so planned out, so Machiavellian and contemptible that it was hard to credit.

  I sat reflecting on all of this for over an hour – it seemed to be turning into a habit. I realised I didn’t actually know anything much at all about Bodo’s disappearance, didn’t have the least idea of the facts and didn’t know where to start.

  The photo showed a despondent young man, staring out at the immensity of nature, burdened with the anguish of endless waiting. Although sitting with his back turned to the camera, he was clearly tall and slim, with long hair below his shoulders; the snapshot had captured the ripples where it was ruffled gently by the breeze. I thought it was a sensational image.

  Suddenly my heart lurched. I really liked this guy – his personality was starting to charm me and I felt an uncontrollable desire to save him from his undeserved troubles. The feeling was both strange and pleasant at the same time, albeit fleeting – the result, I’m sure, of my enforced isolation and period of loneliness. Besides, years had gone by since he’d written those letters . . . I didn’t know if he’d be happy at this point in time to be rescued from the ‘worst of all prisons: my own mind.’

  I looked down at the basket and realised that unless I read his most recent letters, I wouldn’t know if he’d finally overcome his pain and whether time had given him the chance to regain control of his life in that beautiful setting, or somewhere else, without Yolanda. He’d kept writing until a few weeks ago, however, which told me at least that his love hadn’t been forgotten.

  While I was mulling this over, my mobile rang.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Berta de Castro?’ asked an unusually deep, hoarse male voice, with a slightly foreign accent.

  ‘Yes, that’s me. Who is this?’

  ‘My name is Alfonso Salamanca, a private investigator with the Investigators Agency.’

  ‘Oh! I’m so glad you called.’

  The timing couldn’t have been better.

  ‘Thank you. I have a few hours free after one o’clock tomorrow afternoon. Would you like to meet for lunch to go over your case? In theory, I’m very interested in taking it . . .’

  ‘That would be great. Where would you like to meet? Nowhere too difficult to get to – I don’t know Madrid that well,’ I said, to break the ice.

  ‘Fair enough. How about the terrace of the El Espejo restaurant? It’s on the Paseo de Recoletos – you can’t miss it.’

  ‘I’ll be there.’

  ‘Good. Don’t bother looking for me – I’ll find you.’

  ‘All right. Well, see you tomorrow at one o’clock then.’

  ‘One more thing: whatever happens, do not try to contact me. I’ll call you if necessary.’

  ‘OK, I understand.’

  ‘See you tomorrow.’ And he hung up.

  It was a disturbing call. This Alfonso Salamanca seemed very mysterious – but then what else should I expect from a private detective? I was a bit wary meeting this unknown person, a man who almost certainly led a double life, but the important thing was that my plans were underway. We just needed to come to some agreement, and of course make sure he was well prepared for the delicate task that lay ahead.

  It was almost completely dark out in the garden when I decided to go in and call it a day. My head spinning, I felt absolutely drained after sleeping so poorly the night before. I cooked an omelette for dinner, and sliced an apple for dessert. Finally in bed with Aris and Neca, I fell asleep almost instantly.

  Chapter 8

  Wednesday, 18 June 2014

  Teresa had already gone for the day; the kitchen was tidy and the dirty clothes I’d worn since my arrival in Madrid were hung up in the laundry room. I had a feeling that for some reason she hadn’t wanted to see me this morning. When I went out into the garden I found the photo and the letters I’d read the day before back in the basket, which she’d put on the table so it wouldn’t get wet while she was watering. Teresa must have been as surprised to see them as I had been. Had she maybe even taken a peek at the letters that were already open? All these years later I was seeing a very different side to Teresa, which I’d never noticed over the nineteen years when I’d seen her every day. I don’t know why exactly, but more and more I was noticing the similarities between her and the housekeepers who play such a prominent part in films about murder, mystery and suspense. The very idea of her having some connection with the shady activities of my mother and sister made my hair stand on end. On the other hand, it wasn’t that far-fetched that the faithful servant knew much more than she let on – she’d spent her life under Alberta’s command and had even lived with us for a time. And yet she always seemed so unaware of all the family conflicts . . . If she wasn’t, she was doing a terrific job at seeming to hold herself apart from any of her mistress’s personal affairs.

  I brought the basket of letters inside and had breakfast with Aris – coffee and little muffins for me, milk with no sugar or coffee for him, though he didn’t turn down a small piece of muffin. Then I took a shower, got dressed, threw the letter I’d written in my bag and set off for my intriguing appointment.

  By half past twelve I’d left my car in the public car park on the Paseo de Recoletos, and five minutes later was seated on the terrace of El Espejo with a glass of beer in front of me.

  The morning was f
resh and warm. A few of the tables around me were occupied, mostly by well-dressed men and women who looked as though they’d just dropped by from work to snatch a quick bite. Two older ladies sat surrounded by shopping bags at a nearby table, shamelessly criticising their daughters-in-law, discussing intently how they weren’t remotely worthy of their darling sons. I checked my watch constantly, every fifteen seconds at the most. Two minutes before one, I was startled to hear a familiar voice behind me.

  ‘Berta de Castro?’

  ‘Yes, that’s me. You must be Alfonso Salamanca.’

  ‘The very same. If I may?’ he said, before taking the seat across from me and extending his hand.

  The waiter came over at once, and my companion asked for a beer and the menu to find something to nibble on.

  In all honesty, my initial reaction was one of disappointment. He must have been nearly fifty, around middle height for a man, and pretty overweight. His appearance was generally sloppy, with grubby jeans, a badly wrinkled checked shirt, and shoes that appeared never to have had the benefit of a good brush and polish. Though his hair was clean and shiny, he needed a good cut and seriously taking in hand. Thankfully, the shrewdness of his gaze and the clean smell of his expensive soap were a little more reassuring. In return, however, I noticed that he was pleasantly surprised at my own appearance. We women can sense these things.

  He ordered a few tapas for us to share and launched straight into the conversation. ‘OK, first of all you should know that my fee is five hundred euros a day for exclusive attention. That’s how I work – it’s a mistake to mix cases. As I said on the phone, I have two hours free for this meeting today. They’re on the house, but after three o’clock you’re paying.’

  I was stunned. That was a lot of money. If this man, a total stranger, dragged the investigation out, he could deprive me of all my inheritance, my savings and even my restaurant.