The Summer of Dead Toys by Antonio Hill

building to which they were heading and, given that it was summer, the surrounding area was practically empty. She parked on the opposite corner, in the shade, without a problem.
Héctor got out of the car immediately; he needed a cigarette. He lit one without offering one to his colleague and smoked greedily, his eyes on the school Marc Castells had attended until the year before his death. While he smoked, she moved toward the railings that marked out the landscaped area: another consequence of this new condition her body was experiencing was that, although she felt like smoking, she couldn’t tolerate passive smoke. That place was as similar to the smalltown school in which she had studied as the White House is to a whitewashed shack. The rich still live in a different world, she said to herself. However much more equal things had become, the building in front of her—surrounded by gardens, with grass spread out like a green carpet, and with a gymnasium and an adjacent auditorium—strictly speaking looked more like a university campus than a school, and it marked the profound difference, from infancy, between a select group of students who enjoyed all these facilities as the most normal thing in the world, and all the other kids who only saw places like this in American sitcoms. By the time she realized this, the inspector had already put out his cigarette and was entering the open gate. Somewhat annoyed, feeling as if he were treating her like a chauffeur who should wait at the door, she followed him. In fact, the visit to the school was an impromptu, last-minute idea. Most likely, she said to herself, they’d find no one there at that hour, but he hadn’t asked her opinion. Typical boss, she thought as she walked a pace behind the inspector. At least this one has a nice ass.
They both moved down the wide, irregularly paved path that crossed the garden to the main building. The door was closed, as Leire expected, but opened with a metallic hum after Héctor rang the bell. A spacious corridor stretched before them, with a glass-walled office, no doubt the school secretary’s office. A middle-aged woman with a tired expression received them from the other side of the glass.
“I’m sorry, but we’re already closed.” She glanced toward a notice which clearly stated that the summer opening hours of the office were from nine until half past one. “If you want information on enrolment or about the centre you will have to come back tomorrow.”
“No, we’re not interested in enrolment,” said Héctor, showing her his badge. “I’m Inspector Salgado and this is Agent Castro. We wanted information about a pupil of this centre, Marc Castells.”
A glow of interest flickered in the woman’s eyes. No doubt this was the most exciting thing that had happened to her for a while.
“I suppose you are aware of what has happened,” continued Héctor in a formal tone.
“Of course! I myself took charge of sending a wreath to his funeral on behalf of the school.” She said it as if any doubt might offend. “A terrible thing! But I don’t know what I can tell you. It would be better to speak to one of the teachers, but I don’t know who is here. In summer they don’t keep a fixed schedule: they come in the mornings until the fifteenth to do paperwork and curriculum planning, but at lunchtime almost all of them disappear.”
However, at that moment footsteps resonated in the enormous corridor and a man of around thirty-five approached the office with various yellow files in his hand. The woman flashed a radiant smile.
“You’re in luck. Alfonso,” she said, turning to the new arrival, “this is Inspector . . .”
“Salgado,” finished Héctor.
“Alfonso Esteve was Marc’s tutor in his last year here,” clarified the secretary, deeply satisfied.
The said Alfonso didn’t seem quite so satisfied and looked the visitors over, eyes reticent.
“Can I help you?” he asked after a moment or two’s hesitation. He was