The Summer of Dead Toys by Antonio Hill Page A

a man of short stature, no more than five foot seven, dressed in jeans, a short-sleeved, white-and-green checked shirt and trainers. Tortoiseshell glasses bestowed an overall air of seriousness. Before Salgado could answer, he put the yellow files on the counter. “Mercè, can you file them, please? They’re the September exams.” The secretary took them but didn’t move from the window.
“Could we talk somewhere?” Héctor asked. “Just for a few minutes.”
The teacher threw a sidelong glance at the secretary and she seemed to nod, not too convinced.
“I don’t know if the principal would approve,” he said eventually. “Our pupils’ files are private, you know.”
Héctor Salgado didn’t move a millimetre and his eyes seemed fixed on the teacher.
“All right,” he gave in, “we’ll go to the teachers’ lounge. It’s empty.”
The secretary looked disillusioned, but said nothing. Salgado and Castro followed Alfonso Esteve, who was walking rapidly toward one of the rooms at the other end of the corridor.
“Please, take a seat,” he said to them on entering, and closed the door. “Would you like a coffee?”
Leire saw a shining red coffee machine situated above a little fridge. Héctor answered before her.
“Yes, please.” His tone had changed and became much more approachable. “Holidays about to start?”
“Yes, they have already. And you?” The teacher smiled at Agent Castro while he put the capsule in the cafetiere.
“No, thank you,” she said.
“A little milk for me, please,” Salgado interjected. “No sugar.”
Alfonso brought the two coffees to the table. As soon as he sat down, a worried expression clouded his face. Before he could express his reservations, Inspector Salgado took the initiative.
“Listen, this is in no way an official visit. We just want to close this boy’s case, and there are certain things the family and friends can’t tell us. Details of his personality, his character. I’m sure you know your pupils well and have formed opinions of them. What was Marc Castells like? I’m not talking about academic results, more his conduct, his friends. You know what I mean.”
The teacher seemed visibly flattered and answered without hesitating.
“Well, strictly speaking, Marc was no longer my student. But he was a while back, for the last year of Secondary and the two years of Baccalaureate.”
“What do you teach?”
“Geography and history. It depends on the year.”
“And you were his tutor for the second year of Baccalaureate.”
“Yes. It wasn’t a good year for Marc. Let’s be clear, he was never a brilliant student or anything like it. In fact, he just finished Secondary and had to repeat first year, but up to then he’d never had any problems with conduct.”
Leire looked at the teacher with an expression of frank interest.
“And this changed?”
“He changed a lot,” confirmed Alfonso. “Although at the beginning we were happy about it. You see, Marc had always been a very timid, introverted boy, not much of a talker. One of those that go unnoticed in the classroom and, I’m afraid, out of it. I believe throughout all of Secondary I never heard his voice unless it was to answer a direct question. So it was a relief when he began to come out of his shell, in the first year of Baccalaureate. He was more active, less silent . . . I suppose being at Aleix Rovira’s side woke him up.”
Héctor nodded. The name was familiar.
“They became friends?”
“I think the families already knew each other, but when Marc repeated and was in the same class they became inseparable. That’s normal in adolescence, and it’s clear this friendship favored Marc, at least academically speaking. Aleix is, without doubt, the most brilliant student this school has had in recent years.” He spoke with confidence and yet an ironic echo resonated in the phrase, a note of rancour.
“You didn’t get on with him?”
The teacher fidgeted with the coffee spoon, obviously unsure.