Free The Hermit by Thomas Rydahl

high tide, but no water gushed in, and no one in Cotillo saw the car when it arrived. If only we’d had some dogs. They’ve got dogs on Tenerife, but it takes a day and a half to get them over here, and by then it would’ve been too late.
    – What if the mum and dad left the country?
    – We’ve searched all departures. No one has arrived with a child and left without one. The absolute worst part is the autopsy report… Bernal walks over to the photograph of the boy. He points at the region around his eyes, the blackened area. – Lorenzo estimated that the boy was starved to death, two to three days before the car was abandoned on the beach. Before… Before they left him in a cardboard box. The autopsy report also determined that he was around twelve weeks old. When we found him, we all thought he was a newborn, because he was so thin and tiny. We’ve called all the delivery rooms and doctors on the island, and all young mothers with boys ranging from one month old to five months. One hundred and eighty-seven mothers in all. All the babies were accounted for. We’ve spoken with a number of fathers, too. We got a few leads, but nothing that took us anywhere.
    Erhard can’t look at the photograph any more. – How can someone abandon a child? he says.
    Bernal looks even more tired now. – In the end, we had to bury him. Yesterday morning. East of Morro Jable, Playa del Matorral. A fucking Bobcat dug a hole the size of a microwave oven. We did it quickly to avoid media attention. We were afraid journalists would come out and see the small coffin. Do you know how creepy that is? I thought of my own 3-year-old boy. There’s something all wrong about burying children that small.
    – Are you still working on the case?
    Bernal gives him a look. – Only because the press has begun writing about it. They’ve found out there was a dead boy in the car. They don’t know anything more than that. The higher-ups don’t wish to have another Madeleine on their hands. That’s the only thing they say. Bad PR won’t help the tourist industry, which is already in the dumps. I shouldn’t get you too involved – we’ve got something. A local angle.
    – What does that mean?
    Bernal turns his back to Erhard as he speaks. – A local angle. An islander, a suspect.
    Erhard doesn’t understand. – If you’ve resolved the case, why am I here? Why are you wasting my time?
    – It’s not a waste. We need to examine everything. Now we’re just more certain. We’re barking up the wrong tree with that box. Bernal shakes Erhard’s hand. His is the warm hand of someone who spends the bulk of his time in an office. And then he follows Erhard out, down the hallway, and into the dark hall, which is kept cool by the massive stones in the masonry.
    – Let me know if there’s anything else I can do, Erhard says.
    – Will do. Bernal pauses at the heavy oak doors that are difficult to nudge open. Through the small glass in the door he gives Erhard one final glance.
    Erhard walks to his car, feeling the evening sun irritatingly insistent against his back. He needs water. He has a bad feeling.
    It’s one thing to hear about the police’s strange methods, their nepotism, corruption, brutality, rape of detainees, and the alcoholism within its ranks – but it’s another thing entirely to experience it firsthand. He’s met plenty of inebriated policemen, having ferried them home to shrieking girlfriends or sobbing wives, but it’s appalling to see a case being evaluated and solved on a policeman’s desk.
    He finds a warm bottle of water in the boot and sits in the car for some time before starting the engine. How random and harsh is life that a child can be born into such complete neglect. First by its parents, then by the system, and finally in death: a deep, black hole that sucks everything into it. He dreads to think of the outcome of the case. He dreads to think what awaits.

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    ‌THE WHORE
    ‌14 January–21 January

21
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