Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

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London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2017

Copyright © Dolores Redondo 2014

Translation copyright © Nick Caistor and Lorenza García 2017

Dolores Redondo asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

Originally published in 2014 by Ediciones Destino,

Spain, as Ofrenda a la tormenta

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photographs © Wojciech Zwolinski/Arcangel Images (statue), Shutterstock.com (other images)

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

This is entirely a work of fiction. Any references to real people, living or dead, real events, businesses, organizations and localities are intended only to give the fiction a sense of reality and authenticity. All names, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books

Ebook Edition © AUGUST 2017 ISBN: 9780008165550

Source ISBN: 9780008165543

Version: 2018-04-20

Dedication

For Eduardo, as with everything I do.

For my aunt Angela and all the proud women in my family, who have always done what had to be done.

And above all, for Ainara.

I cannot bring you justice, but at least I shall remember your name.

‘It is never too late, Dorian. Let us kneel down, and try if we cannot remember a prayer.’

‘Those words mean nothing to me now.’

The Picture of Dorian Gray, Oscar Wilde

‘All things that have a name exist.’

A popular Baztan belief, recorded by José Miguel de Barandiarán in Brujería y brujas

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Footnotes

Author’s Note

Acknowledgements

Keep Reading …

About the Author

Also by Dolores Redondo

About the Publisher

1

The lamp on the bedside table cast a warm, pink glow over the room, taking on different tones as it shone through the fairy patterns on its glass shade. From the shelf, a collection of stuffed toys gazed with beady eyes at the intruder silently gazing at the sleeping child. The intruder could hear the murmur of the television in the adjacent room, and the heavy breathing of the woman asleep on the sofa, lit by the screen’s cold light. The intruder’s eyes slid over the room, captivated by the moment, drinking in every detail, as though wanting to preserve that instant, transform it into a memento to be cherished forever. Eager but calm, the figure memorised the gentle pattern of the wallpaper, the framed photographs, the travel bag containing the little girl’s nappies and clothes, and then focused on the cot. A feeling akin to intoxication overcame the intruder, accompanied by nausea in the pit of the stomach. The baby was lying on her back, dressed in a pair of flannel pyjamas, a flowered bedspread drawn up to her waist. The intruder pulled the bedspread back, wanting to see all of her. The baby sighed in her sleep; a tiny thread of saliva trickled from her pink lips, leaving a damp patch on her cheek. The chubby hands, splayed out either side of her head, quivered a few times then relaxed once again. Reacting to the sight, the intruder sighed, overcome by a fleeting wave of tenderness. Picking up the soft toy sitting at the foot of the cot like a silent guardian, the intruder was vaguely aware of the care someone had taken to place it there. It was a polar bear, with small black eyes and a bulging stomach. An incongruous red ribbon fastened about its neck hung down to its hind legs. The intruder stroked the polar bear’s head, enjoying its softness, then, nose pressed into the furry belly, inhaled the sweet aroma of the expensive new toy.

Pulse racing, skin beading with sweat, the intruder began to perspire. Suddenly infuriated, the intruder held the toy at arm’s length, then thrust it down over the baby’s nose and mouth. After that, it was simply a matter of pressing it.

The tiny hands flailed in the air, one of her little fingers brushing the intruder’s wrist. An instant later, she fell into what seemed like a deep, restorative sleep. Her muscles relaxed, and her starfish hands lay on the sheets once more.

The intruder pulled the toy away and looked at the little girl’s face. There was no sign that she had suffered, apart from a red mark between the eyebrows, caused by the polar bear’s nose. The light in her face was snuffed out, and the sensation of gazing upon an empty receptacle intensified as the intruder raised the toy, and inhaled once again the little girl’s aroma, now enriched by her escaping soul. The scent was so powerful and sweet that the intruder’s eyes filled with tears. With a sigh of gratitude, the killer straightened the polar bear’s ribbon before replacing it at the foot of the cot.

Seized by a sense of urgency, as though suddenly aware of lingering too long, the intruder fled, turning only once to look back. The glow from the lamp seemed to gleam in the eyes of the other eleven furry animals as they peered down in horror from the shelf.

2

Amaia had been watching the house for twenty minutes from her car. With the engine switched off and the windows closed against the steady drizzle, condensation had formed on the windows, blurring the contours of the building with the dark shutters.

Presently, a small car pulled up outside the front door. A young man stepped out, opened his umbrella, and leaned over the dashboard to pick up a notebook, which he glanced at before tossing it back in the car. Then he went to the boot, retrieved a flat package and walked up to the house.

Amaia drew level with him just as he rang the doorbell.

‘Excuse me, who are you?’

‘Social services, we deliver this gentleman’s meals every day,’ he replied, indicating the plastic tray in his hand. ‘He’s housebound, and has no one else to take care of him. Are you a relative?’ he enquired hopefully.

‘No,’ she replied. ‘Navarre police.’

‘Ah,’ he said, losing interest.

He rang the bell again, then, leaning close to the door, shouted:

‘Señor Yáñez. It’s Mikel. From social services. Remember me? I’ve brought your lun—’

Before he could finish his sentence, the door swung open, and Yáñez’s wrinkled, grey face appeared.

‘I remember you, I’m not senile, you know … Or deaf,’ he replied, irritated.

‘Of course not, Señor Yáñez,’ said Mikel, smiling as he brushed past him into the house.

Amaia fumbled for her badge to show Yáñez.

‘There’s no need,’ he said, recognising her and moving aside to let her pass.

Over his corduroy trousers and woollen sweater, Yáñez wore a thick dressing gown, the colour of which Amaia couldn’t make out in the gloomy house. She followed Yáñez down the corridor to the kitchen, where a fluorescent light bulb flickered before coming on.

‘Señor Yáñez!’ the young man exclaimed in an over-loud voice. ‘You didn’t eat your supper last night!’ He was standing by the open fridge, exchanging food trays wrapped in cling film. ‘I’ll have to log that in my report, you know. Don’t go blaming me if the doctor tells you off,’ he added, as if speaking to a child.

‘Log it wherever you want,’ muttered Yáñez.

‘Didn’t you like the fish in tomato sauce?’ Mikel went on, ignoring his reply. ‘Today you’ve got stewed meat and chickpeas, with yoghurt for pudding, and soup, omelette and sponge cake for supper.’ He spun round holding the untouched supper tray, then crouched under the sink, tied a knot in a small rubbish bag containing only a few discarded wrappings, and started towards the door. Pausing next to Yáñez, he addressed him once more in an over-loud voice: ‘All done, Señor Yáñez, bon appetit, until tomorrow.’ Then he turned to leave, nodding to Amaia on the way out.

Yáñez waited until he heard the front door close before speaking.

‘What do you make of that? And today he stayed longer than usual. Normally he can’t get away quick enough,’ he added, turning out the kitchen light, and leaving Amaia to make her way to the sitting room in semi-darkness. ‘This house gives him the creeps. And I don’t blame him, it’s like visiting a cemetery.’

A sheet, two thick blankets and a pillow lay partially draped over the brown velvet sofa. Amaia assumed that Yáñez not only slept, but lived in this one room. Amid the gloom, she could see what looked like crumbs on the blankets and an orangish stain, possibly egg yolk. Amaia studied Yáñez as he sat down and leaned back against the pillow. A month had gone by since she’d interviewed him at the police station. He was awaiting trial under house arrest because of his age. He had lost weight, and his hard, suspicious expression had sharpened, giving him the air of an eccentric hermit. His hair was well kept, and he was clean-shaven, but Amaia wondered how long he’d been wearing the pyjama top showing beneath his sweater. The house was freezing, and clearly hadn’t been heated for days. Opposite the sofa, in front of the empty hearth, a flat-screen TV cast a cold, blue light over the room.

‘May I open the shutters?’ asked Amaia.

‘If you insist, but leave them as they were before you go.’

She nodded, pushing open the wooden panels to allow the gloomy Baztán light to seep through. When she turned around, Yáñez was staring at the television.

‘Señor Yáñez.’

The man continued gazing at the screen as if she wasn’t there.

‘Señor Yáñez …’

He glanced at her, irritated.

‘I’d like to …’ she began, motioning towards the corridor. ‘I’d like to have a look round.’

‘Go ahead,’ he said, with a wave of his hand. ‘Look all you like, just don’t touch anything. After the police were here, the place was a mess. It took me ages to put everything back the way it was.’

‘Of course.’

‘I trust you’ll be as considerate as the officer who called yesterday.’

‘A police officer came here yesterday?’ she said, surprised.

‘Yes, a nice lad. He even made me a cup of coffee.’

Besides the kitchen and sitting room, Yáñez’s bungalow boasted three bedrooms and a largish bathroom. Amaia opened the cupboards, checking the shelves, which were crowded with shaving things, toilet rolls and a few bottles of medicine. The double bed in the main bedroom looked as if it hadn’t been slept in recently. Draped over it was a floral bedspread that matched the curtains, bleached by years of sunlight. Judging by the vases of garish plastic flowers and the crocheted doilies adorning the chest of drawers and bedside tables, the room had been lovingly decorated in the seventies by Señora Yáñez, and preserved intact by her husband. It was like looking at a display in an ethnographic museum.

The second bedroom was empty, save for an old sewing machine standing next to a wicker basket beneath the window. She remembered it from the inventory in the report. Even so, she removed the cover to examine the spools of cotton, recognising a less faded version of the curtain colour in the main bedroom. The third bedroom had been referred to in the inventory as ‘the boy’s room’, and it was exactly that: the bedroom of a ten- or eleven-year-old boy. The single bed with its pristine white bedspread; the shelves lined with children’s books, a series she recalled having read herself; toys, mostly model ships and aeroplanes, as well as a collection of toy cars, all carefully aligned, and without a speck of dust on them. On the back of the door was a poster of a classic vintage Ferrari, and on the desk some old school textbooks, and a bundle of football cards tied with a rubber band. As she picked them up, she saw that the degraded rubber had stuck to the faded cards. She put them back, mentally comparing the cold bedroom to Berasategui’s flat in Pamplona.

There were two other rooms in the house, plus a small utility area and a well-stocked woodshed where Yáñez kept his gardening tools and some boxes of potatoes and onions. Over in a corner, Amaia noticed an unlit boiler.

She picked up one of the dining chairs, and placed it between Yáñez and the television.

‘I’d like to ask you a few questions.’

He used the remote beside him to switch off the TV. Then he stared at her in silence, waiting with that same look of anger and resentment he’d directed at Amaia the first time they met.

‘Tell me about your son.’

The man shrugged.

‘What sort of relationship did you have?’

‘He’s a good son,’ Yáñez replied, too quickly. ‘He did everything you’d expect a good son to do.’

‘Such as?’

This time Yáñez had to give it some thought.

‘Well, he gave me money … sometimes he did the shopping, bought me food – that sort of thing.’

‘That’s not what I’ve been hearing. People in the village say that after your wife died, you packed your son off to school abroad, and that he didn’t show his face around here for years.’

‘He was studying. He was a good student, he did two degrees, and a masters, he’s one of the top psychiatrists at his clinic …’

‘When did he start visiting you more frequently?’

‘I don’t know, about a year ago.’

‘Did he ever bring anything other than food? Something he kept here, or that he asked you to keep for him somewhere else?’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’ve looked over the house,’ she said, glancing about. ‘It’s spotless.’

‘I have to keep it clean.’

I understand. You keep it clean for your son.’

‘No, for my wife. Everything is exactly the way it was when she left …’ Yáñez’s face twisted into a grimace of pain and grief. He remained that way for a few seconds, not making a sound. Amaia realised he was crying when she saw the tears roll down his cheeks.

‘That’s the least I could do; everything else I did was wrong.’

Yáñez’s eyes danced from one object to another, as if he were searching for an answer hidden among the faded ornaments standing on doilies and side tables, until he met Amaia’s gaze. He grasped the edge of the blanket, lifting it in front of his face for a few seconds, then flinging it aside, as though disgusted with himself for having cried in front of her. Amaia felt certain the conversation would end there, but then Yáñez reached behind the pillow he was leaning against and pulled out a framed photograph. He gazed at the image as if spellbound, then passed it to her. Yáñez’s gesture took Amaia back to the previous year, when, in a different sitting room, a grieving father had handed her the portrait of his murdered daughter, which he also kept hidden under a cushion. She hadn’t seen Anne Arbizu’s father since, but the memory of his pain had stayed with her.

A woman no older than twenty-five smiled at her from the picture. Amaia glanced at her, then handed the photograph back to Yáñez.

‘I thought we’d live happily ever after, you know? She was a young, pretty, kind woman … But after the boy was born she started acting strangely. She grew sad, she never smiled, she wouldn’t even hold him, she said she wasn’t ready to love the boy, and that he rejected her. Nothing I said did any good. I told her she was talking nonsense – of course the boy loved her – but she only grew sadder. She was sad all the time. She kept the house tidy, she did the cooking, but she never smiled; she even stopped sewing, and the rest of the time she slept. She kept the shutters closed, the way I do now, and she slept … I’ll never forget how proud we were when we first bought this place. She made it look so pretty: we painted the walls, planted window boxes … Life was good. I thought nothing would ever change. But a house isn’t the same as a home, and this became her tomb … Now it’s my turn, although they call it house arrest, and the lawyer says they’ll let me serve out my sentence here. I lie here every night, unable to sleep, smelling my wife’s blood below my head.’

Amaia looked intently at the sofa. The cover didn’t go with the rest of the décor.

‘I had it recovered because of the bloodstains, but they’d stopped making the original fabric so they used this one instead. Otherwise everything’s the same. When I lie here, I can smell her blood beneath the upholstery.’

‘The house is cold,’ said Amaia, disguising the shiver that ran up her spine.

He shrugged.

‘Why don’t you light the boiler?’

‘It hasn’t worked since the night of the storm, when the power went.’

‘That was over a month ago. You mean to say you’ve been without heating all this time?’

Yáñez didn’t reply.

‘What about the people from social services?’

‘I only open the door to the fellow who brings the trays. I told them on day one that if they come round here, I’ll be waiting for them with an axe.’

‘You have plenty of wood. Why not make a fire? There’s no virtue in being cold.’

‘It’s what I deserve.’

Amaia got up and went out to the shed, returning with a basket of logs and some old newspapers. Kneeling in front of the hearth, she stirred the cold ashes to make space for the wood. She took a box of matches from the mantelpiece and lit the fire. Then she sat down again. Yáñez stared into the flames.

‘You’ve also kept your son’s room just as it was. I find it hard to imagine a man like him sleeping there.’

‘He didn’t. Occasionally he stopped for lunch, and sometimes supper, but he never spent the night. He would leave, then come back early the next day. He told me he preferred a hotel.’

Amaia didn’t believe it; they had found no evidence of Berasategui staying at any of the hotels, hostels or bed and breakfast places in the valley.

‘Are you sure?’

‘I think so, but I can’t be a hundred per cent sure – as I told the police, my memory is worse than I let on to social services. I forget things.’

Amaia plucked her buzzing phone from her pocket. The display showed several missed calls but she ignored them, scanning through her photos until she found the right image, then touching the screen to enlarge it. Averting her eyes from the photo, she showed it to Yáñez.

‘Did your son ever come here with this woman?’

‘Your mother.’

‘You know her? Did you see her that night?’

‘No, but I’ve known your mother for years. She’s aged, but I recognise her.’

‘Think again, you just told me your memory isn’t so good.’

‘Sometimes I forget to have supper, or I have supper twice because I forget I’ve already had it, but I remember who comes to my house. Your mother has never set foot in here.’

She slipped the phone back into her coat pocket, replaced the dining chair, pulled the shutters to and left. As soon as she was in the car, she reached for her phone and, ignoring the insistent buzzing, dialled a number from her contacts list. After a couple of rings, a man answered.

‘Could you please send someone to fix a boiler that broke down on the night of the storm,’ she said, and gave him Yáñez’s address.

3

By the time Amaia parked in the square next to the Lamia fountain, the drizzle had turned to a downpour. She pulled up the hood of her coat and hurried through the arch into Calle Pedro Axular, following the sound of raised voices. The anguish and urgency of those missed calls was reflected in Inspector Iriarte’s face as he struggled to contain a group of people intent upon approaching the patrol car. In the rear passenger seat, a weary-looking individual was sitting with his head propped against the rain-beaded window. Two uniformed officers were unsuccessfully attempting to cordon off the area surrounding a rucksack, which lay on the ground in the middle of a puddle. Amaia took out her phone and called for back-up as she hurried over to assist them. Just then, two more patrol cars advanced across the Giltxaurdi Bridge, distracting the angry mob, whose shouts were momentarily drowned out by the wailing sirens.

Iriarte was soaked to the bone, and as he spoke to Amaia, he kept wiping his brow to stop the water going in his eyes. Deputy Inspector Etxaide appeared out of nowhere with a large umbrella, which he handed to them, then went to help the other officers pacify the crowd.

‘Well, Inspector?’

‘The suspect in the car is Valentín Esparza. His four-month-old daughter died last night while sleeping over at her maternal grandmother’s house. The doctor registered the cause as Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. So far, a tragedy. Except that yesterday, the grandmother, Inés Ballarena, paid a visit to the police station. Apparently, the baby was staying the night with her for the first time because it was the parents’ wedding anniversary, and they were going out to dinner. She was looking forward to it, and had even prepared a room for her. She fed the baby and put her down for the night, then fell asleep in front of the television in the sitting room next door, although she swears the baby monitor was on. She was woken by a noise, and went to look in on the baby – who from the doorway appeared sound asleep. Then she heard the crunch of tyres on gravel outside. She looked through the window in time to see a large, grey car driving away. Although she didn’t see the number plate, she assumed it was her son-in-law, as he has one just like it,’ said Iriarte, with a shrug. ‘She claims she checked the time and it was just gone two in the morning. She thought the couple must have driven by on their way home to see if any lights were on. This didn’t strike her as odd because they live nearby. She thought no more about it, and went back to sleep on the sofa. When she woke up, she was surprised not to hear the baby crying to be fed, so she went into the bedroom where she found the child dead. She was upset, she blamed herself, but when the doctor gave the estimated time of death as between two and three in the morning, she remembered waking up and seeing the car in the driveway. She now believes she was woken by an earlier noise inside the house. When Inés asked her daughter about this, she told her they had arrived home at around one thirty; she doesn’t drink usually, so a glass of wine and a liqueur after the meal had knocked her out. However, when Inés questioned the son-in-law, he became agitated, refused to answer, flew into a rage. He told her it was probably a couple of lovebirds looking for a secluded spot; it wouldn’t have been the first time. But then Inés remembered something else: she keeps her two dogs outside and they bark like crazy whenever a stranger comes near the house, but they didn’t make a sound last night.’

‘What did you do next?’ asked Amaia.

Whether it was because they were intimidated by the police presence or simply wanted to get out of the rain, the crowd had retreated to the covered entrance of the funeral parlour. A woman at the centre of the huddle was embracing another, who was screaming and sobbing hysterically. It was impossible to make out what she was saying.

‘The woman screaming is the mother, the one with her arms around her is the little girl’s grandmother,’ Iriarte explained, following Amaia’s gaze. ‘Anyway, as I was saying, the grandmother was in a terrible state. She couldn’t stop crying while she was telling me her story. To begin with, I thought she was probably just trying to find an explanation for something that was difficult to accept. This was the first time they let her babysit, her first grandchild, she was distraught …’

‘But?’

‘But, even so, I called the paediatrician. He was adamant: Sudden Infant Death Syndrome. The baby was premature, her lungs weren’t properly formed, and she’d spent half of her short life in the hospital. Although they’d discharged her, this past week the mother had brought her to the surgery with a cold – only a sniffle, but in a premature, underweight baby, the doctor had no doubt about the cause of death. An hour ago, Inés turned up at the station again, insisting the girl had a mark on her forehead – round, like a button – which wasn’t there earlier. She said that when she pointed it out to her son-in-law, he snapped at her and insisted they close the coffin. So I decided to take a look for myself. As we entered the funeral parlour, we bumped into the father, Valentín Esparza, on his way out. He was carrying that rucksack’ – Iriarte pointed to the wet bundle sitting in a puddle – ‘and something about the way he was holding it struck me as odd. Not that I carry a rucksack myself, but it didn’t seem right.’ He clasped his hands to his chest to imitate the posture. ‘The minute he saw me, he turned pale and started to run. I caught up with him next to his car, and that was when he started to yell, telling us to leave him alone, saying he had to finish this.’

‘To take his own life?’

‘That’s what I thought. It occurred to me he might have a weapon in there …’

Iriarte crouched down beside the rucksack, giving up the shelter of the umbrella, which he placed on the ground as a screen. He opened the flap, pulling the toggle to loosen the drawstring. The little girl’s dark, wispy hair revealed the soft spot on her head; her skin had that tell-tale pallor, although her mouth, slightly open, retained a hint of colour, giving a false impression of life, which held them transfixed until Dr San Martín leaned in, breaking the spell.

While the pathologist removed the sterile wrapping from a swab, Iriarte gave him a summary of what he had told Amaia. Then San Martín crouched next to the child’s body and gently used the swab to remove the make-up that had been hastily applied to the bridge of the baby’s nose.

‘She’s so tiny.’ The sorrow in the usually imperturbable pathologist’s voice made Iriarte and Amaia look at him in surprise. Conscious of their eyes on him, he immediately busied himself examining the mark on the child’s skin. ‘An extremely crude attempt to cover up a pressure mark. It probably occurred at the precise moment when she stopped breathing, and is only visible to the naked eye now that lividity has set in. Give me a hand, will you?’ he said.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘I have to see all of her,’ he replied, with an impatient gesture.

‘Not here, please,’ said Iriarte. He indicated the crowd outside the funeral parlour. ‘You see those people? They’re the baby’s relatives, including her mother and grandmother. We’ve had enough difficulty controlling them as it is. If they see her dead body lying on the ground, they’ll go crazy.’

‘Inspector Iriarte is right,’ said Amaia, glancing towards the crowd then looking back at San Martín.

‘Very well, but until I have her on my slab I can’t tell you if there are any other signs of violence. Make sure you are thorough when you process the crime scene; I remember working on a similar case, where a mark on a baby’s cheek turned out to be made by a button on a pillowcase. Although I can give you one piece of information that might help.’ San Martín produced a small digital device from his Gladstone bag, holding it up proudly. ‘A digital calliper,’ he explained, pulling apart the two metal prongs, and adjusting them to measure the diameter of the mark on the baby’s forehead. ‘There you are,’ he said, showing them the screen. ‘The object you’re looking for is 13.85 millimetres in diameter.’

They stood up, leaving the forensic technicians to place the rucksack inside a body bag. Amaia turned to see Judge Markina standing a few metres away, watching in silence. No doubt San Martín had notified him. Beneath his black umbrella, and in the dim light seeping through the leaden clouds, his face looked sombre; even so, she registered the sparkle in his eye, the intensity of his gaze when he greeted her. Although the gesture was fleeting, she looked nervously at San Martín then at Iriarte to see if they had noticed. San Martín was busy giving orders to his technicians and outlining the facts to the legal secretary beside him, while Iriarte was keeping a close watch on the relatives. The rumour had spread among them, and they began angrily to demand answers even as the mother’s howls of grief grew louder and louder.

‘We need to get this guy out of here now,’ declared Iriarte, motioning to one of the officers.

‘Take him directly to Pamplona,’ ordered Markina.

‘I’ll get a police van to move him there by this afternoon at the very latest, your honour. In the meantime, we’ll take him to the local police station. We’ll meet there,’ Iriarte said to Amaia.

She nodded at Markina by way of a goodbye, then started towards her car.

‘Inspector … Do you have a moment?’

She stopped in her tracks, wheeling round only to find him standing beside her, sheltering her with his umbrella.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’ This wasn’t exactly a reproach, or even a question; it had the seductive tone of an invitation, the playfulness of flirtation. The grey coat he wore over a matching grey suit, his impeccable white shirt and dark tie – unusual for him – gave him a solemn, graceful air, moderated by the lock of hair tumbling over his brow and the light covering of designer stubble. Beneath the canopy of the umbrella she felt herself being drawn into a moment of intimacy, conscious of the expensive cologne emanating from his warm skin, his intense gaze, the warmth of his smile …

Suddenly, Jonan Etxaide appeared out of nowhere.

‘Boss, the cars are all full. Could you give me a lift to the police station?’

‘Of course, Jonan,’ she replied, startled back to reality. ‘If you’ll excuse us, your honour.’

Having taken her leave, she made her way towards the car without a backward glance. Etxaide, however, turned once to contemplate Markina, who was standing where they had left him. The magistrate responded with a wave.

4

The warmth of the police station hadn’t succeeded in bringing the colour back to Iriarte’s cheeks, but at least he’d managed to change out of his wet clothes by the time Amaia arrived.

‘What did he say?’ she asked. ‘Why was he taking her body?’

‘He hasn’t said a word. He’s sitting curled up in a ball in the corner of his cell, refusing to move or speak.’

She made to leave, but when she got to the door she turned to face the inspector.

‘Do you think Esparza’s behaviour was motivated by grief, or do you believe he is involved in his daughter’s death?’

‘I honestly don’t know,’ said Iriarte. ‘This could be a reaction to losing his daughter, but I can’t rule out the possibility he was trying to prevent a second autopsy, fearing it would confirm his mother-in-law’s suspicions.’ He fell silent, then sighed. ‘I can’t imagine anything more monstrous than harming your own child.’

The clear image of her mother’s face suddenly flashed into Amaia’s mind. She managed to thrust it aside only for it to be replaced by another, that of the midwife, Fina Hidalgo, breaking off newly sprouted shoots with a dirty fingernail, stained green: ‘The families mostly did it themselves; I only helped occasionally when they couldn’t bring themselves to destroy the fruit of their womb, or some such nonsense.’

‘Was the girl normal, Inspector? I mean, did she suffer from brain damage or any other disabilities.’

Iriarte shook his head. ‘Besides being premature, the doctor assured me she was a normal, healthy child.’

The holding cells at the new police station in Elizondo had no bars; instead, a wall of toughened glass separated them from the reception area, allowing each compartment to be viewed from outside, and making it possible for the occupants to be filmed round the clock. Amaia and Iriarte walked along the corridor outside the cells, all of them empty save for one. As they approached the glass, they could see a man crouched on the floor at the back of the cell between the sink and the toilet. His arms were looped around his knees, his head lowered. Iriarte switched on the intercom.

‘Valentín Esparza.’

The man looked up.

‘Inspector Salazar would like to ask you a few questions.’

He lowered his face again.

‘Valentín,’ Iriarte called out, more firmly this time, ‘we’re coming in. No need to get agitated, just stay calm.’

Amaia leaned towards Iriarte. ‘I’ll go in alone, I’m in plain clothes, I’m a woman, it’s less intimidating …’

Iriarte withdrew to the adjacent room, which was set up so that he could see and hear everything that went on.

Amaia entered the cell and stood facing Esparza. After a few seconds, she asked: ‘May I sit down?’

He looked at her, thrown by the question.

‘What?’

‘Do you mind if I sit down?’ she repeated, pointing to a wooden bench along the wall that doubled as a bed. Asking permission was a sign of respect; she wasn’t treating him as a prisoner, or a suspect.

He waved a hand.

‘Thank you,’ she said, sitting down. ‘At this time of day, I’m already exhausted. I have a baby too – a little boy. He’s five months old. I know that you lost your baby girl yesterday.’ The man raised his pale face and looked straight at her. ‘How old was she?’

‘Four months,’ he said in a hoarse voice.

‘I’m sorry for your loss.’

He swallowed hard, eyes downcast.

‘Today was supposed to be my day off, you know. And when I arrived I found this mess. Why don’t you tell me what happened?’

He sat up, motioning with his chin towards the camera behind the glass, and the spotlight illuminating the cell. His face looked serious, in pain, but not mistrustful.

‘Haven’t your colleagues told you?’

‘I’d like to hear it from you. I’m more interested in your version.’

He took his time. A less experienced interrogator might have assumed he had clammed up, but Amaia simply waited.

‘I was taking my daughter’s body away.’

Amaia noted the use of the word body; he was acknowledging that he had been carrying a corpse, not a child.

‘Where to?’

‘Where to?’ he asked, bewildered. ‘Nowhere, I just … I just wanted to have her a bit longer.’

‘You said you were taking her away, that you were taking her body away, and they arrested you next to your car. Where were you going?’

He remained silent.

She tried a different tack.

‘It’s amazing how much having a baby changes your life. There’s so much to do, so many demands on you. My boy gets colic every night after his last feed; sometimes he cries for as long as two or three hours. All I can do is walk round the house trying to calm him. I understand how that can drive some people crazy.’

Esparza appeared to nod sympathetically.

‘Is that what happened?’

‘What?’

‘Your mother-in-law claims you went to her house early in the morning.’

He started to shake his head.

‘And that she saw your car drive away …’

‘My mother-in-law is mistaken.’ His hostility was palpable. ‘She can’t tell one car from another. It was probably a couple of kids who pulled into the driveway hoping to find a quiet place to … you know.’

‘Yes, except that her dogs didn’t bark, so it must have been someone they knew. What’s more, your mother-in-law told my colleague about a mark on the girl’s forehead, which wasn’t there when she put her to bed. She also said she was woken up by a noise, and when she looked out of the window she saw your car driving off.’

‘That bitch would say anything to get me into trouble. She’s never liked me. You can ask my wife, she’ll tell you: we went out to dinner and afterwards we went straight home.’

‘My colleagues have spoken to her, but she couldn’t help much. She didn’t contradict your story, she simply doesn’t remember anything.’

‘I know, she had too much to drink. She isn’t used to it, what with the pregnancy …’

‘It must have been difficult for you this last year.’ He looked at her, puzzled. ‘I mean, the risky pregnancy, forced rest, no sex; then the baby is born premature, two months in hospital, no sex; at last she comes home, more worries, caring for the baby, and still no sex …’

He gave a faint smile.

‘I know from experience,’ she went on. ‘And on the day of your anniversary, you leave the baby with your mother-in-law, you go out to a nice restaurant, and after a few glasses of wine your wife is legless. You take her home, put her to bed, and … no sex. The night is young. You drive over to your mother-in-law’s house to check that everything’s all right. You arrive to find her asleep on the sofa, and that irritates you. Entering the girl’s room, you suddenly realise the child is a burden, she is ruining your life, things were much better before she came along … and you make a decision.’

He sat perfectly still, hanging on her every word.

‘So, you do what you have to do, only your mother-in-law wakes up and sees you driving away.’

‘Like I told you: my mother-in-law is a fucking bitch.’

‘I know how you feel – mine is too. But yours is also very astute. She noticed the mark on the girl’s forehead. Yesterday, it was barely visible, but today the pathologist is in no doubt that the mark was made by an object having been pressed into her skin.’

He heaved a deep sigh.

‘You noticed it too, that’s why you tried to cover it with make-up. And to ensure no one else would see it, you ordered the coffin to be sealed. But your bitch of a mother-in-law is like a dog with a bone, isn’t she? So you decided to take the body to prevent anyone asking questions. Your wife, perhaps? Someone saw you two quarrelling in the funeral parlour.’

‘You’ve got it all wrong. That was because she insisted on cremating the girl.’

‘And you were against it? You wanted a burial? Is that why you took her?’

Something appeared to dawn on him.

‘What will happen to the body now?’

Amaia was intrigued by Esparza’s choice of words; relatives didn’t usually refer to their loved one as a body or corpse, but rather as the girl, the baby, or … She realised she didn’t know his child’s name.

‘The pathologist will perform a second autopsy, after which the body will be released to the family.’

‘They mustn’t cremate her.’

‘That’s something you need to decide among yourselves.’

‘They mustn’t cremate her. I haven’t finished.’

Amaia recalled what Iriarte had told her.

‘What haven’t you finished?’

‘If I don’t finish, this will all have been in vain.’

Amaia’s curiosity deepened:

‘What exactly do you mean?’

Suddenly, Esparza seemed to realise where he was, and that he’d said too much. He immediately clammed up.

‘Did you kill your daughter?’

‘No,’ he replied.

‘Do you know who did?’

Silence.

‘Perhaps your wife killed her …’

Esparza smiled, shaking his head, as if he found the mere thought laughable.

‘Not her.’

‘Who, then? Who did you take to your mother-in-law’s house?’

‘No one.’

‘No, I don’t believe you did, because it was you. You killed your daughter.’

‘No!’ he yelled suddenly. ‘… I gave her up.’

‘Gave her up? Who to? What for?’

He grinned smugly.

‘I gave her up to …’ He lowered his voice to a muffled whisper: ‘… like all the others …’ he said. He murmured a few more words, then buried his head in his arms.

Amaia remained in the cell for a while, even though she realised that the interview was over, that she would get no more out of him. She buzzed for them to open the door from outside. As she was leaving, he spoke again:

‘Can you do something for me?’

‘That depends.’

‘Tell them not to cremate her.’

Deputy Inspectors Etxaide and Zabalza were waiting with Iriarte in the adjoining room.

‘Could you hear what he was saying?’

‘Only the part about giving her up to someone, but I didn’t hear a name. It’s on tape; you can see his lips move, but it’s inaudible. He was probably talking gibberish.’

‘Zabalza, see if you can do anything with the audio and video, jack up the volume as high as it’ll go. I expect you’re right, he’s messing with us, but let’s be on the safe side. Jonan, Montes and Iriarte, you come with me. By the way, where is Montes?’

‘He’s just finished taking the relatives’ statements.’

Amaia opened her field kit on the table to make sure she had everything she needed.

‘We’ll need to stop somewhere to buy a digital calliper.’ She smiled, as she noticed Iriarte frown. ‘Is something wrong?’

‘Today is your day off …’

‘Not any more, right?’ she grinned, picking up the case and following Jonan outside to where Montes was waiting for them in the car with the engine running.

5

She felt a kind of sympathy bordering on pity for Valentín Esparza when she entered the room his mother-in-law had decorated for the little girl. Confronted with the profusion of pink ribbons, lace and embroidery, the sensation of déjà vu was overwhelming. This little girl’s amatxi had chosen nymphs and fairies instead of the ridiculous pink lambs her own mother-in-law had chosen for Ibai, but other than that, the room might have been decorated by the same woman. Hanging on the walls were half a dozen or so framed photographs of the girl being cradled by her mother, grandmother and an older woman, possibly an aunt. Valentín Esparza didn’t appear in any of them.

The radiators upstairs were on full, doubtless for the baby’s benefit. Muffled voices reached them from the kitchen below, friends and neighbours who had come round to comfort the two women. The mother seemed to have stopped crying now; even so, Amaia closed the door at the top of the stairs. She stood watching as Montes and Etxaide processed the scene, cursing her phone, which had been vibrating in her pocket since they left the station. The number of missed calls was piling up. She checked her coverage: as she had suspected, because of the thick walls it was much weaker inside the farmhouse. Descending the stairs, she tiptoed past the kitchen, registering the sound of hushed voices typical at wakes. She felt a sense of relief as she stepped outside. The rain had stopped briefly, as the wind swept away the black storm clouds, but the absence of any clear patches of sky meant that once the wind fell the rain would start again. She moved a few metres away from the house and checked her log of missed calls. One from Dr San Martín, one from Lieutenant Padua of the Guardia Civil, one from James, and six from Ros. First she rang James, who was upset to hear that she wouldn’t be home for lunch.

‘But, Amaia, it’s your day off—’

‘I’ll be home as soon as I can, I promise, and I’ll make it up to you.’

He seemed unconvinced.

‘But we have a dinner reservation …’

‘I’ll be home in an hour at the most.’

Padua picked up straight away.

‘Inspector, how are you?’

‘I’m fine. I saw your call, and—’ She could barely contain her anxiety.

‘No news, Inspector. I just rang to say I’ve spoken to Naval Command in San Sebastián and La Rochelle. All the patrol boats in the Bay of Biscay are on the alert and they know what to look for.’

Padua must have heard her sigh. He added in a reassuring tone:

‘Inspector, the coastguards are of the opinion, and I agree, that one month is long enough for your mother’s body to have washed up somewhere along the shore. It could have been swept up the Cantabrian coast, though the ascending current is more likely to have carried it to France. Alternatively, it could have become snagged on the riverbed, or the torrential rains could have taken it miles out to sea, into one of the deep trenches in the Bay of Biscay. Bodies washed out to sea are rarely found, and given how long it’s been since your mother disappeared, I think we have to consider that possibility. A month is a long time.’

‘Thank you, Lieutenant,’ she said, trying hard not to show her disappointment. ‘If you hear anything …’

‘Rest assured, I’ll let you know.’

She hung up, thrusting her phone deep into her pocket, as she digested what Padua had said. A month in the sea is a long time for a dead body. But didn’t the sea always give up its dead?

While talking to Padua, she had started to circle the house to escape the tiresome crunch of gravel outside the entrance. As she followed the line in the ground traced by rainwater dripping from the roof, she reached the corner at the back of the building where the eaves met. Sensing a movement behind her, she turned. The older woman from the photographs in the little girl’s bedroom was standing beside a tree in the garden, apparently talking to herself. As she gently tapped the tree trunk, she chanted a series of barely audible words that seemed to be addressed to some invisible presence. Amaia watched the old woman for a few seconds, until she looked up and saw her.

‘In the old days, we’d have buried her here,’ she said.

Amaia lowered her gaze to the trodden earth and the clear line traced by water falling from the eaves. She was unable to speak, assailed by images of her own family graveyard, the remains of a cot blanket poking out from the dark soil.

‘Kinder than leaving her all alone in a cemetery, or cremating her, which is what my granddaughter wants to do … The modern ways aren’t always the best. In the old days, we women weren’t told how we should do things; we may have done some things wrong, but we did others much better.’ The woman spoke to her in Spanish, although from the way she pronounced her ‘r’s, Amaia inferred that she usually spoke Basque. An old Baztán etxeko andrea, one of a generation of invincible women who had seen a whole century, and who still had the strength to get up every morning, scrape her hair into a bun, cook, and feed the animals; Amaia noticed the powdery traces of the millet the woman had been carrying in the pockets of her black apron, in the old tradition. ‘You do what has to be done.’

As the woman shuffled towards her in her green wellingtons, Amaia resisted the urge to go to her aid, sensing this might embarrass her. Instead she waited until the woman drew level, then extended her hand.

‘Who were you speaking to?’ she said, gesturing towards the open meadow.

‘To the bees.’

Amaia looked at her, puzzled.

Erliak, elriak

Gaur il da etxeko nausiya

Erliak, elriak

Eta bear da elizan argia fn1

Amaia recalled her aunt telling her that in Baztán, when someone died, the mistress of the house would go to where the hives were kept in the meadow and ask the bees to make more wax for the extra candles needed to illuminate the deceased during the wake and funeral. According to her aunt, the incantation would increase the bees’ production three-fold.

Touched by the woman’s gesture, Amaia imagined she could hear her Aunt Engrasi saying, ‘When all else fails, we return to the old traditions.’

‘I’m sorry for your loss,’ she said.

Ignoring Amaia’s hand, the woman embraced her with surprising strength. After releasing her, she lowered her eyes to the ground, wiping her tears away with the pocket of the apron in which she had carried the chicken feed. Amaia – moved by the woman’s dignified courage, which had rekindled the lifelong admiration she’d felt towards that generation – maintained a respectful silence.

‘He didn’t do it,’ the woman said suddenly.

Trained to know when someone was about to unburden themselves, Amaia didn’t reply.

‘No one takes any notice of me because I’m an old woman, but I know who killed our little girl, and it wasn’t that foolish father of hers. All he cares about is cars, motorbikes and showing off. He loves money the way pigs love apples. I should know, I courted men like that in my youth. They would come to pick me up on motorbikes, or in cars, but I wasn’t taken in by all that nonsense. I wanted a real man …’

The old woman’s mind was starting to wander. Amaia steered her back to the present:

‘Do you know who killed her?’

‘Yes, I told them,’ she said, waving a hand towards the house. ‘But no one listens to me because I’m an old woman.’

‘I’m listening to you. Tell me who did this.’

‘It was Inguma – Inguma killed her,’ she declared emphatically.

‘Who is Inguma?’

The old woman’s grief was palpable as she gazed at Amaia.

‘That poor girl! Inguma is the demon that steals children’s souls while they sleep. Inguma slipped through the cracks, sat on her chest and took her soul.’

Amaia opened her mouth, confused, then closed it again, unsure what to say.

‘You think I’m spouting old wives’ tales,’ the woman said accusingly.

‘Not at all …’

‘In the annals of Baztán it says that Inguma awoke once and took away hundreds of children. The doctors called it whooping cough, but it was Inguma who came to rob their breath while they slept.’

Inés Ballarena appeared from around the side of the house.

‘Ama, what are you doing here? I told you I’d fed the chickens this morning.’ She clasped the old lady by the arm, addressing Amaia: ‘You must excuse my mother, she’s very old; what happened has upset her terribly.’

‘Of course,’ murmured Amaia. To her relief, at that moment a call came through on her mobile. She excused herself and moved away to a discreet distance to take the call.

‘Dr San Martín, have you finished already?’ she said, glancing at her watch.

‘Actually, we’ve only just started.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ve asked a colleague to help me on this occasion,’ he said, unable to disguise the catch in his voice, ‘but, I thought I’d let you know what we’ve found so far. The victim was suffocated with a soft object, such as a pillow or cushion. You saw the mark above the bridge of the nose; when you conduct your search, keep in mind the measurement I gave you. Forensics are currently examining a few soft, white fibres we found in the folds of the mouth, so that’ll give you some idea of the colour. We also found traces of saliva on her face, mostly belonging to the girl, but there is at least one other donor. It might have been left by a relative kissing her cheek …’

‘When will you be able to tell me more?’

‘In a few hours.’

Amaia ended the call and hurried after the two women. She caught up with them at the front door.

‘Inés, did you bathe your granddaughter before you put her to bed?’

‘Yes, the evening bath relaxed her, it made her sleepy,’ she said, stifling a sob.

Amaia thanked her, then ran up the stairs. ‘We’re looking for something soft and white,’ she said, bursting into the bedroom.

Montes lifted an evidence bag to show her.

‘Snow white,’ he declared, holding aloft the captive bear.

‘How did you …?’

‘From the smell,’ explained Jonan. ‘Then we noticed that the fur looked flattened …’

‘It smells?’ Amaia frowned; a dirty toy seemed incongruous in that room where everything had been carefully thought out down to the last detail.

‘It doesn’t just smell, it stinks,’ said Montes.

6

By the time she left the house, Amaia’s mobile showed three more missed calls from Ros. She’d resisted the temptation to return them, sensing that her sister’s unusual persistence might herald an awkward conversation, which she didn’t want her colleagues to witness. Only once she was in the privacy of her car did she make the call. Ros answered on the first ring, as if she’d been waiting with the phone in her hand.

‘Oh, Amaia, could you come over?’

‘Of course, what’s the matter, Ros?’

‘You’d better come and see for yourself.’

Amaia parked outside Mantecadas Salazar and made her way through the bakery, exchanging greetings with the employees she passed en route to the office at the back. Ros was standing in the doorway with her back to Amaia, blocking her view of the interior.

‘Ros, are you going to tell me what’s going on?’

Ros spun round, ashen-faced. Amaia instantly understood why.

‘Well, well. The cavalry has arrived!’ Flora said by way of greeting.

Concealing her surprise, Amaia approached her eldest sister after giving Ros a peck on the cheek.

‘We weren’t expecting you, Flora. How are you?’

‘As well as anyone could be, under the circumstances …’

Amaia looked at her, puzzled.

‘Our mother met a horrible death a month ago – or am I the only one who cares?’ she said sarcastically.

Amaia flashed a grin at Ros. ‘Of course, Flora, the whole world knows how much more sensitive you are than everyone else,’ she retorted.

Flora responded to the jibe with a grimace, then planted herself behind the desk. Motionless in the doorway, arms hanging by her sides, Ros was the image of helplessness, save for her pursed lips and a glint of repressed rage in her eye.

‘Are you planning to stay long, Flora?’ asked Amaia. ‘I don’t suppose you have much free time with all your TV work.’

Flora adjusted the height of the chair then sat down behind the desk.

‘Yes, I’m extremely busy, but I thought I’d take a few days off,’ she said, rearranging a pile of papers on the desk.

Ros pressed her lips together even more tightly. Observing this, Flora added nonchalantly, ‘Actually, given the way things are, I may decide to stay on.’ She pushed the wastepaper basket towards the desk with her foot then swept up the brightly coloured post-it notes and ballpoint pens with tasselled toppers that clearly belonged to Ros and tossed them in.

‘Great,’ said Amaia. ‘I’m sure Auntie will be delighted to see you when you stop by later. But, Flora, in future, if you want to drop in at the bakery, let Ros know beforehand. She’s a busy woman now that she’s signed a contract with that big French supermarket chain – that deal you were forever chasing, remember? – so she hasn’t time to tidy up the mess you leave behind.’ She leaned over the wastepaper basket to retrieve Ros’s belongings and replace them on the desk.

‘The Martiniés,’ Flora hissed under her breath.

‘Oui,’ replied Amaia with a mischievous grin. She could tell from Flora’s expression that her barb had hit the mark.

‘I set the whole thing up,’ Flora huffed. ‘I did the research, I spent over a year making the necessary contacts.’

‘Yes, but Ros clinched the deal on their first meeting,’ replied Amaia gaily.

Flora stared at Ros, who avoided her gaze, walking over to the coffee machine and setting out some cups.

‘Do you want coffee?’ she said, almost in a whisper.

‘Yes, please,’ replied Amaia, eyes fixed on Flora.

‘No, thanks,’ said Flora. ‘I wouldn’t want to take up any more of your precious time,’ she added, rising from her seat. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I came here to arrange Ama’s funeral service.’

The remark took Amaia by surprise. The notion of a service had never entered her head.

‘But—’ she started to protest.

‘Yes, I know, it isn’t official, and we’d all like to believe that somehow she managed to scramble out of the river and is still alive, but the fact is, she probably didn’t,’ she said, staring straight at Amaia. ‘I’ve spoken to the magistrate in Pamplona in charge of the case, and he agrees that it’s a good idea to hold a service.’

‘You called Judge Markina?’

‘Actually, he called me. A charming man, incidentally.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But, what?’ demanded Flora.

‘Well …’ Amaia swallowed hard, her voice cracking as she spoke: ‘Until we find her body, we can’t be sure she’s dead.’

‘For God’s sake, Amaia! You saw the clothes they dragged out of the river. How could an old, crippled woman have survived that?’

‘I don’t know … In any case, she isn’t officially dead.’

‘I think it’s a good idea,’ Ros broke in.

Amaia looked at her, astonished.

‘Yes, Amaia, I think we should turn the page. Holding a funeral for Ama’s soul will close this chapter once and for all.’

‘I can’t. I don’t believe she’s dead.’

‘For God’s sake, Amaia!’ cried Flora. ‘Where is she, then? Where the hell is she? She couldn’t possibly have escaped into the forest in the dead of night!’ She lowered her voice: ‘They dragged the river, Amaia. Our mother drowned, she’s dead.’

Amaia squeezed her eyes shut.

‘Flora, if you need any help with the arrangements, call me,’ said Ros calmly.

Without replying, Flora picked up her bag and strode to the door.

‘I’ll tell you the time and venue as soon as I’ve arranged everything.’

With Flora gone, the two sisters settled down to drink their coffee. The atmosphere in the office was like the aftermath of an electrical storm, both women waiting for the charged energy in the air to subside and for calm to be restored before speaking.

‘She’s dead, Amaia,’ Ros said at last.

‘I don’t know …’

‘You don’t know, or you haven’t accepted it yet?’

Amaia looked at her.

‘You’ve been running from Rosario all your life, you’ve become accustomed to living with that threat, with the knowledge that she is out there, that she is still out to harm you. But it’s over now, Amaia. It’s over. Ama is finally dead, and – God forgive me for saying so – but I’m not sorry. I know how much she made you suffer, what she almost did to Ibai, but I saw her coat with my own eyes: it was sodden with water. No one could have climbed out of that river alive in the middle of the night. Trust me, Amaia: she’s dead.’

Amaia parked her car opposite Aunt Engrasi’s house and sat for a while, enjoying the golden glow illuminating the windows from inside, as though at its heart a tiny sun or fire were perpetually burning. She gazed up at the overcast sky; night was falling, and although the lights had been on all day, it was only now that they shone in all their glory. She recalled how, as a child, she’d look forward to the occasions when her aunt would ask her to take the rubbish out because it meant she could steal away to the low wall down by the river. She’d sit there, entranced by the sight of the house all lit up, until her aunt began calling for her. Only then would she go inside, her hands and face burning with cold. The sensation of returning home was so intensely pleasurable that she turned it into a custom, a way of drawing out the joy of re-entering the house. She thought of it as a kind of Taoist ritual, one that she’d carried into adulthood, only abandoning the habit when she became a mother. She so longed to see Ibai that no sooner did she reach the door than she would rush inside, eager to touch her son, to kiss him. Tonight, rediscovering this secret, magical game, she reflected on the way she clung, to the point of obsession, to those rituals that had kept her sane through her traumatic childhood. Perhaps it was time for her to leave the past behind.

She climbed out of the car and made her way into the house.Without stopping to take off her coat, she entered the sitting room, where her aunt was clearing up after her game of cards with the Golden Girls. James was holding a book, distractedly, watching Ibai who was in his baby hammock on the sofa. Amaia sat down next to her husband and took his hand in hers.

‘I’m so sorry, things got complicated. I couldn’t get away.’

‘That’s okay,’ he said, without conviction, and leaned over to kiss her.

She slipped out of her coat and draped it over the back of the sofa, then gathered Ibai into her arms.

‘Ama’s been gone all day, and she missed you, did you miss me?’ she whispered, cradling the boy in her arms. He grabbed a strand of her hair, tugging it painfully. ‘I suppose you heard about what happened at the funeral parlour this morning,’ she said, looking up at her aunt.

‘Yes, the girls told us. It’s a terrible tragedy. I’ve known the family for years, they’re good people. Losing a young baby like that …’ Engrasi broke off to go to Ibai and tenderly stroke his head. ‘I can’t bear to think about it.’

‘No wonder the father went mad with grief. I can’t imagine what I’d do,’ said James.

‘The investigation is ongoing, so I can’t comment – but that isn’t the only reason why I’m late. Clearly, she hasn’t been here, otherwise you’d have told me already.’

James and Engrasi looked at her, puzzled.

‘Flora is here in Elizondo. Ros was in a real state when she called me – apparently, the first thing Flora did was stop off at the bakery, just to wind her up. Then, when I arrived, she announced that she’d come to arrange a funeral service for Rosario.’

Engrasi stopped ferrying glasses back and forth, and looked at Amaia, concerned.

‘Well, I’ve never had much time for Flora, as you know, but I think it’s a great idea,’ said James.

‘How can you say that, James! We don’t even know for sure that she’s dead. To hold a funeral would be utterly absurd!’ exclaimed Engrasi.

‘I disagree. It’s been over a month since the river took Rosario—’

‘We don’t know that,’ Amaia broke in. ‘The fact that her coat was in the water doesn’t mean a thing. She could have thrown it in there to put us off the scent.’

‘To do what? Listen to yourself, Amaia. You’re talking about an old lady, wading across a flooded river in the dark during a storm. You’ve got to admit, that’s highly unlikely.’

Engrasi was standing between the poker table and the kitchen door, lips compressed, listening to them argue.

‘Highly unlikely? You didn’t see her, James. She walked out of that clinic, came to this house, stood where I am now and took our baby boy. She trudged for miles through the woods to get to the cave where she intended to offer him up as a sacrifice. That was no feeble old woman – she was determined and able. I know, I was there.’

‘It’s true, I wasn’t there,’ he replied tersely. ‘But if she’s still alive, where has she been all this time? Why hasn’t she turned up? Scores of people spent hours searching for her, they fished her coat out of the river – she must have drowned, Amaia. The Guardia Civil thinks so, the local police force thinks so, I spoke to Iriarte and he thinks so. Even your friend the magistrate agrees,’ he added pointedly. ‘The river swept her away.’

Ignoring his insinuations, Amaia shook her head and carried on rocking Ibai, who, disturbed by their raised voices, had started to cry.

‘I don’t care. I don’t believe it,’ she muttered.

‘That’s the problem, Amaia,’ snapped James. ‘This is all about you and what you believe. Have you ever stopped to think what your sisters might be feeling? Has it occurred to you that they could be suffering too, that they might need to walk away from this episode once and for all, and that what you believe or don’t believe isn’t the only thing that counts?’

Ros, who had just come in, was standing in the doorway looking alarmed.

‘Everyone knows you’ve suffered a lot, Amaia,’ James went on, ‘but this isn’t just about you. Stop for a moment and think about what other people need. I see nothing wrong with what your sister Flora is trying to do. In fact it might prove beneficial to everyone’s mental health, including mine, which is why I’ll be going to the funeral, and I hope you’ll come with me, this time.’

There was a note of reproach in his voice, and Amaia felt hurt, but above all shocked that James should bring up a subject she thought they’d resolved; it wasn’t like him. By now, Ibai was screaming at the top of his lungs, wriggling in her arms, upset by the tension in her body, her quickened breathing. She held him close, trying to calm him. Without saying a word, she went upstairs, ignoring Ros, who stood motionless in the doorway.

‘Amaia …’ Ros whispered to her sister as she brushed past.

James watched her leave the room then looked uneasily from Ros to Engrasi.

‘James—’ Engrasi started to say.

‘Please don’t, Auntie. Please, I beg you, don’t feed Amaia’s fears, or encourage her doubts. If anyone can help her turn the page, it’s you. I’ve never asked anything of you before, but I’m asking you now – because I’m losing her, I’m losing my wife,’ he said dejectedly, slumping back in his seat.

Amaia kept rocking Ibai until he stopped crying, then she lay down on the bed, placing him beside her so that she could enjoy her son’s bright eyes, his clumsy little hands touching her eyes, nose and mouth until gradually he fell asleep. Just as his mother’s tension had overwhelmed him earlier, she felt infected now by his placid calm.

Amaia realised how important the show at the Guggenheim had been for James; she understood why he was disappointed that she hadn’t gone with him. But they’d talked about this. If she had, Ibai would probably be dead. She knew that James understood, but understanding wasn’t the same as accepting. She heaved a sigh, and Ibai sighed too, as though echoing her. Touched, she leaned over to kiss him.

‘My darling boy,’ she whispered, marvelling at his perfect little features, enveloped by a mysterious calm she only experienced when she was with him, bewitching her with his scent of butter and biscuits, relaxing her muscles, drawing her gently into a deep sleep.

She realised she was dreaming, and that her fantasies were inspired by Ibai’s scent. She was at the bakery, long before it became the setting for her nightmares; her father, dressed in his white jacket, was flattening out puff pastry with a steel rolling pin, before it became a weapon. The squares of white dough gave off a creamy, buttery smell. Music drifted through the bakery from a small transistor radio her father kept on the top shelf. She didn’t recognise the song, yet, in her dream, the little girl who was her was mouthing some of the lyrics. She liked to be alone with her father, she liked to watch him work, while she danced about the marble counter, breathing in the odour she now realised was Ibai’s, but which back then came from the butter biscuits. She felt happy – in that way unique to little girls who are the apple of their father’s eye. She had almost forgotten how much he loved her, and remembering, even in a dream, made her feel happy once more. Round and round she spun, performing elegant pirouettes, her feet floating above the ground. But when she turned to smile at him, he had vanished. The kneading table was empty, no light penetrated the high windows. She must hurry, she must go home at once, or else her mother would become suspicious. ‘What are you doing here?’ All at once, the world became very small and dark, curving at the edges, until her dream landscape turned into a tunnel down which she was forced to walk; the short distance between her and the bakery door was transformed into a long, winding passageway at the end of which shone a small, bright light. Afterwards, there was nothing, the benign darkness blinded her, the blood drained from her head. ‘Bleeding doesn’t hurt, bleeding is peaceful and sweet, like turning into oil and trickling away,’ Dupree had told her. ‘And the more you bleed the less you care.’ It’s true, I don’t care, the little girl thought. Amaia felt sad, because little girls shouldn’t accept death, but she also understood, and so, although it pained her, she left her alone. First she heard the panting, the quick gasps of eager anticipation. Then, without opening her eyes, she could sense her mother approaching, slowly, inexorably, hungry for her blood, her breath. Her little girl’s chest that scarcely contained enough oxygen to sustain the thread of consciousness that bound her to life. The presence, like a weight on her abdomen, crushed her lungs, which emptied like a pair of wheezing bellows, letting the air escape through her mouth, as the cruel, ravenous lips, covered her mouth, sucking out her last breath.

James entered the room, closing the door behind him. He sat down beside her on the bed, contemplating her for a moment, experiencing the pleasure of seeing someone who is truly exhausted sleep. He reached for the blanket lying at the foot of the bed, and drew it up to her waist. As he leaned over to kiss her, she opened startled unseeing eyes; when she saw it was him, she instantly relaxed, resting her head back on the pillow.

‘It’s okay, I was dreaming,’ she whispered, repeating the words, which, like an incantation, she had recited practically every night since she was a child. James sat down again. He watched Amaia in silence, until she gave a faint smile, then embraced her.

‘Do you think they might still serve us at that restaurant?’

‘I cancelled; you’re too tired. We’ll go there another time …’

‘How about tomorrow? I have to drive to Pamplona, but I promise I’ll spend the afternoon with you and Ibai. In which case, you have to invite me out to dinner in the evening,’ she added, chuckling.

‘Come downstairs and have something to eat,’ he said.

‘I’m not hungry.’

But James stood up and held out his hand, smiling, and she followed him.

7

Dr Berasategui had lost none of the composure or authority one might expect from a renowned psychiatrist, and his appearance was as neat and meticulous as ever; when he clasped his hands on the table, Amaia noticed that his nails were manicured. His face remained unsmiling as he greeted her with a polite ‘good morning’ and waited for her to speak.

‘Dr Berasategui, I confess I’m surprised that you agreed to see me. I imagine prison life must be tedious for a man like you.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ His reply seemed sincere.

‘You needn’t pretend with me, Doctor. During the past month I’ve been reading your correspondence, I’ve visited your apartment on several occasions, and, as you know, I’ve had the opportunity to familiarise myself with your culinary taste …’ His lips curled slightly at her last words. ‘For that reason alone, I imagine you find life in here intolerably vulgar and dull. Not to mention what it must mean to be deprived of your favourite pastime.’

‘Don’t underestimate me, Inspector. Adaptability is one of my many talents. Actually, this prison isn’t so different from a reformatory school in Switzerland. That’s an experience which prepares you for anything.’

Amaia studied him in silence for a few seconds, then went on:

‘I have no doubt that you’re clever. Clever, confident and capable; you had to be, to succeed in making those poor wretches perpetrate your crimes for you.’

He smiled openly for the first time.

‘You’re mistaken, Inspector; my intention was never for them to sign my work, but rather to perform it. I see myself as a sort of stage director,’ he explained.

‘Yes, with an ego the size of Pamplona … Which is why, to my mind, something doesn’t add up. Perhaps you can explain: why would a man like you, a man with a powerful, brilliant mind, end up obeying the orders of a senile old woman?’

‘That isn’t what happened.’

‘Isn’t it? I’ve seen the CCTV images from the clinic. You looked quite submissive to me.’

She had used the word ‘submissive’ on purpose, knowing he would see it as the worst sort of insult. Berasategui placed his fingers over his pursed lips as if to prevent himself rising to the bait.

‘So, a mentally ill old woman convinces an eminent psychiatrist from a prestigious clinic, a brilliant – what did you refer to yourself as? – ah yes, stage director, to be her accomplice in a botched escape attempt, which ends in her being swept away by the river, while he’s arrested and imprisoned. You must admit – not exactly your finest moment.’

‘You couldn’t be more mistaken,’ he scoffed. ‘Everything turned out exactly as planned.’

‘Everything?’

‘Except for the surprise of the child’s gender; but I played no part in that. Otherwise I would have known.’

Berasategui appeared to have regained his habitual composure. Amaia smiled.

‘I visited your father yesterday.’

Berasategui filled his lungs then exhaled slowly. Clearly this bothered him.

‘Aren’t you going to ask me about him? Aren’t you interested to know how he is? No, of course you aren’t. He’s just an old man whom you used to locate the mairus in my family’s burial plot.’

Berasategui remained impassive.

‘Some of the bones left in the church were more recent. That oaf Garrido would never have been able to find them; only someone who had contact with Rosario could have known, because she alone had that information. Where are the remains of that body, Dr Berasategui? Where is that grave?’

He cocked his head to one side, adopting a faintly smug expression, as though amused at all this.

It vanished when Amaia continued:

‘Your father was much more talkative than you. He told me you never spent the night with him, he said you went to a hotel, but we’ve checked, and we know that isn’t true. I’m going to tell you what I think. I think you have another house in Baztán, a safe house, a place where you keep the things no one must see, the things you can’t give up. The place where you took my mother that night, where she changed her clothes and no doubt where she returned when she ran off leaving you in the cave.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘I’m referring to the fact that Rosario didn’t change at your father’s house, or in your car. The fact that there’s a period of time unaccounted for between you leaving the hospital and stopping off at my aunt’s house. While we were busy rooting around among the souvenirs in your apartment, you stopped off somewhere else. Do you expect me to believe that a man like you wouldn’t have covered such a contingency? Don’t insult my intelligence by pretending to make me believe you acted like a blundering fool …’

This time Berasategui covered his mouth with both hands to stifle the urge to respond.

‘Where’s the house? Where did you take Rosario? She’s alive, isn’t she?’

‘What do you think?’ he blurted unexpectedly.

‘I believe you devised an escape plan, and that she followed it.’

‘I like you, Inspector. You’re an intelligent woman – you have to be, to appreciate other people’s intelligence. And you’re right, there are things I miss in here – for example, holding an interesting conversation with someone who has an IQ above 85,’ he said, gesturing disdainfully towards the guards at the door. ‘And for that reason alone, I’m going to make you a gift.’ He leaned forward to whisper in her ear. Amaia remained calm, although she was surprised when the guards made no effort to restrain him. ‘Listen carefully, Inspector, because this is a message from your mother.’

This time she recoiled, but it was too late, she could already smell Berasategui’s shaving lotion. He gripped her tightly about the throat as she felt his lips brush her ear: ‘Sleep with one eye open, little bitch, because sooner or later Ama is coming to eat you.’ Amaia grabbed his wrist, forcing him to release her, then stumbled backwards, knocking over her chair. Berasategui leaned back, rubbing his wrist.

‘Don’t kill the messenger, Inspector,’ he said with a grin.

She continued to back away until she reached the door, looking with alarm at the guards, who remained impassive.

‘Open the door!’

The two men stood staring at her in silence.

‘Are you deaf? Open the door. The prisoner has assaulted me!’

Seized with panic, she approached the man nearest to her, spitting her words so close to his face that her saliva landed on his cheek:

‘Open the door, you sonofabitch! Open the door, or I swear I’ll …’ The guard ignored her, looking towards Berasategui, who with a condescending nod gave his permission. The guards opened the door, smiling at Amaia as she went out.

8

She hurried along the corridor, fighting the impulse to break into a run, acknowledged the guard manning the next security gate, and continued to the main entrance, where she had recognised one of the guards when she arrived. Still, she waited to retrieve her bag and gun before asking to see the prison governor.

‘He’s not here. He’s in Barcelona, at a conference on prison security, but you can speak to his deputy if you want,’ said the man, reaching for the phone.

Amaia reflected for an instant.

‘No, don’t bother. It’s not important.’

She climbed into her car and took out her mobile, glancing suspiciously at the CCTV cameras dotted about the prison. She put the phone down and drove off, found a parking space several streets away, then dialled a number she had never used before.

Judge Markina’s calm voice answered at the other end of the line.

‘Inspector, this is the first time you’ve ever called me on this—’

‘This is official business, your honour. I’ve just left the prison in Pamplona after interviewing Berasategui …’ Conscious of the tremor in her voice, she broke off and took a deep breath to compose herself.

‘Berasategui? Why didn’t you tell me you were going to see him?’

‘I’m sorry, your honour, this was an informal visit, I wanted to ask him about … Rosario.’

She heard him click his tongue in disapproval.

‘All the information we have points to him and Rosario stopping off somewhere that night, at a safe house where she was able to change her clothes, somewhere they could hide in case things didn’t go according to plan … I refuse to believe that a man as organised as Berasategui wouldn’t have factored in a contingency like that.’

Markina was silent at the other end of the line.

‘But that isn’t why I called. The interview went well, until I asked him if Rosario was still alive … Then he gave me a message from her.’

‘What! Amaia, the man’s playing with you, he’s an arch manipulator!’ he burst out, abandoning his usual restraint. ‘He hasn’t any message from your mother – you gave him an opening, he recognised your weakness, and he pounced.’

She heaved a sigh, starting to regret having mentioned it to him.

‘What exactly did he say?’

‘That’s not important, it’s what happened next that worries me. While he was passing on the so-called message, he grabbed me by the throat.’

‘Did he hurt you?’ Markina broke in, alarmed.

‘The two guards who were in the room with us didn’t move a muscle,’ she went on. ‘No, he didn’t hurt me, I freed myself and retreated to the door, but the guards wouldn’t budge, even when I yelled at them to open the door. They waited until Berasategui authorised them to do so.’

‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ If he hurt you—’

‘I’m fine,’ she interrupted. ‘The point is, they acted like a pair of trained monkeys. He even joked about how stupid they were, and they remained completely submissive.’

‘Where are you? I want to see you. Tell me where you are, I’ll come straight away.’

She glanced about, disoriented.

‘The prison governor is at a conference, and I don’t know his deputy, but we need to act now. Who knows how many other guards he has under his thumb.’

‘I’ll see to it. I have the director’s mobile number right here. I’ll call to recommend Berasategui be moved to a maximum-security unit and placed in an isolation cell. The problem will be solved in ten minutes. But right now I need to see you. I need to know you’re okay.’

Amaia leaned her head against the steering wheel, trying to order her thoughts. Markina’s response had unnerved her; he appeared genuinely concerned, and she found his reaction to the possibility of any harm coming to her at once infuriating and flattering.

‘Have you received the pathologist’s report about the Esparza case?’

‘No. I want to see you now.’

‘My sister told me you’d called her.’

‘Yes. She left a message with my secretary, and I returned her call out of politeness. She wanted to know whether I considered it appropriate to hold a funeral service for your mother. I told her I saw no objection. And now, can I see you?’

She smiled at his insistence; she should have known Flora’s version would be somewhat doctored.

‘I’m fine, honestly. Anyway, I need to go back to the police station to see the pathologist’s report, which should be arriving any minute.’

‘So, when?’

‘When what?’

‘When can I see you?’

‘I have another call,’ she lied. ‘I need to hang up.’

‘All right, but promise me: no more visits to Berasategui on your own. If anything happened to you …’

She ended the call, staring at the blank screen for a while without moving.

9

The leaden skies that had inspired Pamplona’s inhabitants to rename it Mordor, gave way in Baztán to a hazier, more luminous atmosphere – a shimmering mist that dazzled the eye, shrouding the landscape in an eerie light and blurring the horizon. The police station at Elizondo seemed strangely calm compared to yesterday, and getting out of the car, Amaia noticed that this silence had descended like a blanket over the entire valley, so that even from up there she could hear the murmur of the River Txokoto, barely visible behind the old stone edifices. She turned her gaze back to the office: half a dozen photographs of the cot, the white bear, the corpse in the rucksack, the empty coffin from which Valentín Esparza had snatched his daughter’s body, and finally the pathologist’s report, open on top of her desk. San Martín had confirmed asphyxia as the cause of death. The shape and size of the bear’s nose perfectly matched the pressure mark on the baby’s forehead, and the white fibres found in the folds of her mouth came from the toy. The saliva traces on her face and on the toy belonged to the child and to Valentín Esparza; the foul odour coming from the toy was related to a third saliva trace, the source of which hadn’t yet been verified.

‘This proves nothing,’ remarked Montes. ‘The father could have kissed the baby goodbye when he left her at his mother-in-law’s house.’

‘Except that when San Martín confirmed there were saliva traces, I asked the grandmother if she’d bathed the girl before putting her to bed, and she said she had. So, any traces of saliva from the parents would have been washed away,’ explained Amaia.

‘A lawyer could argue that at some point he kissed the toy with which the baby was suffocated, thus transferring his saliva to her skin,’ said Iriarte.

Zabalza arched an eyebrow sceptically.

‘That’s perfectly feasible,’ protested Iriarte, looking to Amaia for support. ‘When my kids were small, they often asked me to kiss their toys.’

‘This girl was only four months old – I doubt she asked her father to kiss the bear. Besides, Esparza isn’t the type to do that kind of thing. And the grandmother claims he stayed in the kitchen that day, drinking a beer, while his wife went up to see to the baby,’ said Amaia, picking out one of the photographs to examine it more closely.

‘I have something,’ said Zabalza. ‘I did a bit of work on the recordings from Esparza’s cell. I couldn’t make out the words, even with the volume on full. But since the image is quite clear, it occurred to me to send it to a friend who works with the deaf and can lip-read. He was absolutely certain that Esparza was saying: “I gave her up her to Inguma, like all the other sacrifices.” I ran a check on Inguma and couldn’t find anyone with that name or nickname.’

‘Inguma? Are you sure?’ Amaia asked, surprised.

‘That’s what my friend said: “Inguma”.’

‘How strange, because the baby’s great-grandmother insisted that Inguma was responsible for the girl’s death. According to her, Inguma is a demon, a creature that enters people’s bedrooms at night, sits on their chests while they’re asleep, and robs them of their breath,’ she said, looking to Jonan for confirmation, who held a combined degree in anthropology and archaeology.

‘That’s right.’ Deputy Inspector Etxaide took over. ‘Inguma is one of the oldest, most sinister creatures in traditional folklore, an evil genie that enters victims’ houses at night and suffocates them. Inguma is thought to be responsible for terrible nightmares and what we now call sleep apnoea, where the sleeper stops breathing for no apparent reason. In extreme cases, death can occur. The majority of sufferers are people who smoke or are overweight. Interestingly, sleeping with the windows open was thought to be dangerous, because Inguma could enter more easily; people suffering from respiratory problems kept their windows closed at night, blocking every possible opening, as it was believed the genie could slip through the tiniest crack. Naturally, cot deaths were also blamed on Inguma, and before putting their children to bed people would recite a magic formula to ward off the demon. As when addressing witches, it was essential to begin by stating that you believed in them, but didn’t fear them. It went something like this:

Inguma, I do not fear you.

I call upon God and the Virgin Mary to protect me.

Until you have counted every star in the sky,

Every blade of grass upon the earth,

Every grain of sand upon the beach,

You will not come to me.

‘It’s a wonderful spell, commanding the demon to perform a task that will take an eternity. Very similar to the eguzkilore used against witches, who must count all the thorns on a thistle before entering a house. As this takes all night, by the time dawn comes they have to run and hide. What’s interesting about Inguma is that, although it’s one of the least-studied night demons, it has identical equivalents in other cultures.’

‘I’d like to see Esparza explaining to Judge Markina that his daughter was killed by a night demon,’ said Montes.

‘He hasn’t confessed to killing her, but he hasn’t denied it either. He insists that he gave her up,’ explained Iriarte.

‘“Like all the other sacrifices”,’ added Zabalza. ‘What does he mean? Do you suppose this isn’t the first time he’s done this?’

‘Well, he’s going to have a hard time blaming it on a demon,’ said Montes. ‘I questioned some of his neighbours this morning and was lucky enough to find a woman who’d been watching television late that night. She “happened” to look out of her window, and saw the couple arrive home after their evening out. Twenty minutes later, she was surprised to hear the car leave again. She said she was worried the baby might be unwell, so she listened out. Twenty minutes later, she heard the car return. This time, she peeped through the spyhole in her front door, just to make sure the baby was all right, and saw Esparza go into the house alone.’

Iriarte shrugged.

‘Then we’ve got him.’

Amaia agreed.

‘Yes, everything points to the husband, but three things need clearing up: the smell and saliva traces on the bear; Esparza’s obsession with his daughter’s body not being cremated; and what he meant by “Like all the other sacrifices.” Incidentally,’ she said, holding up the photograph she had been examining, ‘is it a trick of the camera, or is there something in the coffin?’

‘Yes,’ admitted Iriarte. ‘Initially, we mistook it for quilting, but the funeral director alerted us. It seems Esparza placed three bags of sugar wrapped in a white towel in the coffin. Clearly, so that the bearers wouldn’t notice it was empty.’

‘Right,’ said Amaia, putting the photograph down next to the others. ‘We’ll wait and see if the tests on the third trace open up another line of inquiry; he may have picked up someone on the way. Good work,’ she added, signalling that the meeting was over. Jonan lagged behind.

‘Is everything okay, boss?’

She looked at him, attempting to disguise her unease. Who was she trying to fool? Jonan knew her almost as well as she knew herself, but she was aware that she couldn’t always tell him everything. She put him off the scent by mentioning something else that was bothering her.

‘My sister Flora is in Elizondo, insisting we hold a funeral service for our mother; just thinking about it makes me feel sick, and as if that weren’t enough, the rest of my family is siding with her, including James. I’ve tried to explain my reasons for thinking she’s still alive, but I’ve only succeeded in making them angry with me for preventing them from closing this chapter in their lives.’

‘If it’s any consolation, I don’t believe she fell in that river either.’

Amaia gave a sigh, looking straight at him.

‘Of course it is, Jonan, very much so … You’re a good cop, and I trust your instinct. It’s a great relief to have you on my side.’

Jonan nodded without much conviction, as he went round the table gathering up the photographs.

‘Do you need me to go somewhere with you, boss?’

‘I’m off home, Jonan,’ she replied.

He smiled wistfully at her on his way out, leaving her with the familiar feeling of having been unable to pull the wool over his eyes.

As she drove towards the Txokoto River, she passed Juanitaenea, the house that had belonged to her grandmother. James had planned to restore it so that they could live there; the building materials he’d ordered were sitting on pallets outside the house, but there was no sign of any activity.

She was tempted to stop off at the bakery on her way, but decided against it: she had too much going on in her head to become embroiled in another discussion with Ros over the funeral. Instead, she crossed the Giltxaurdi Bridge and parked near the old market. She knew the house she was looking for was close by, but all the houses on that street looked the same and she couldn’t remember which one it was. In the end she took a guess, smiling with relief when Elena Ochoa opened the door.

‘Can we talk?’ Amaia asked her.

The woman responded by seizing her arm and pulling her into the house, then she leaned out to look up and down the street. As on her previous visit, Amaia followed Elena through to the kitchen. Not a word was exchanged as Elena made coffee for them both, placing two cups on a plastic tray covered with kitchen roll. Amaia was grateful for the silence; every instant the woman spent on her precise coffee-making ritual gave Amaia time to order the instincts – for she could scarcely call them thoughts or ideas – that had brought her there. They clattered in her head like the echo from a blow, as the stream of images in her mind amalgamated with others engraved on her memory. She had gone there searching for answers, yet she wasn’t sure she had the questions. Aunt Engrasi always used to tell her: ‘You’ll only find the answers if you know which questions to ask.’ But all she had to go on in this case was a small, white coffin, weighted with bags of sugar, and the word ‘sacrifice’. It was an ominous combination.

She noticed that the woman was trying to steady her hands as she spooned sugar into two cups. She began to stir the brew, but the chink of the spoon on the china seemed to exasperate her to the point where she hurled the spoon on to the tray.

‘Forgive me, my nerves are bad. Tell me what you want, and let’s be done.’

This was Baztán hospitality. Elena Ochoa had no desire to speak to her, in fact she couldn’t wait for her to leave the house and would heave a sigh of relief when she saw her walk through the door, yet she wouldn’t renege on the sacred ritual of offering a visitor something to drink or eat. She was one of those women who did what had to be done. Reassured by that thought, Amaia cupped her hands round the coffee she wouldn’t have time to drink, and spoke.

‘When I came here last, I asked you whether the sect had ever carried out a human sacrifice …’

At this, Elena began to shake uncontrollably.

‘Please … You must leave, I have nothing to say.’

‘Elena, you’ve got to help me. My mother is still out there. I need you to tell me where that house is, I know that’s where I’ll find answers.’

‘I can’t – they’ll kill me.’

‘Who?’

She shook her head, terrified.

‘We’ll give you protection,’ said Amaia, casting a sidelong glance at the little effigy of the virgin with a flickering candle in front of it, and a worn string of rosary beads draped at the base; beside it stood a couple of postcards bearing images of Christ.

‘You can’t protect me from them.’

‘Do you think they carried out a sacrifice?’

Elena stood up, emptying the remains of her coffee into the sink, her back to Amaia as she washed up her cup.

‘No. The proof is that you’re still alive; at the time, the only pregnant woman in the group was Rosario. I’ve thanked God a thousand times for keeping you safe. Perhaps in the end they were trying to impress us, to cow us into submission by making themselves seem more dangerous and powerful …’

Amaia took in the array of talismans with which Elena had surrounded herself: the poor woman was desperately trying to convince herself that she was in control, and yet her body language betrayed her.

‘Elena, look at me,’ she commanded.

Elena turned off the tap, dropped the sponge and swung round to look at her.

‘I had a twin sister who died at birth. The official cause was registered as cot death.’

Pale with fear, the woman raised her hands, placed them over her distraught face, moist with tears, and asked: ‘Where is she buried? Where is she buried?’

Amaia shook her head, watching the woman flinch as she went on to explain:

‘We don’t know. I found her tomb, but the coffin was empty.’

Elena gave a terrible, visceral howl, and lunged at Amaia, who leapt to her feet, startled.

‘Leave my house! Leave my house and never come back!’ she screamed, corralling Amaia to force her to walk on.

Before opening the front door, Amaia turned once more to plead with the woman.

‘At least tell me where the house is.’

After the door slammed shut, she could still hear the woman’s muffled sobs coming from inside.

Instinctively, she reached into her pocket for her phone and dialled Special Agent Aloisius Dupree. She pressed it tightly to her ear as she walked back to her car, listening hard for the faintest sound at the other end of the line. She was about to hang up, when she heard a crackle. She knew he was there, the FBI agent who had been her mentor during her time in New Orleans, and who remained an important part of her life, despite the distances. The sound that reached her through the earpiece a moment later made a shiver run up her spine: the repetitive drone of a funeral chant, the echo of voices suggesting a large space, possibly a cathedral. There was something bleak and sinister about the way three words were repeated over and over again in a monotone. But it was the shrill, anguished death cry that made her stomach turn. The tortured death throes continued for a few seconds, then at last the pitiful sound faded, she assumed because Dupree was moving away.

When at last he spoke, his voice betrayed the same anguish she herself felt.

‘Don’t call me again, I’ll call you.’ Then he hung up, leaving Amaia feeling so small and far away from him that it made her want to scream.

She was still holding her phone when it rang. She looked at the screen with a mixture of hope and panic. She recognised the FBI’s ID number and heard Agent Johnson’s friendly voice greeting her from Virginia. He announced that the seminars at Quantico had been given the green light, and they were hoping she might contribute to the area of studies concerned with criminal behaviour. They were currently in the process of requesting permission from her superior.

Up to that point, their conversation didn’t differ from any of the previous conversations she’d had with FBI officials, but the fact that she’d received the call moments after speaking to Dupree didn’t escape her notice, and what Agent Johnson said next instantly confirmed to her that they were monitoring her calls.

‘Inspector, have you had any type of contact with Special Agent Dupree?’

Amaia bit her lip, hesitating, as she recalled the conversation she’d had with Agent Johnson a month or so ago, when he’d advised her not to use official telephone lines for anything relating to Agent Dupree, and had given her a special number to call. On the rare occasions when she had managed to get in touch with Dupree, his voice always sounded far away, plagued with echoes; invariably, they got cut off, and on one occasion his number had vanished from her phone as if the call had never taken place. Then there had been the mysterious emails she’d asked Jonan to look into; he’d succeeded in tracking the source to an IP address in Baton Rouge, Louisiana – at which point the FBI stepped in and ordered him to desist with the search. Johnson had asked her about Dupree as if he’d forgotten what she’d told him during their last conversation, namely that Dupree always answered her calls. In any event, Johnson was calling her now because he knew she had just spoken to Dupree. Informing her that she had been accepted on to the course was simply a pretext.

‘Not very often. I occasionally call to say hello, the same way I do with you,’ she said, nonchalantly.

‘Have you spoken to Agent Dupree about the case he is currently working on?’

Johnson sounded as if he were ticking boxes on an internal questionnaire sheet.

‘No, I didn’t even know he was working on a new case.’

‘If Agent Dupree gets in touch with you again, will you inform us?’

‘You’re freaking me out, Agent Johnson, is something wrong?’

‘Only that in the last few days we’ve had trouble contacting Agent Dupree. I expect the situation has gotten a little complicated, and for reasons of security he’s decided to lie low. There’s no need for you to be alarmed, Inspector. However, if Dupree does get in touch with you, we’d be grateful if you’d let us know immediately.’

‘I’ll do that, Agent Johnson.’

‘Thank you, Inspector, we look forward to seeing you here very soon.’

She hung up, then sat in her car for ten minutes waiting for the phone to ring again. When it did, she recognised Johnson’s private number on the screen.

‘What was that all about?’

‘I told you, Dupree has his own way of doing things. He’s been incommunicado for some time, which, as you know, is normal when you’re working undercover. Finding the right moment can be difficult. However, that, together with Agent Dupree’s somewhat irreverent attitude, is causing them to question the security of his identity.’

‘You mean they think his cover might have been blown?’

‘That’s the official version. The truth is, they think he may have been taken hostage.’

‘What do you think?’ she said, warily, wondering how far she could trust Johnson. How could she be sure this second call wasn’t also being recorded?

‘I think Dupree knows what he’s doing.’

‘So do I,’ she declared, with all the conviction she could muster, as the grotesque cries she had heard when Dupree answered his phone resounded once more in her head.

10

They had spent the afternoon at the shopping centre on Carretera de Francia on the pretext of buying clothes for Ibai, and to escape the cold brought by the fog that was thickening as night fell; by the time they left for dinner in the evening, they could scarcely see beyond the far bank of the river. The Santxotena restaurant was relatively lively, the murmur of laughter and voices reaching them as soon as they crossed the threshold. They were in the habit of reserving a table by the kitchen that opened on to the spacious dining room, so that they could watch the orderly bustle of three generations of women, clad in starched white aprons over black uniforms, moving about the kitchen as if it were a formal dance they’d rehearsed a thousand times.

After choosing from the wine list, James and Amaia were content to enjoy the atmosphere in the restaurant for a while. They hadn’t touched on the subject of the funeral, and had avoided bringing to a head the palpable tension that had arisen between them that afternoon. They knew they needed to talk, but had made a tacit agreement to wait until they were alone.

‘How’s the investigation going?’ James asked.

She looked at him, debating how to answer. Since she joined the police force, she had been meticulous about never discussing her work with her family, and they knew not to ask. She had no desire to talk to James about the more disturbing aspects of her job, in the same way she felt there were scenes from her past it was best not to mention, even though he already knew about them. She found it difficult to talk about her childhood, and for years she’d buried the truth beneath a false veneer of normality. When the barriers holding back all that horror had burst open, driving her to the edge of sanity, confiding in James had been the chink in the wall of fear that allowed light to flood in, creating a place for them to come together – a place that had delivered her back to a world where, if she was vigilant, the old ghosts could not touch her.

And yet, she’d always known that fear never goes away completely, it merely shrinks back to a dark, dank place, where it waits, reduced to a tiny red light you can still see even if you don’t want to, even if you refuse to acknowledge its existence, because it prevents you from living. She also knew that fear is a private thing, that no amount of talking about it, or naming it, will make it go away; that the old cliché ‘a burden shared is a burden halved’ didn’t apply where fear was concerned. She had always believed that love would triumph over everything, that opening the door and revealing herself to James with all the baggage of her past would suffice.

Now, sitting opposite him, she still saw the handsome young man she had fallen in love with. The self-assured, optimistic artist no one had ever tried to kill, with his simple, almost childlike way of looking at things that enabled him to follow a steady path, safe from life’s cruelties. It allowed him to believe that turning the page, burying the past, or talking to a psychiatrist for months about your mother’s desire to eat you, would help her to overcome her fears, to live in a world of green meadows and blue skies sustained by simply willing it to be so. This belief that happiness was a choice struck her as so naïve as to be almost insulting. She knew James didn’t really want to know how her work was going, and that when he asked he wasn’t expecting her to explain that she had questioned a psychopath about where her mother or her vanished sister’s body were.

She smiled at him, because she loved him, because his way of seeing the world still intrigued her, and because she knew that part of love was making the effort to love someone.

‘Quite well. I’m hoping to wrap up the case in a couple of days,’ she replied.

‘I spoke to my father today,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t been feeling well lately. My mother insisted he have a check-up and they’ve found a lesion in his heart.’

‘Oh, James! Is it serious?’

‘No, even my mother is relaxed. Apparently he has a small blockage in one of his coronary arteries due to early stage arteriosclerosis. He needs a bypass to prevent future heart attacks. However, he’ll have to stop working. My mother has been pressuring him to hand over the day-to-day management of the company, but he likes to keep busy, so while his health held out he was content to carry on indefinitely. She seems almost happy about it, and is already talking about the trips they’ll make when he gets over the surgery.’

‘I hope it all goes well, James, and I’m glad you’re taking it this way. When’s the operation?’

‘Next Monday. That’s why I asked how your work was going. I was hoping the three of us could fly over there together. My parents haven’t seen Ibai since the baptism.’

‘Hm …’

‘We could leave after the funeral. Flora stopped by this morning to tell us she thinks it’ll be on Friday. She’s going to confirm tomorrow. We’d only stay for a few days. I doubt you’ll have a problem taking vacation at this time of year.’

Too many loose ends, too much that needed sorting out. Yes, the investigation would be officially closed in a few days, but there was that other business; she had yet to receive confirmation from the commissioner’s office about whether she’d be attending the seminars at Quantico, and she hadn’t even mentioned that to James.

‘I don’t know, James … I’ll have to think about it.’

The smile froze on his face.

‘Amaia, this is really important to me,’ he said solemnly.

She instantly grasped the implication. He had given her a glimpse yesterday. He had his own needs, his own plans, he wanted a place in her life. The image of the stalled works at Juanitaenea flashed into her mind, together with Yáñez’s words: ‘a house isn’t the same as a home’.

She reached across the table to clasp his hand.

‘Of course, it’s important for me too,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘First thing tomorrow, I’ll put in a request. As you say, I doubt they’ll object, no one goes on holiday at this time of year.’

‘Excellent,’ he replied cheerily. ‘I’ve been looking at flights. As soon as you’ve got permission, I’ll book our tickets.’

James spent the rest of the dinner planning their trip, excited at the idea of taking Ibai to the States for the first time. She listened, saying nothing.

11

She was aware of his hot breath on her skin, of becoming intensely aroused as she sensed his closeness. He murmured something she couldn’t hear, but she didn’t care, something about his voice mesmerised her. It evoked the contours of his mouth, his moist lips, the smile she had always found so troubling. Inhaling the warmth of his skin stirred her desire; she longed for him, eyes closed, holding her breath, as her senses yielded to pleasure. She felt his lips on her neck, descending in a slow, unstoppable advance, like lava flowing from a volcano. Every nerve in her body was engaged in a furious struggle between pleasure and pain, pleading for more, wanting more, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, her nipples contracting, a burning sensation between her thighs. She opened her eyes, glancing about, confused. The little light she always left on at night permitted her to recognise the familiar shape of their bedroom in Engrasi’s house. Her body tensed, alarmed. James whispered in her ear as he went on kissing her.

It was daylight, and Ibai was already awake. She could hear him moving, gurgling softly as he kicked his legs in the air, pushing off the duvet, which would end up at the foot of his cot. She didn’t open her eyes immediately; it had taken her ages to fall asleep again after they made love, and, eyelids still heavy, she relished the idea of lazing in bed for another five minutes. She heard James get up, gather Ibai in his arms and whisper to him:

‘Are you hungry? We’ll let Ama snooze.’

She heard them leave the room, as she lay there, trying in vain to relax into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. All of a sudden, the dream about Markina came flooding back. She knew better than anyone that we aren’t responsible for our dreams, that the most pleasurable fantasies and the sickest nightmares come from a mysterious, unreachable place beyond our control. Still, she felt guilty. Wide-awake now, irritated at having had to renounce those five extra minutes of peace, she analysed her feelings. She realised the sense of guilt came not from having dreamt about Markina, but rather because she had made love with her husband stimulated by the desire she felt for the judge.

As James entered the room, bringing her a cup of coffee, the mobile on her bedside table made an unpleasant buzzing noise.

‘Good morning, Iriarte.’

‘Good morning, Inspector. We’ve just had a call from the prison in Pamplona. Berasategui has been found dead in his cell.’

She hung up, leapt to her feet, dressing between sips of coffee. She hated drinking it like that; she’d got into the habit of drinking her morning coffee in bed back when she was a student and it remained her preferred way to start the morning. Rushing to get ready was something she detested; it always augured a bad day.

The prison governor was waiting for them at the entrance, pacing up and down like a caged animal. He extended his hand courteously, then invited them to follow him to his office. Amaia refused, requesting to see the body immediately.

A guard escorted them through the various security gates until they reached the isolation cells. They could tell which one was Berasategui’s from the guard posted outside the metal door.

‘The doctor found no signs of violence on the body,’ explained the director. ‘He was placed in isolation yesterday at Judge Markina’s request, and hadn’t spoken to anyone since.’ He signalled to the guard to unlock the door, then ushered them in.

‘But someone must have come in here,’ said Inspector Montes, ‘if only to confirm that he was dead.’

‘One of the guards noticed he wasn’t moving and raised the alarm. The only people to have entered the cell are the prison doctor, who confirmed that he was dead, and myself. We called you immediately. It appears he died of natural causes.’

The cell, which contained no personal effects, was clean and tidy, the bedclothes smoothed out, military fashion. Dr Berasategui lay face up on his bunk, fully dressed down to his shoes, face relaxed, eyes closed. The scent of his cologne filled the cell, yet the perfect neatness of his clothes, his hands clasped on his chest, gave the impression of an embalmed corpse.

‘Natural causes, you say?’ Amaia frowned. ‘This was a thirty-six-year-old man who kept himself in good shape; he even had a gym in his apartment. Not only that, he was a doctor, so he’d have been the first to know if he was unwell, don’t you think?’

‘I must admit, this is the best-looking corpse I’ve ever seen!’ Montes joked, nudging Zabalza, who was searching the perimeter of the cell with a flashlight.

Amaia pulled on the gloves Inspector Etxaide handed to her and approached the bunk. She studied the body in silence for a few minutes, until she became aware of Dr San Martín standing behind her.

‘What have we here, Inspector? The prison doctor tells me there are no signs of violence, and suggests death by natural causes.’

‘There are no objects in here with which he could have harmed himself,’ said Montes, ‘and whatever the cause of death, you can see from looking at him that he didn’t suffer.’

‘Well, if you’ve finished here, I’ll take him away. The results of the autopsy should be ready later today.’

‘Berasategui didn’t die of natural causes,’ Amaia broke in. The others said nothing, and she thought she heard Zabalza sigh. ‘Look at the way he’s arranged, right in the centre of the bed. Clothes smoothed out, shoes polished. Hands placed exactly as he’d want us to see them when we walked in here. This guy was a proud, vain narcissist, who would never have let us discover him in an embarrassing or humiliating attitude.’

‘Suicide doesn’t fit the profile of a narcissistic personality,’ Jonan ventured.

‘Yes, I know, that’s what threw me when we walked in. On the one hand, it fits; on the other, it doesn’t. Suicide may not be typical of someone with his personality, but if Berasategui were going to take his own life, this is exactly how I imagine he’d go about it.’

‘But the body shows no signs of suicide,’ protested Zabalza.

His curiosity piqued, San Martín approached Berasategui’s corpse, felt his throat, lifted his eyelids and looked down his throat.

‘All the hallmarks of a heart attack, but it’s true he was relatively young and in good shape. On the other hand, there are no lesions, no defensive wounds, or other signs of injury. Anyone would think,’ said the doctor, looking round at the company, ‘that he simply lay down and died.’

‘Quite right, Doctor. That’s exactly what he did: he lay down and died. But to do that, he needed help. How long had he been in isolation?’ she said, addressing the director.

‘Since approximately eleven o’clock yesterday morning, shortly after Judge Markina called me. I was away, but my deputy informed me fifteen minutes after he’d been moved.’

‘Are there any cameras in these cells?’ asked Montes, shining a flashlight into the corners of the room.

‘No, they aren’t necessary. Guards monitor prisoners in isolation through the windows in the cell doors. But we have CCTV out in the corridors. I assumed you’d want to see the tape, so I’ve prepared a copy.’

‘What about the two men who were guarding him yesterday?’

‘They’ve been suspended, pending an investigation of that other incident,’ replied the director, looking uncomfortable.

Montes and Etxaide, having no idea what this ‘other incident’ might be, turned to look at her, demanding answers. Ignoring them, Amaia approached the bunk once more and said:

‘Dr Berasategui had no wish to die, but his personality prevented him from permitting another to take his life for him.’

‘He didn’t want to die, yet he killed himself …?’

She leaned over the body, illuminating his face with her flashlight. Berasategui’s bronzed skin revealed a whitish residue confined to the wrinkles around his eyes.

‘Tears,’ announced San Martín.

‘Yes, sir,’ she agreed. ‘True to his nature as a narcissist, Berasategui lay down here, out of self-pity, wept over his own death. Copiously,’ she said, feeling a patch of fabric visibly darker than the rest. ‘He cried so much he soaked the pillow with his tears.’

12

Montes felt satisfied. The CCTV footage revealed a guard approaching Berasategui’s cell, and slipping something through the window, which, although it wasn’t visible on camera could easily have been something he used to kill himself. The guard had finished his shift and made himself scarce by the time they sent a patrol car to his house. He was probably in France or Portugal by now. Even so, knowing that bastard Berasategui was dead had made Montes’s day.

As he leaned forward to turn on the radio, the car swerved slightly, the front tyre touching the white line at the side of the road.

‘Careful!’ cried Zabalza from the passenger seat. He’d been subdued throughout the journey and Montes assumed he was sulking because he’d refused to let him drive. What the hell! No brat was going to take the wheel while Montes was in the car. He glanced sidelong at him, grinning.

‘Calm down, you’re as a tense as a teenage boy’s scrotum,’ he said, laughing at his own joke, until he saw that Zabalza was still irritated.

‘What’s the matter with you?’

‘She drives me crazy …’

‘Who?’

‘Who do you think? The fucking star cop.’

‘Watch your mouth, lad!’ warned Montes.

‘Didn’t you see that mystical act she puts on? The way she stood looking at Berasategui’s body, as if she felt sorry for him, waiting for the room to go quiet before she spoke, as if she was about to pass judgement. As for that bullshit about him crying – for fuck’s sake! Everyone knows that corpses cry, piss themselves, leak fluid from every orifice.’

‘Berasategui certainly didn’t piss himself … I imagine he was careful not to drink anything, because he wanted to be immaculate when we found him. Besides, the pillow was sodden. I think the guy really did weep over his own death.’

‘Rubbish,’ scoffed Zabalza.

‘No, it isn’t rubbish. You should be watching, not criticising, you might learn something.’

‘Who from? That clown?’

The two men were thrown forward slightly, as Montes stepped on the brakes, pulling over into a lay-by.

‘Why did you do that?’ Zabalza cried, startled.

‘Because I don’t want to hear you talk about Inspector Salazar like that again. Not only is she your superior, she’s an outstanding police officer and a loyal colleague.’

‘For fuck’s sake, Fermín!’ Zabalza laughed. ‘Don’t get so upset. You’re the one who coined the phrase “star cop” remember.’

Montes looked straight at him as he started the car again.

‘You’re right, and I was wrong. They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, don’t they? If you have any problems, you can always come to me, but I warn you, I won’t hear any more of this kind of talk,’ he said, joining the motorway again.

‘I don’t have any problems,’ muttered Zabalza.

As she left the cell, Amaia noticed the prison governor standing further along the corridor talking to Judge Markina, whose hushed voice brought back vivid recollections of her dream the night before. She concentrated on the brief summary she would give him before making her escape, but it was too late, the murmur of his voice had drawn her in, even though she was too far away to hear what he was saying. She stood watching his gesticulations, his habit of touching his face when he spoke, the way his jeans narrowed at the waist, how the blue of his shirt gave him a youthful air. She found herself speculating about how old he was, thinking it odd that she didn’t know. She waited for Dr San Martín to arrive and then joined them. She did her best to avoid Markina’s gaze while she gave a brief report, but without making it too obvious.

‘Will you attend the autopsy, Inspector?’ asked San Martín, with a sweeping gesture that included Deputy Inspector Etxaide.

‘Start without me, Doctor, I’ll join you later. Perhaps you’d like to go, Jonan, there’s something I have to do first,’ she added evasively.

‘Going home again today, boss?’ he teased.

She smiled, admiring his astuteness.

‘All right, Deputy Inspector, would you like to come with me?’

13

The receptionist at the University Hospital hadn’t forgotten Amaia, judging by the way the woman’s face froze the instant she saw her. Even so, the inspector fished out her badge, prodding Jonan to do likewise. Both detectives placed their badges squarely on the counter.

‘We’d like to see Dr Sarasola, please.’

‘I don’t know if he’s here,’ the woman replied, picking up the receiver. She gave their names, listened to the reply then, with a sour expression, motioned towards the lift doors. ‘Fourth floor, they’ll show you the way.’ There was a tone of caution in the woman’s voice as she said these last words. Amaia grinned at her and winked, then started towards the lift.

Sarasola received them in his office, behind a desk heaped with papers, which he pushed aside. He stood up, accompanying them to the chairs over by the window.

‘I imagine you’re here about Dr Berasategui’s death,’ he said, as they shook hands.

Few things happened in Pamplona without Sarasola’s knowledge; even so, Amaia and Deputy Inspector Etxaide were somewhat taken aback. Noticing their expressions, he added:

‘The prison governor has family ties with Opus Dei.’

Amaia nodded.

‘So, how may I help you?’

‘Did you visit Dr Berasategui in prison?’

They knew that Sarasola had visited him. She’d asked the question to see whether he’d admit it.

‘On three separate occasions – in a purely professional capacity, I might add. As you know, I have a special interest in cases of abnormal behaviour that possess the nuance of evil.’

‘Did Dr Berasategui mention anything to you about Rosario’s escape, or what happened that night?’ asked Etxaide.

‘I’m afraid our conversations were rather technical and abstract – although fascinating, needless to say. Berasategui was an excellent clinician, which made discussing his own behaviour and actions a daunting task. He thwarted all my attempts to analyse him so that in the end I limited myself to offering him spiritual solace. In any event, nothing he might have said about Rosario or what happened that night would be of any use. One thing I do know is that you should never listen to people who have embraced evil, because they only tell lies.’

Amaia stifled a sigh, which Jonan recognised as a sign that she was becoming impatient.

‘So did you talk about Rosario, or have you lost interest in the matter?’

‘Of course, but he immediately changed the subject. Knowing what you do now, Inspector, I trust that you no longer hold me responsible for Rosario’s escape.’

‘I don’t. However, I am beginning to suspect that this is all part of a far more intricate plan, starting with Rosario’s transfer from Santa María de las Nieves and culminating in the events of that night – which weren’t your fault, either.’

Sarasola leaned forward in his chair and looked straight at Amaia.

‘I’m glad you’re beginning to understand,’ he said.

‘Oh, I understand, but I still find it difficult to believe that a man like you didn’t notice that something untoward was going on in this clinic.’

‘This isn’t my—’

‘I know, I know, it’s not your clinic, but you know perfectly well what I mean,’ she snapped.

‘And I apologised for that,’ he protested. ‘You’re right, once I became involved in the case I should have kept a closer eye on Berasategui, but in this instance I, too, am a victim.’

She always found it distasteful when someone who wasn’t dead or in hospital referred to themselves as a victim. Amaia knew only too well what it meant to be a victim, and Sarasola wasn’t one.

‘In any event, Berasategui’s suicide doesn’t add up. I visited him in prison too, and I’d have said he was more of an escape risk than a suicide risk.’

‘Suicide is a form of escape,’ Jonan broke in, ‘although it doesn’t fit his profile.’

‘I agree with Inspector Salazar,’ replied Sarasola, ‘and allow me to tell you something about behaviour profiles. They may work, even for individuals suffering from mental illness. But they are far from reliable when dealing with someone who is the embodiment of evil.’

‘That’s exactly what I mean when I talk about a premeditated plan. What would drive a man like that to take his own life?’ declared Amaia.

‘The same thing that drove him to carry out those other acts: to achieve some unknown end.’

‘Bearing that in mind, do you believe Rosario is dead, or that somehow she got away?’

‘I know no more than you. Everything points to the river having—’

‘Dr Sarasola, I was hoping we had got beyond that stage in our relationship. Why not help me instead of telling me what you think I want to hear?’ she said.

‘I believe that, besides inciting those men to commit murder, Berasategui devised a way of drawing you into the investigation by leaving your ancestors’ bones in the church at Arizkun, that for months he was working towards Rosario’s transfer from Santa María de las Nieves, and her subsequent escape from this clinic. The plan was meticulously carried out, which makes me think that he took every possible contingency into account. Rosario may be an elderly woman, but after seeing the images of her leaving the clinic with Berasategui, I …’

‘You what?’

‘I believe she’s out there, somewhere,’ he admitted.

‘But why involve me, why this provocation?’

‘I can only think that it’s connected with your mother.’

Amaia took a photograph out of her bag and passed it to him.

‘This is the inside of the cave where Berasategui and my mother were preparing to kill my son, Ibai.’

Sarasola studied the image, looked at Amaia for a few seconds, then at the photograph again.

‘Doctor, I suspect that the tarttalo killings are the grisly tip of an iceberg aimed at drawing our attention away from a far more horrible crime. Something connected to these sacrileges that would explain the clear symbolic use of bones belonging to children in my family, why they wanted to kill my son and didn’t, and, I believe, the Church’s response to a desecration, which on the face of it wasn’t all that shocking.’

Sarasola looked at them in silence, then examined the photograph once more. Amaia leaned forward, touching the priest’s forearm.

‘I need your help, please. Tell me what you see in this picture.’

‘Inspector Salazar, you’re aware that you share the name of an illustrious inquisitor. When the witch hunts reached their apogee, your ancestor, Salazar y Frías opened an investigation into the presence of evil in the Baztán Valley, which spread across the border to France. After dwelling among the population for over a year, he concluded that the practice of witchcraft was much more deeply rooted in the local culture than Christianity itself, which although firmly established, had been bastardised by the old beliefs that held sway in the area prior to the foundation of the Catholic Church. Salazar y Frías was an open-minded man, a scientist and investigator, who employed methods of inquiry and analysis similar to those you use today. Of course, many of the people questioned were undoubtedly driven to confess to such practices to avoid being tortured by the Inquisition, the mere mention of which sent them into a panic. I admire Salazar y Frías’s decision to put a stop to that insanity, but among the numerous crimes he investigated, many remained unsolved, in particular those involving the deaths of children, infants and young girls, whose bodies subsequently disappeared. Such stories appear in several statements; however, once the cruel methods of the Inquisition were abolished, all the statements taken at that time were deemed unreliable.

‘What I see in this photograph is the scene of a sacrifice, a human sacrifice, the victim of which was to be your son. Human sacrifice is a heinous practice used in witchcraft and devil worship. It was the appearance of children’s bones in the desecrations at Arizkun that raised the alarm; it is common in devil worship to use human remains, especially those of children. However, the sacrifice of a living child is considered the highest offering.’

‘I know about Salazar y Frías. I understand what you’re saying, but are you suggesting a connection between the practice of witchcraft in the seventeenth century and the desecrations in Arizkun, or what nearly happened to Ibai?’

Sarasola nodded slowly.

‘How much do you know about witches, Inspector? And I don’t mean witch doctors or faith healers, but rather the ones described by the Brothers Grimm in their fairy tales.’

Jonan leaned forward, interested.

‘I know that they’re covered in warts and dwell deep in the forest,’ said Amaia.

‘Do you know what they eat?’

‘They eat children,’ replied Jonan.

Amaia laughed.

The priest turned to her, irritated by her sarcasm.

‘Inspector,’ he cautioned, ‘stop playing games with me. Ever since you walked in here, I’ve had the impression that you know more than you’re willing to let on. This is no laughing matter; stories that become folklore after being passed down through generations usually contain a grain of truth. Perhaps witches don’t literally eat children, but they feed off the lives of innocents offered in sacrifice.’

Sarasola was shrewd enough to have figured out that, as a homicide detective, she had more reasons for asking him about this subject than those she was prepared to admit.

‘All right, so what do they get in exchange for these sacrifices?’

‘Health, life, riches …’

‘And people actually believe that? I mean now, as opposed to in the seventeenth century. They believe that by performing human sacrifices they will obtain some of these benefits?’

Sarasola sighed despairingly.

‘Inspector, if you wish to understand anything about how this works, then you must stop thinking about whether it’s logical or not, whether it corresponds to your computerised world, your profiling techniques. Stop thinking in terms of what you think a modern person would believe.’

‘I find that impossible.’

‘That’s where you are mistaken as are all those fools who base their idea of the world on what they see as logical, scientifically proven fact. Believe me, the men who condemned Galileo for suggesting that the Earth revolved around the Sun did exactly the same thing: based on their centuries-old understanding of the cosmos, they argued that the Earth was the centre of the universe. Think about this before you reply: do we know, or do we believe we know because that’s what we’ve been told? Have we ourselves tested each of the absolute laws which we accept unquestioningly because people have been repeating them to us over the centuries?’

‘The same argument could apply to the belief in the existence of God or the Devil, which the Church has upheld for centuries—’

‘Indeed, and you are right to question that, though perhaps not for the reasons you think. Find out for yourself, search for God, search for the Devil, then draw your own conclusions, but don’t judge other people’s beliefs. Millions live lives based on faith: faith in God, a spaceship that will take them to Orion, the belief that by blowing themselves to bits they will enter paradise, where honey flows from fountains and virgins attend their every need. What difference does it make? If you want to understand, you must stop thinking about whether it’s logical, and start accepting that faith is real, it has consequences in the real world, people are prepared to kill for their beliefs. Now consider the question again.’

‘Okay, why children, and what is done to them?’

‘Children under two are used in ritual sacrifices. Often they are bled to death. In some cases they are dismembered, and the body parts used. Skulls are highly prized, as are the longer bones, like the mairu-beso used in the desecrations at Arizkun. Other rituals make use of teeth, nails, hair and powdered bone made by crushing up the smaller bones. Of all the liturgical objects used in witchcraft, the bodies of small children are the most highly valued.’

‘Why children under two?’

‘Because they are in a transitional phase,’ Jonan broke in. ‘Many cultures believe that, prior to reaching that age, children move between two worlds, enabling them to see and hear what happens in both. This makes them the perfect vehicle for communicating with the spirit world, or obtaining favours.’

‘That’s correct. Children develop instinctual learning up to the age of two: standing, walking, holding objects, and other imitative behaviour. After that, they start to develop language, they cross a barrier, and their relationship with their surroundings changes. They cease to make such good vehicles, although similarly, youths of pre-pubescent age are also prized by those practising witchcraft.’

‘If someone stole a corpse for such purposes, where might they take it?’

‘Well, as a detective I imagine you’ve already worked that out: to a remote place, where they can perform their rituals without fear of being discovered. Although, I think I see where you’re going with this. You’re imagining temples, churches or other holy places. And you’d be quite right if we were talking about Satanism, whose aim is not only to worship the Devil, but also to offend God. However, witchcraft is a far more wide-ranging branch of evil than Satanism, and the two aren’t as closely related as you might think. Many creeds use human remains as vehicles for obtaining favours; for example, Voodoo, Santería, Palo and Candomblé, which summon deities as well as dead spirits. They perform their rituals in holy places as a way of desecrating them. And, of course, Arizkun is situated in the Baztán Valley, which has a long tradition of witchcraft, and of summoning Aker, the devil.’

Amaia remained silent for a few seconds, looking out of the window at the gloomy Pamplona sky to avoid the priest’s probing gaze. The two men said nothing, aware that behind Amaia’s calm appearance her brain was working hard. When she turned once more to Sarasola, her sarcasm had given way to resolve.

‘Dr Sarasola, do you know what Inguma is?’

‘Mau Mau, or Inguma. Not what, but who. In Sumerian demonology, he is known as Lamashtu, an evil spirit as old as time, one of the most terrible, cruel demons, surpassed only by Pazazu – the Sumerian name for Lucifer. Lamashtu would tear babies from their mother’s breast to feed on their flesh and drink their blood, or cause babies to die suddenly during sleep. Demons that killed babies while they slept existed in ancient cultures too: in Turkey they were known as “crushing demons”, while in Africa the name translates literally as “demon that rides on your back”. Among the Hmong people he is known as the “torturing demon”, and in the Philippines the phenomenon is known as bangungut, and the perpetrator is an old woman called Batibat. In Japan, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is known as pokkuri. Henry Fuseli’s famous painting The Nightmare portrays a young woman asleep on a chaise longue while a hideous demon crouches on her chest. Oblivious to his presence, the woman appears to be trapped in a nightmare. The demon has many different names, but his method is always the same: he creeps into the rooms of sleeping victims at night and sits on their chests, sometimes clutching their throats, producing a terrifying feeling of suffocation. During this nightmare, they may be conscious, but unable to move or wake up. At other times Inguma places his mouth over that of the sleeper, sucking out their breath until they expire.’

‘Do you believe …?’

‘I’m a priest, Inspector, and you’re still thinking about this in the wrong way. Naturally, I’m a believer, but what matters is the power of these myths. In Rome, every morning at dawn, an Exorcism Prayer is performed. Various priests pray for the liberation of possessed souls, and afterwards they attend to people who come to them asking for help. Many are psychiatric cases, but by no means all.’

‘And yet exorcism has been shown to have a placebo effect on people who believe themselves to be possessed.’

‘Inspector, have you heard of the Hmong? They are an ethnic group that live in the mountainous regions of China, Vietnam, Laos and Thailand, and who collaborated with the Americans during the Vietnam War. When the conflict ended, their fellow countrymen condemned them, and many fled to the United States. In 1980, the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta recorded an extraordinary rise in the number of sudden deaths during sleep: two hundred and thirty Hmong men died of asphyxia in their sleep in the US, but many more were affected; survivors claimed to see an old witch crouched over them, squeezing their throats tight. Alerted to what was happening, parents began sleeping next to their sons to rouse them from these nightmares. When the attacks took place, they would shake them awake, or drag them out of bed. The most terrifying part was that, trapped in their waking dream, the boys could see the sinister old woman, feel her crooked fingers on their throats. This didn’t happen in a remote region of Thailand, but in places like New York, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles … All over the country, every night, Hmong men suffered such attacks. Those who didn’t succumb were kept under strict surveillance in hospital, where the invisible attacks, in which the victims seemed to be strangled by some invisible creature, were witnessed and videod. Doctors were at a loss to diagnose a specific illness. The Hmong’s own shamans concluded that the demon was targeting this particular generation of Hmong because they had become distanced from their centuries-old traditions and protections. Requests to perform purification rites around the victims were mostly refused, because they involved animal sacrifice, even though in cases where permission was granted, the attacks ceased.

‘In 1917, seven hundred and twenty-two people died in their sleep in the Philippines, suffocated by Batibat, which translates literally as “the fat old woman”. And in 1959 in Japan, five hundred healthy young men died at the hands of pokkuri. It is believed that when Inguma awakens, he goes on a murderous rampage until his thirst is quenched, or until he is stopped by some other means. In the case of the Hmong people, the phenomenon that claimed the lives of two hundred and thirty healthy boys remains unsolved to this day.’ His eyes fixed on Amaia. ‘Even science could offer no explanation: autopsies were carried out, but the cause of death could not be determined.’

14

In accordance with Amaia’s orders, Dr San Martín had started the autopsy without them. When she and Etxaide approached the steel table, at the centre of a room filled with medical students, the pathologist had his back to them, and was busy weighing the internal organs on a scale. He turned, smiling when he saw them.

‘Just in time, we’re almost done. The toxicology tests show high levels of an extremely powerful sedative. We’ve identified the active ingredient, but I won’t hazard a guess as to the name of the drug. As a doctor, Berasategui would have known which one to use and how much to take. Most are injectable, but the small abrasions on the sides of the tongue suggest he took it orally.’

Amaia leaned over to examine through the magnifying glass the row of tiny blisters either side of the tongue, which San Martín was holding up for her with a pair of forceps.

‘I can smell a sweet, acidic odour,’ she remarked.

‘Yes, it’s more noticeable now. Perhaps the cologne Berasategui doused himself in masked it. A vain fellow indeed.’

Amaia examined the body as she listened to San Martín. The ‘Y’ incision started at the shoulders, travelling down the chest to the pelvis, laying bare the glistening insides, whose vivid colours had always fascinated her. On this occasion, San Martín and his team had forced open the ribcage to extract and weigh the internal organs, doubtless interested to see the effects of a powerful sedative on a healthy young male. The startlingly white ribs pointed up towards the ceiling. The denuded bones had a surreal look, like the frame of a boat, or a dead whale’s skeleton, or the long, eerie fingers of some inner creature trying to climb out of his dead body. No other surgical procedure quite resembled an autopsy; the only word that came close to describing it was wondrous. She understood the fascination it held for Ripper-type murderers, many of whom were skilled at making precise incisions at exactly the right depth to enable them to extract the organs in a particular order without damaging them.

Amaia observed the assistants and medical students, listening attentively to San Martín, as he pointed to the different sections of the liver, explaining how it had stopped functioning. By then, Berasategui was almost certainly unconscious. He had sought a dignified, painless death, but even he couldn’t avoid the procedure, which, he knew would inevitably follow. Berasategui hadn’t wanted to die, he had certainly never considered taking his own life. A narcissist like him would only have accepted suicide if he were forced to relinquish the control he exercised over others. And yet she had seen for herself how he had surmounted that obstacle in prison. He’d done what he did, against his own will, and that constituted a discrepancy, an abnormal element, which Amaia couldn’t ignore. Berasategui had wept over his own suicide like a condemned man forced to walk a green mile from which there was no return.

Turning to share her thoughts with Jonan, she saw that he was standing back, behind the students gathered around San Martín. Arms folded, he was gazing at the nightmarish vision of the wet, naked corpse splayed open on a table, ribs exposed to the air.

‘Come closer, Deputy Inspector Etxaide, I’ve been saving the stomach until last … I thought you’d be interested to see the contents, although there’s no doubt he swallowed the sedative.’

One of the assistants placed a strainer over a beaker, and then, tilting the stomach, which San Martín had clamped at one end, she emptied the viscid, yellow contents into the receptacle. The stench of vomit mixed with the tranquiliser was nauseating. Amaia looked on as Jonan retched, and the students exchanged knowing looks.

‘Here we see traces of sedative,’ said San Martín, ‘indicating that he reduced his food and liquid intake in order to absorb the drug more rapidly. The contact of the drug with the mucous membrane stimulated the production of stomach acid. It would be interesting to dissect the intestine, trachea and oesophagus to see how it affected those organs.’

The suggestion was greeted with general enthusiasm except by Amaia.

‘We’d love to stay, Doctor, but have to get back to Elizondo. If you’d be so kind as to give us the name of the sedative as soon as possible; we already know one of the guards supplied him with it, and probably also removed the empty phial. Having the name would help us find out how he got hold of it and whether he acted alone.’

Jonan was visibly relieved at the news. After saying goodbye to San Martín, he walked ahead of her towards the exit, trying not to touch anything. Amaia followed, amused at his behaviour.

‘Hold on a moment.’ San Martín handed over the reins to one of his assistants, and, tossing his gloves into a waste bin, plucked an envelope from his pigeonhole. ‘The test results of the decaying matter on the toy bear.’

Amaia’s interest quickened.

‘I thought they’d take much longer …’

‘Yes, the process was problematic because of the singular nature of the sample. Doubtless a copy will be waiting for you in Elizondo, but since you’re here …’

‘What’s so special about the sample? Isn’t it saliva?’

‘Possibly. In fact, everything suggests that it is indeed saliva. The singularity resides in the vast quantity of bacteria present in the fluid, hence the ghastly stench. And, of course, the fact that it isn’t human.’

‘It is saliva, but it isn’t human? Where is it from then, an animal?’

‘The fluid resembles saliva, and it could come from an animal, although, judging from those levels of bacteria, I’d say a dead one. I’m no expert in zoology, but the only animal I can think of is a Komodo dragon.’

Amaia’s eyes opened wide with surprise.

‘I know,’ declared San Martín. ‘It sounds absurd, and, needless to say we have no sample of Komodo dragon saliva with which to compare it. But that’s what came to mind when I saw the amount of bacteria it contained. Enough to cause septicaemia in anyone who touched it.’

‘I know a zoologist who might be able to help us. Has a sample been kept?’

He shook his head. ‘It was relatively fresh when the toy bear arrived at the lab, but I’m afraid it degraded too quickly to be of use.’

Amaia always let Jonan drive when she needed to think. Berasategui’s suicide had taken them by surprise, but it was the conversation with Sarasola that was occupying her mind. The murder of Valentín Esparza’s little girl, his attempt to make off with her body, a body he insisted shouldn’t be cremated. But more than anything, it was the coffin weighted with bags of sugar that had brought back the painful image of another white coffin resting in her family vault in San Sebastián; only a month ago she had prised it open to discover that someone had replaced the body with bags of gravel.

She needed to question Valentín Esparza again. He had read out his statement before the magistrate, adding nothing new. He admitted to taking his daughter’s dead body because he wanted to be with her for a while. But it was his remark about giving up his daughter to Inguma, the demon that robbed children’s breath, ‘like all the other sacrifices’, that continued to echo in her head. He had smothered his daughter. Traces of his skin and saliva had been found on the toy; besides the mystery of the unknown bacteria, the method was painfully familiar.

She called ahead to Elizondo to convene a meeting as soon as they arrived, but otherwise she hardly spoke during the journey. It wasn’t raining that afternoon, although it was so damp and cold that Jonan decided to park in the garage. As she was reaching to open the car door, she turned to him.

‘Jonan, could you collect some data on the frequency of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome in the valley in the last five years, say?’

‘Of course, I’ll get on to it right away,’ he said with a smile.

‘And you can wipe that grin off your face. I don’t believe for a moment that a demon is responsible for the Esparza girl’s death. However, I have a witness who says that a sect was set up in a farmhouse here in the valley in the seventies, a sort of hippy commune. They started to dabble in the occult, and went as far as carrying out ritual animal sacrifices. The witness claims there was some talk about sacrificing humans, specifically newborn babies. When the witness stopped attending the meetings, she was harassed by some of the other sect members. She can’t remember exactly how long the gatherings continued, but in all likelihood the group eventually dispersed. As I say, it was clearly the father not a demon who killed that child. But in light of Esparza’s attempt to abduct the body, together with what Sarasola told us, and the proliferation of sects and other cults known to European police forces, I think it’s worth checking for any statistical anomalies in infant death rates here in the valley compared to other regions and countries.’

‘Do you think your sister’s body may have suffered the same fate?’

‘I don’t know, Jonan, but the feeling of déjà vu when I saw the photographs of that empty coffin convinced me we’re looking at the same modus operandi. This isn’t evidence, it’s just a hunch, which may lead nowhere. Let’s compare your data with that of our colleagues, and then we’ll see.’

She was about to enter the house when her phone rang. The screen showed an unknown number.

‘Inspector Salazar,’ she said, answering.

‘Is it nighttime already in Baztán, Inspector?’

She recognised instantly the gravelly voice on the other end of the phone, even though he was speaking in a whisper.

‘Aloisius! But, what is this number …?’

‘It’s a safe number, but you mustn’t call me on it. I’ll call you when you need me.’

She didn’t bother to ask how he would know when she needed him. Somehow their relationship had always been like that. She moved away from the house and spent the next few minutes explaining to Dupree everything she knew about the case: her belief that her mother was alive, the dead girl that had to be given up, Elena Ochoa’s behaviour, Berasategui’s message from her mother, and his staged suicide. The unusual saliva sample resembling that of an ancient reptile which only existed on the far away island of Komodo …’

He listened to her in silence, and, when she had finished, he asked:

‘You’re faced with a complex puzzle, but that’s not why you called … What did you want to ask me about?’

‘The dead girl’s great grandmother claimed that a demon by the name of Inguma entered through a crack, sat on the girl’s chest, and sucked the air from her lungs; she says that this demon has appeared on other occasions, and taken many children’s lives. Father Sarasola explained to me that Inguma exists in other cultures: Sumerian, African, and Hmong, as well as in the old, dark folktales of the Baztán Valley.’

She heard a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. Then nothing. Silence.

‘Aloisius, are you there?’

‘I can’t talk any more. I’ll try to send you something in the next few days … I have to hang up now.’

The disconnection tone reached her through the earpiece.

15

Ros Salazar had smoked from the age of seventeen up until the moment when she decided she wanted to become a mother. But apparently that wasn’t to be. Since separating from Freddy, her relations with men had amounted to a few half-hearted flirtations in bars; Elizondo didn’t offer too many other options when it came to finding a partner, so the chances of meeting someone new were minimal. And yet she still found herself increasingly obsessed about her prospects of becoming a mother, even though in her case that would probably mean going it alone. With that in mind, she had refrained from taking up smoking again, although occasionally, late at night, after her aunt went to bed, she would roll a joint. Afterwards, on the pretext of getting some fresh air, she would walk to the bakery. There she would sit in her office, peacefully smoking, enjoying the solitude of remaining behind in her place of business after everyone else had gone home.

She was surprised to see that the lights were still on, her immediate assumption being that Ernesto had forgotten to switch them off before locking up. As she opened the door, she noticed that her office light was also on. She reached for her phone, punched in the number for the emergency services, her finger poised over the call button, then shouted:

‘Who’s there? The police are on their way.’

She heard a sudden noise of things being moved, a thud followed by a rustle.

Just as she pressed the button, Flora’s voice rang out:

‘Ros, it’s only me …’

‘Flora?’ she said, ending the call and approaching the office. ‘What are you doing here? I thought we were being burgled.’

‘I …’ Flora faltered. ‘I thought … I was sure I’d forgotten something, and I came to see if I’d left it here.’

‘What?’

Flora glanced about nervously.

‘My bag,’ she lied.

‘Your bag?’ repeated Ros. ‘Well, it’s not here.’

‘I can see that, and I was just leaving,’ she said, pushing past her sister towards the exit.

A moment later, Ros heard the heavy door of the bakery slam shut. She scanned the office, scrutinising each object. She had surprised Flora doing something suspicious, that much was clear, something that had caused her to make up that ridiculous excuse about her bag. But what could have prompted her to sneak into the bakery in the middle of the night?

Ros moved the swivel chair out from behind the desk and placed it in the centre of the room. She sat down, felt in her pocket for the joint she had brought with her, and lit it. She took a long draw, which made her feel dizzy. She exhaled, leaning back in the chair and turning in a slow circle, letting each object in the room tell its story. One hour and several turns later, her eye alighted on the wall where her favourite painting of the covered market hung. She would often contemplate the scene, because of the calm it radiated, but that wasn’t what drew her attention now. The painting had spoken. She rose to make sure she had interpreted its message correctly, smiling when she saw the heel marks left by Flora’s shoes on the sofa below. She stood on the same spot, and lifted the frame, which was heavier than she’d expected.

She wasn’t surprised to see the safe, she knew it was there; Flora had installed it years ago, to keep the cash with which to pay their suppliers. Nowadays, she paid them by bank transfer, so, to all intents and purposes, the safe should have been empty. Resting the painting on the sofa, Ros ran her fingers over the wheel lock, although she realised there was no point in trying the combination. She returned to the chair, gazing at that box buried in the wall, musing over many things until the small hours of the morning.

It had started to rain before dawn. Amaia had been aware of the rhythmical pitter-patter against the bedroom shutters during the many micro-awakenings that plagued her sleep, and which she found particularly irksome now that Ibai had started to sleep through. Although the rain had stopped by the time she got up, the wet streets were uninviting, and it came as a relief to enter the warm, dry police station.

As she made her way in, she greeted Montes, Zabalza and Iriarte, gathered as usual around the coffee machine.

‘Do you fancy a coffee, boss?’ Montes asked.

Amaia paused, noting with amusement Zabalza’s sulky expression.

‘Thanks, Inspector, but there’s no pleasure in drinking coffee out of a plastic cup. I’ll make myself a proper one later, in a mug.’

Deputy Inspector Etxaide was waiting for her in her office.

‘Boss, I’ve dug up some interesting facts about SIDS.’

She hung up her coat, switched on her computer and sat down at her desk.

‘I’m listening.’

‘Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or SIDS, is the name given to unexplained deaths among babies younger than one, but sometimes as old as two. Death occurs during sleep and is apparently painless. Two out of every thousand babies in Europe die of SIDS, ninety per cent within the first six months. Statistically, SIDS is the most widespread cause of death among healthy babies over one month old, although that is largely because if no other cause is discovered during autopsy, death is attributed to SIDS.’

He placed a printout on the desk in front of her. ‘I’ve made a list of the various risk factors, and how to minimise them, although they’re fairly wide-ranging; from prenatal care, breastfeeding and passive smoking, through to how the baby is positioned during sleep. Interestingly, most deaths occur in winter. The average number of deaths in Spain from SIDS is the same as in the rest of Europe. Seventeen children died from SIDS in Navarre in the last five years, four of them in Baztán – numbers which are also well within the norm.’

Amaia looked at him, considering the information.

‘In all cases, an autopsy was performed and the cause of death was registered as SIDS. However, in two of them, the pathologist recommended that social services investigate the family,’ he said, handing her a sheaf of stapled pages. ‘There’s no additional information, but it seems both cases were closed without any further action being taken.’

After knocking gently, Montes poked his head round the door.

‘I hope I’m not interrupting. Etxaide, are you coming for a coffee?’

Clearly surprised by the invitation, Jonan glanced at Amaia, arching his eyebrows.

‘Go ahead, it’ll give me time to read through all this,’ she said, holding up the report.

After Jonan had gone out, Montes poked his head round the door again, and winked.

‘Get out of here!’ she said, grinning.

As Montes left, Iriarte entered.

‘A woman has been found dead,’ he announced. ‘Her daughter drove all the way from Pamplona to check up on her because she wasn’t answering the phone. Apparently, when she got there the mother had vomited huge amounts of blood. She rang the emergency services, but paramedics couldn’t save the woman. The doctor who examined the body suspects that something isn’t right, so he called us …’

Driving across the bridge, she could see in the distance various vehicles belonging to the emergency services. It was only when they reached the end of the street that Amaia saw which house they were attending. In that instant, all the air seemed to be sucked out of the car, leaving her gasping for breath.

‘Do you know the dead woman’s name?’

‘Ochoa,’ said Iriarte. ‘I can’t remember her first name.’

‘Elena Ochoa.’

She needed no confirmation from Iriarte. A pale, distraught woman, looking like a younger version of her mother, stood smoking a cigarette outside the front door. Next to her, a man, presumably her partner, had his arm around her, practically holding her up.

She passed by without speaking to them, walked along the narrow corridor, and was guided to the bedroom by a paramedic. The heat in the room had intensified the pungent smell of blood and urine emanating from the pool surrounding Elena’s body. She was on her knees, jammed between the bed and a chest of drawers, arms clasped about her midriff, body leaning forward so that her face was resting in a patch of bloody bile. Amaia was relieved that Elena’s eyes were closed. Whereas her posture betrayed what must have been the agony of her final moments, her face appeared relaxed, as if the precise instant of death had been a great release.

Amaia turned towards the doctor, who stood waiting behind her.

‘Inspector Iriarte told me you’d found some anomaly …’

‘Yes, at first I thought she must have suffered a massive internal haemorrhage that filled her stomach with blood, causing her lungs to collapse. But when I looked closer, I could see that her vomit was made up of what appear to be tiny splinters.’

Amaia leaned over the pool of bloody vomit and saw that it did indeed contain hundreds of wood shavings.

Crouching down beside her, the doctor showed her a plastic container.

‘I took a sample, and this is what was left after washing off the blood.’

‘But, surely those are—’

‘Walnut shells, cut into razor-thin slices … I can’t begin to think how she swallowed them, but ingesting this amount would certainly perforate her stomach, duodenum, and trachea. Worst of all, when she vomited them up again, they must have torn her insides to shreds. She seems to have been prescribed anti-depressants. They’re on top of the microwave oven in the kitchen. Of course, she may not have been taking them. I can’t think of a more horrible way to kill oneself.’

Elena Ochoa’s daughter had inherited her mother’s appearance, her name and her hospitality towards guests. She insisted on making coffee for everyone in the house. Amaia had tried to protest, but the boyfriend intervened.

‘It will take her mind off things,’ he said.

From the same chair she had occupied during her most recent visit, Amaia watched the young woman moving about the kitchen. As before, she waited until the cups had been set out and the coffee poured before speaking.

‘I knew your mother.’

‘She never mentioned you,’ said the daughter, surprised.

‘I didn’t know her well. I came here a couple of times to ask her about my mother, Rosario; they were friends in their youth,’ she explained. ‘During my last visit, she seemed agitated. Had you noticed anything strange about your mother’s behaviour in the last few days?’

‘My mother has always suffered with her nerves. She became depressed after my father passed away. She never really got over it. I was seven at the time. She had good days and bad, but she was always fragile. It’s true that, in the last month or so, she was beginning to show signs of paranoia. On the other occasions when that happened, the doctor advised me to be firm, not to feed her fears. But this time I could tell she was genuinely terrified.’

‘You know her better than anyone. Do you think your mother was capable of taking her own life?’

‘You mean, did she kill herself? Never, not in a million years. She was a practising Catholic. Surely you don’t think … My mother died of internal bleeding. She complained of stomach pains when I spoke to her on the phone yesterday. She said she’d taken an antacid and some painkillers, and was going to try drinking camomile tea. I offered to drive up and see her after work. I’ve been living in Pamplona with Luis for a year,’ she said, indicating the young man. ‘We come up most weekends and stay the night. Anyway, she told me not to bother, that it was just a bit of heartburn. Last night, I called her again at bedtime and she told me the camomile tea had helped. But when I called early this morning she didn’t answer …’

‘Elena, the doctor found shards of walnut shell in her vomit – too many for her to have swallowed them accidentally. He also suggests that the internal bleeding was caused by her vomiting them up.’

‘But that’s impossible,’ the young woman replied. ‘My mother hated walnuts, the very sight of them sent her into a panic. She refused to have them in the house – I know, because I did all her shopping. She would rather have dropped dead than touch one. When I was little, a woman came up to me in the street once and gave me a handful of walnuts. When I got home, my mother acted like I’d brought poison into the house. She made me throw them outside, and searched my things to make sure I hadn’t kept any. Then she scrubbed me from head to foot and incinerated my clothes while I cried my eyes out, terrified. She made me swear never to accept walnuts from anyone – obviously, after that, I didn’t. Although, oddly enough, the same woman offered me walnuts several times over the following years. So, you see, my mother would never have eaten them knowingly. There must be some other explanation.’

‘I’ve seen many suicides like this,’ said Dr San Martín, ‘often among the prison population. They’re always gruesome. Remember Quiralte, the fellow who swallowed rat poison? And I’ve seen cases of people ingesting crushed glass, ammoniac, metal shavings … It’s the serene deaths like Dr Berasategui’s that are exceptional, not the horrific ones.’

‘Doctor, could she have swallowed the walnut shavings accidentally, perhaps mixed into food?’ asked Iriarte.

‘I’ll be able to tell you more when I’ve examined the stomach contents, though, judging from the quantity of shavings present in her vomit, I’d say that’s unlikely, if not impossible.’ He turned to Markina: ‘If you have no further questions, your honour, I’d like to get the autopsy under way as soon as possible.’

Markina nodded his approval and the pathologist turned to Amaia. ‘Will you be attending the autopsy, Inspector Salazar?’

‘I’ll be going,’ broke in Iriarte. ‘The victim was known to the inspector’s family.’

Dr San Martín murmured his condolences and set off briskly towards his car. A moment later, Amaia hurried after him, tapped on the window, and leaned in to speak to him.

‘Doctor, about the little Esparza girl: we’ve been looking at recent cases of cot death in the area and there were a couple that caught our attention. In both cases, the pathologist recommended that social services look into the victim’s family.’

‘How long ago was this?’

‘About five years.’

‘Then it must have been Maite Hernández – she was the other resident pathologist at the time. I try to avoid carrying out autopsies on small children, so she must have handled the cases you’re talking about.’ Amaia recalled San Martín’s sorrow as he contemplated the little Esparza girl’s body; how he had looked away, as if shamed by his natural feeling of revulsion. If anything, that display of humanity had made him go up in her estimation, though she’d always admired his professionalism and his ability to juggle work and, his great passion, teaching.

‘Dr Hernández was awarded a post at Universidad del País Vasco,’ he went on. ‘I’ll call her when I get back to my office. I’m sure she won’t object to speaking to you.’

Amaia thanked him and stood watching as he drove off. The street was now empty of vehicles; and the neighbours had returned to their houses for lunch, driven inside by the rain. As she gazed along the row of houses, Amaia glimpsed shadows moving behind the shutters, even the odd window cracked open despite the increasingly heavy downpour: clearly the neighbours were keeping an eye on proceedings.

Markina put up his umbrella, holding it over her.

‘I’ve been to your village more times in the past few days than in my entire life. Not that I mind.’ He grinned at her. ‘In fact, I’ve been thinking of coming here, though I’d hoped for different reasons.’

Eager to get away from the indiscreet windows overlooking Calle Giltxaurdi, she didn’t reply but set off down the street, confident that he would follow.

‘You never called me back, and yet you knew I was worried about you. Why won’t you tell me how you are? So much has been going on these past few days.’

Omitting any mention of her visit with Sarasola, she briefed him on her conclusions about Berasategui’s death, how they thought he’d obtained the drug he’d used to end his life.

‘We’ve looked into the missing prison guard. He wasn’t one of the two who were present during my interview with Berasategui; they had already been suspended. He lives with his parents, who didn’t object to showing us his room. In it, we found a plastic bag from a chemist’s on the other side of town. When we showed the pharmacist a photograph of the guard, he remembered him instantly, because he wasn’t often asked to supply that particular sedative in liquid form. He checked the prescription, as well as Berasategui’s name – which hadn’t been struck off the medical register. And since everything appeared to be in order, he had no choice but to dispense the drug. CCTV footage from the prison clearly shows the guard outside the cell, doubtless waiting for Berasategui to take the drug so that he could retrieve the empty vial. We’ve put out a search warrant on him, and have checked that he isn’t with any of his relatives. No news on that front for the moment.’

They had reached the old covered market. All at once, Markina stopped dead in his tracks, obliging her to do the same in order to remain under the shelter of his umbrella. He moved forward a couple of steps and then stopped again, grinning. She couldn’t decide if he was teasing her or incredibly happy to see her; he gazed at her in silence for a few seconds, until, finally overwhelmed, she lowered her eyes, only long enough to collect herself, and said:

‘What is it?’

‘When I complained just now that you hadn’t been in touch, I wasn’t referring to how the investigation was going.’

She lowered her gaze once more, smiling this time. When she looked up again she was back in control.

‘Well, that’s all the news you’ll get from me,’ she retorted.

His smile faded. ‘Do you remember what I told you when we left Berasategui’s apartment that night?’

Amaia didn’t reply.

‘My feelings haven’t changed, and they aren’t going to.’

He was standing very close. His nearness aroused her; his voice, merging with the vivid memory of her dream the night before, instantly evoked the warmth of his lips, his mouth, his embrace …

When a large cultural foundation chose to sponsor an artist’s work, their decision was based on advice from their art and finance consultants, who would take into account the artist’s talent and the quality of their work, as well as their likely future success, and the long-term cost effectiveness of the investment. Thanks to glowing reviews of James’s exhibition at the Guggenheim in the prestigious journals Art News and Art in America, the prices his work could command had risen. Now he was on his way to a meeting in Pamplona with representatives of the Banque National de Paris Foundation, hopeful that the outcome would be a major commission.

Adjusting the rear-view mirror, James grinned at his reflection in the glass. Heading for the motorway, his route took him through Txokoto towards Giltxaurdi Bridge. As he drove down the street near the old market, he saw Amaia sheltering under an umbrella held aloft by a man, the two of them in conversation. Slowing down, he lowered the window to call out to her. But something at once imperceptible and obvious made his voice freeze on his lips. The man was leaning in towards her as he spoke, oblivious to everything around him, while she listened, eyes lowered. It was raining and they were huddled beneath the umbrella, inches apart, and yet it wasn’t their proximity that troubled him, but rather the expression in her eyes when she looked up: they were shining with defiance, the challenge of a contest. James knew that was the one thing Amaia couldn’t resist, because she was a warrior governed by the goddess Palas: Amaia Salazar never surrendered without a fight.

James closed the car window, and drove on without stopping. The smile had vanished from his face.

16

She swallowed a mouthful of cold coffee, screwing up her face in disgust as she banished the cup to the edge of her desk. She had eaten nothing since breakfast; the vision of Elena Ochoa, slumped over in a pool of her own blood, had taken away her appetite, as well as something else: the slim hope that Elena might have eventually overcome her fears and talked. If only she had told her where the sect’s house was located … She sensed it played a vital role.

Elena’s death, coming on the heels of Berasategui’s, had confounded her. She felt that events were slipping through her fingers, as if she were trying to hold back the River Baztán. In front of her on the desk was a pile of papers: Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s report on cot deaths in the area; a transcript of her conversation with Valentín Esparza in his cell; Berasategui’s autopsy report; a few sheets of A4 filled with her scribbled notes. Unfortunately, after digesting the contents she was left with the impression that nothing stacked up: she was at an impasse, rudderless. She skimmed through the sheets of paper, frustrated.

She checked the time on her watch: coming up to four o’clock. San Martín had called her an hour earlier to give her the number of the pathologist who had carried out the autopsies on the babies mentioned in Jonan’s report. He had briefed the woman and arranged that Amaia would call her at four o’clock. She picked up the telephone, waiting until the last second before dialling the number.

If the doctor was surprised by her punctuality, she didn’t mention it.

‘Dr San Martín told me you are interested in two particular cases. I remember them well, but I’ve dug out my notes, to be on the safe side. Two healthy female babies, with nothing in their autopsies to suggest they died from anything other than natural causes – if we consider death from SIDS to be a natural cause. Both the doctors who signed the respective death certificates entered SIDS as the cause. One of the babies was sleeping on her front, the other on her back. In both cases, my misgivings were caused by the parents’ behaviour.’

‘Their behaviour?’

‘I met with one couple at the request of the father. He became threatening, told me that he’d read about pathologists holding on to people’s organs, and that his daughter had better be intact after the autopsy. I tried to reassure him that organs were only removed in cases where the family had given their consent, or if a person left their body to research. But what shocked me most was when he declared that he knew how much a dead child’s organs could fetch on the black market. I told him that if he meant donor organs then he was mistaken; they would need to be removed under strict medical conditions immediately post-mortem. He insisted he wasn’t referring to the black market in donor organs, but in dead bodies. His wife tried to shut him up, she kept apologising to me, and blaming his outburst on the trauma they were going through. But I believed he was serious; despite being an ignorant oaf, he knew what he was talking about. The reason why I contacted social services was primarily because I felt sorry for their other child, the baby’s older brother, sitting in the waiting room, listening to his father mouth off like that. I didn’t think it would do any harm if they took a look at the family.

‘The other couple’s behaviour was also shocking, but in a completely different way. When I walked into the waiting room at the Institute of Forensic Medicine to tell them we would soon be releasing their daughter’s body, far from grieving they looked positively euphoric. I’ve seen many responses in my time, ranging from sorrow through to utter indifference, but when I left that room and heard the husband assure his wife that from then on their fortunes would improve, I confess I was shocked. I thought they might be words of reassurance, but when I turned to look at them, they were smiling. Not in a forced way, as if they were trying to be strong, but because they were happy.’ The doctor paused as she remembered. ‘I’ve seen deeply religious people respond to the death of their loved ones in a similar way, because they believe they are going to heaven, but in those cases, the dominant emotion is resignation. This couple weren’t resigned, they were joyous.

‘I alerted social services because they had two other young children, aged two and three, and the family were living in a relative’s basement apartment with no central heating. The husband had been on benefits his whole life. According to the social worker, despite the hardships they clearly suffered, the surviving children were well looked after, as was the brother of the other deceased baby. So, no further action was taken.’

Amaia was about to speak when the pathologist added: ‘When Dr San Martín called me today, I remembered a third case, back in March 1997, towards the end of the Easter holidays. The date stuck in my mind because a train derailed in Huarte Arakil killing eighteen people, so we were inundated, and then a case of cot death came in. On this occasion too, the parents asked to see me, refusing to leave until they had spoken to me. It was pitiful. The wife was dying of cancer. They begged me to speed up the process so that they could take the body. Again, they appeared less grief-stricken than one would expect under the circumstances. Indeed, the contrast between that couple and the distraught relatives of the train-crash victims couldn’t have been starker. They might as well have been waiting to pick up their car from the garage. I checked at the time, and they had no other children so there was no cause for social services to be involved.

‘Give me an address, and I’ll send you my notes, together with the number of the social worker who dealt with the other two cases, in case you want to speak to her.’

‘One other thing, Doctor,’ Amaia said.

‘Of course.’

‘The last case you mentioned – was that a baby girl, too?’

There was a pause while the doctor checked her notes.

‘Yes, a baby girl.’

Within an hour, the social worker had dug out the files and returned Amaia’s call. Both cases had been closed with no further action taken. One family had received financial assistance, which they’d elected to discontinue. That was all the information she had.

Amaia called Jonan. To her surprise, he seemed to have switched off his mobile. Crossing the corridor, she knocked gently on the open door of the room where Zabalza and Montes were working.

‘Inspector Montes, could we have a word in my office?’

He did as she asked, closing the door behind him.

‘Deputy Inspector Etxaide has put together a report on all the families in Baztán who have lost children to SIDS. At first glance, nothing stands out, but the pathologist referred two couples to social services. During our conversation, she referred to a third case in which the parents also behaved strangely. One of the couples, she said, seemed positively elated. Another received state benefits for a while, but then signed off. I’d like you to pay both families a visit this morning; invent whatever pretext you want, but avoid any mention of babies.’

Montes sighed. ‘That’s a hard one for me, boss,’ he said, flicking through the reports. ‘Nothing makes me more angry than parents who can’t look after their kids.’

‘Be honest, Montes, everything makes you angry,’ she retorted. He flashed her a grin. ‘Take Zabalza with you, it will do him good to get out of the office – besides, he’s more tactful than you. Incidentally, have you any idea where Jonan is?’

‘It’s his afternoon off, he told me he had things to do …’

Amaia was busy jotting down what the pathologist and the social worker had told her; for a moment, she didn’t notice that Montes was still hovering by the door.

‘Fermín, was there anything else?’

He stood looking at her for a few seconds, then shook his head.

‘No, nothing.’

He opened the door and went out into the corridor, leaving Amaia with the sensation that she was missing something important.

Preoccupied, she had to admit that she was getting nowhere. She put away the documents, and, glancing at her watch, remembered James’s big meeting in Pamplona. She called his mobile and waited. He didn’t pick up. Then she switched off her computer, grabbed her coat and headed home.

Recently, Aunt Engrasi and the Golden Girls appeared to have relinquished their regular card game in favour of a joyous ritual that consisted of passing Ibai from one lap to the next and making googly eyes at him as they clucked merrily. She managed with some effort to prise away the child, who was infected by the old ladies’ laughter.

‘You’re spoiling him,’ she chided jokingly. ‘He’s having too much fun, he won’t go to sleep,’ she added, whisking the baby upstairs amid their angry protests.

She placed Ibai in his cot while she prepared his bath, slipping out of her warm jumper, and placing her holstered gun on top of the wardrobe. She’d have to find a safer place for it, she reflected. Three-year-olds were like monkeys and could climb anything. Back in Pamplona, she kept it locked in the safe, and they were planning to install a safe at Juanitaenea. Her thoughts drifted to the pallets outside the house and the stalled building work. Picking up her phone, she tried James’s mobile again; two rings only, as if he’d refused her call.

She took her time bathing Ibai; he loved being in the water, and she loved seeing her child so happy and relaxed. And yet she had to admit that James’s silence was starting to affect her ability to enjoy even this special time with their son. Once Ibai was dry and in his pyjamas, she dialled James’s number again, only to be cut off a second time. She sent a text: James. I’m worried, call me. A minute later he texted back: I’m busy.

Ibai fell asleep as soon as he had finished his bottle. She plugged in the baby monitor, then went down to sit with Ros and her aunt, who were watching television. She couldn’t concentrate on anything that wasn’t the sound of tyres on the cobblestones outside. Hearing James’s car pull up, she slipped on her coat and went outside to greet him. He was sitting motionless in the car the engine switched off and the lights out. She climbed into the passenger seat.

‘For heaven’s sake, James! I was worried.’

‘I’m here, aren’t I?’ he replied coolly.

‘You could have called—’

‘So could you,’ he interrupted.

Stunned by his response, she went on the defensive.

‘I called several times, but you didn’t pick up.’

‘Yeah, at six in the evening. Why didn’t you call during the day?’

She accepted his reproach, then felt a flash of anger.

‘So you saw my call but didn’t pick up. What’s going on, James?’

‘You tell me, Amaia.’

‘I’ve no idea what you’re talking about.’

He shrugged.

‘You don’t know what I’m talking about? Fine, then there’s no problem,’ he said, making to get out of the car.

‘James,’ she restrained him with a gesture. ‘Why are you doing this to me? I don’t understand what’s going on. All I know is that you had a meeting today with representatives of the Banque National de Paris. You haven’t even told me how it went.’

‘Do you care?’

She studied his profile as he stared straight ahead, jaw clenched in anger. Her handsome boy was getting frustrated, and she knew she was to blame. Softly, her voice laced with affection, she protested: ‘How can you even ask me that? Of course I care, James – you mean more to me than anything in the world.’

He looked at her, struggling to keep a stern face as the expression in his eyes melted. He smiled weakly.

‘It went okay,’ he conceded.

‘Oh, come on! Just okay, or really well?’

He beamed. ‘It went well, incredibly well.’

She flung her arms around him, kneeling on her seat so that she could hold him tight. They kissed. Just then, her phone rang. James pulled a face as she fumbled for it in her pocket.

‘I have to take this, it’s the police station,’ she said, freeing herself from the embrace.

‘Inspector Salazar, Elena Ochoa’s daughter just called. I wouldn’t have bothered you, but she insisted, she says it’s urgent … I’ve texted you her number.’

‘I need to make a quick call,’ she told James, clambering out of the car. Moving out of earshot, she dialled the number. Marilena Ochoa answered immediately.

‘Inspector, I’m in Elizondo. After everything that’s happened, we decided to stay the night. When I went to bed just now, I found a letter from my mother under the pillow.’ The young woman’s voice, which had sounded strong, buoyed by a sense of urgency, gave way as she started to cry. ‘I can’t believe it, but it seems you’re right and she did take her own life … she left a note,’ she said, overcome with grief. ‘I did everything I could to help her, I did what the doctors said, I played down her paranoia, her fears … And she left a note. But not for me, for you.’ The young woman broke down. Realising she would get no more sense out of her, Amaia waited until the person she could hear in the background trying to console Marilena came on the phone.

‘Inspector, this is Luis, Marilena’s boyfriend. Please come and get the letter.’

James had stepped out of the car. She walked over and stood looking up at him.

‘James, it’s within walking distance, I need to pick up a document here in Elizondo. I can walk there,’ she added, as if to prove that she wouldn’t be long.

He leaned forward to kiss her, and without saying a word entered the house.

17

Winter had returned with a vengeance after a lull of a few hours. She regretted not picking up her scarf and gloves on her way out as she felt the cold north wind blow through the empty streets of Elizondo. Turning up the collar of her coat, she clasped it about her neck and set off at a brisk pace towards Elena Ochoa’s house. She rang the doorbell and waited, shivering in the wind. The boyfriend opened the door, but refrained from asking her in.

‘She’s exhausted,’ he explained. ‘She took a sleeping pill, and it’s knocked her out.’

‘I understand,’ said Amaia. ‘This is a terrible blow …’

He handed her a long white envelope, which she could see was unopened. Her name was written on the front. She slipped it into her pocket, noticing the look of relief on the young man’s face as he watched it disappear.

‘I’ll keep you informed.’

‘If that letter is what we think it is, please don’t bother – she’s suffered enough.’

Amaia followed the bend in the river, drawn by the orange lights in the square, which gave a false impression of warmth on that cold, dark night. She walked past the Lamia fountain, which only gushed water when it rained, and carried on walking until she came to the town hall, where she paused to run the fingers of one hand over the smooth surface of the botil harri. Her other hand was still clutching the envelope in her pocket; it gave off an unpleasant heat, as though contained within were the last flicker of the author’s life.

The wind swept through the square in great gusts, making it impossible for her to stop and read the letter. She headed down Calle Jaime Urrutia, hesitating beneath each streetlamp looking for a sheltered spot. She didn’t want to read it at home. Finding nowhere, she crossed the bridge, where the wind’s roar vied with the noise of the weir. Reaching Hostal Trinkete, she turned right and made her way towards the only place where she knew she would enjoy complete solitude. She felt in her pocket for the silky cord her father had fastened to the key all those years ago. When she inserted it in the lock, the key turned halfway but would go no further. She tried again, even though she realised Ros had changed the lock on the bakery door. Surprised and pleased at her sister’s initiative, she slipped the now useless key back in her pocket, her fingers brushing the envelope as she did so. It seemed to be calling to her, like a living creature. Walking into the wind, she set off at a brisk pace towards her aunt’s house, but instead of going in, she climbed into her car and switched on the overhead light.

I told you they would find out, and they did. I’ve always been careful, but I was right: there’s no protection from them. Somehow they’ve put it inside me, I can feel it tearing at my guts. Like a fool, I thought it was heartburn, but as the hours go by I realise what’s happening, it is devouring me, killing me, so I may as well tell you.

It’s a rundown old farmhouse, with brown walls and a dark roof. I haven’t been there for years, but they used to keep the shutters closed. You’ll find it on the road to Orabidea, in the middle of a huge meadow, the only one of its kind in the area. There are no trees, nothing grows there, and you can only see it from the bend in the road.

It’s a black house, I don’t mean the colour, but what’s inside. I won’t bother warning you not to go poking around there, because if you are who you claim to be, if you survived the fate they had in store for you, they’ll find you anyway.

May God protect you,

Elena Ochoa

The incongruous ring of her phone in the enclosed space of the car made her jump. She dropped Elena Ochoa’s letter, which fell between the pedals. Nervous and confused, she answered the call, leaning forward to try to reach the piece of paper.

She could sense the weariness in Inspector Iriarte’s voice at the end of what for him had been an arduous day. Amaia glanced at her watch, as she realised that she’d completely forgotten about Iriarte. It was gone eleven.

‘They’ve just finished doing Elena Ochoa’s post-mortem. I swear, I’ve never seen anything like it in my life, Inspector.’ Amaia heard him take a deep breath, then exhale slowly. ‘San Martín has recorded the cause of death as suicide by ingestion of sharp objects – talk about an understatement! But what else could he put? In all his years as a professional, he’d never seen the like either,’ he said, giving a nervous laugh.

She felt the beginnings of a migraine and she started to shiver, vaguely aware that these physical sensations were related to Elena’s letter, and to Inspector Iriarte’s seeming inability to explain himself.

‘Take me through it, Inspector,’ she ordered.

‘You saw the amount of walnut shavings she spewed up. Well, there were traces in the stomach too, but the intestines were full—’

‘I understand.’

‘No, you don’t, Inspector. When I say “full”, I mean literally filled to bursting, like an over-stuffed sausage. In some places, the shavings had perforated the intestinal wall, even reaching the surrounding organs.’

The migraine had suddenly taken hold; her head felt like a steel helmet being hammered from outside.

Iriarte took a deep breath and went on:

‘Seven metres of small intestine and another metre and a half of large intestine, crammed with walnut shavings until they were twice the normal size. The doctor couldn’t believe that the gut wall hadn’t exploded. And do you know what the strangest thing was? He couldn’t find a single piece of nut, only the shells.’

‘What else did San Martín say? Could she have been force-fed?’

Iriarte sighed.

‘Not while she was still alive. The intestine is highly sensitive; the pain would probably have killed her. I have photographs. San Martín is busy preparing the autopsy report. I expect we’ll have it by tomorrow morning. I’m going home now, though I doubt I’ll be able to sleep,’ he added.

Convinced she wouldn’t either, Amaia took a couple of sedatives. Then she slipped into bed alongside James and Ibai, letting the rhythmical breathing of her loved ones bring her the peace she so desperately needed. She spent the next few hours trying to read, gazing every now and then at the dark recess of the window, at the shutters open a crack so that from her side of the bed she could glimpse the first light of dawn.

Amaia wasn’t aware of having fallen asleep, although she knew she had been sleeping when the intruder came in. She didn’t hear her enter, she couldn’t hear her footsteps or her breathing. She could smell her: the scent of her skin, her hair, her breath was engraved on Amaia’s memory. A scent that rang alarm bells; the scent of her enemy, her executioner. She felt a desperate panic, even as she cursed herself for having let down her guard, for having allowed her to come this close, for if Amaia could smell her, then she was too close.

The little girl inside her prayed to the god of all victims to take pity on them, alternating her prayer with the command that must never be disobeyed: don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes, don’t open your eyes. She let out a scream of rage not of fear, a scream that came from the woman not the little girl: You can’t hurt me, you can’t hurt me now. Then she opened her eyes. Rosario was stooping over her bed, inches from her face, so close she was a blur; her eyes, nose and mouth blotting out the room, the cold still clinging to her garments, making Amaia shiver.

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