Offering to the Storm

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 …’