Offering to the Storm

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 …