Offering to the Storm

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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