The Invisible Guardian

3

The boy sitting opposite her was slightly hunched over as if he were carrying a heavy load on his shoulders, his hands were resting loosely on his knees, hundreds of tiny red capillaries showed through the skin of his face, and there were deep, dark circles under his eyes. Nothing like the photo Amaia remembered seeing in the papers a month earlier, in which he was posing defiantly next to his car. There was no trace of his former self-assurance or cocky pose and he looked visibly older. When Amaia and Jonan Etxaide entered the interview room, the boy had been staring at a point in the middle distance from which he found it difficult to return.

‘Hello, Miguel Ángel.’

He didn’t answer. He sighed and looked at them in silence.

‘I’m Inspector Salazar and this,’ she gestured to Jonan, ‘is Deputy Inspector Etxaide. We want to talk to you about Carla Huarte.’

He lifted his head and, as if overwhelmed by immense fatigue, muttered, ‘I have nothing to say, everything I have to tell you is in my statement … There’s nothing to add, it’s the truth, there’s nothing to add, I didn’t kill her and that’s a fact, there’s nothing to add, leave me in peace and talk to my lawyer.’

He hung his head again and focused all his attention on his pale, dry hands.

‘Right,’ said Amaia with a sigh, ‘I can see that we haven’t got off to a good start. Let’s try again. I don’t think you killed Carla.’

Miguel Ángel looked up, surprised this time.

‘I think she was alive when you left the mountain, and I think that someone else approached her later and killed her.’

‘That’s …’ Miguel Ángel stammered, ‘that’s what must have happened.’ Fat tears poured down his face as he started to tremble. ‘Yes, that’s what must have happened, because I didn’t kill her, please believe me, I didn’t kill her.’

‘I believe you,’ said Amaia, sliding a packet of paper tissues across the table towards him. ‘I believe you and I’m going to help you get out of here.’

The boy clasped his hands together as if praying.

‘Please, please,’ he muttered.

‘But first, you have to help me,’ she said, almost sweetly. He dried his tears but was still snivelling as he nodded. ‘Tell me about Carla. What was she like?’

‘Carla was great, she was an amazing girl, really pretty, really outgoing, she had a lot of friends …’

‘How did you meet?’

‘At school. I’d already left and I work … until all this happened I worked with my brother, tarring roofs. It suited me, and it was money in my pocket; it’s a shitty job but it’s well paid. She was still studying; she was repeating a year, though, and wanted to drop out, but her parents insisted and she gave in.’

‘You’ve said she had a lot of friends, do you know whether she was seeing anyone else? Any other boys?’

‘No, no, nothing like that,’ he said, regaining some energy and frowning. ‘She was with me and no one else.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I am. Ask her girlfriends, she was crazy about me.’

‘Did you have sex?’

‘Yes, and it was good,’ he said, smiling.

‘When Carla’s body was found there were marks from your teeth on her chest.’

‘I already explained this at the time. That’s how it was with Carla, she liked it like that and so did I. Alright, we liked rough sex, so what? I never hit her or anything like that, they were just games.’

‘You say that she was the one who liked hard-core sex, however, in your statement,’ Jonan consulted his notes, ‘you said that she didn’t want to have sex that night, and that this made you angry. Something doesn’t add up here, wouldn’t you agree?’

‘It was because of the drugs, one moment she was like a motorbike going full-throttle and the next she came over all paranoid and said she didn’t want to … Of course I got angry, but I didn’t force her and I didn’t kill her, it had happened to us before.’

‘And when it happened before did you make her get out of the car and leave her stranded on the mountainside?’

Miguel Ángel shot him a furious look and swallowed before answering.

‘No, that was the first time, and I didn’t make her get out of the car: she was the one who took to her heels and didn’t want to get back in, even though I asked her to … Eventually I got fed up and left.’

‘She scratched your neck,’ said Amaia.

‘I’ve already told you, she liked it that way; she’d leave my back in shreds sometimes. Our friends can tell you; they saw the bite marks on my shoulders in the summer when we were sunbathing and they had a great laugh about it, calling her a she-wolf.’

‘When was the last time you’d had sex before that night?’

‘Um, probably the day before, whenever we saw each other we ended up fucking. As I said, she was crazy about me.’

Amaia sighed and got to her feet, signalling to the guard.

‘Just one more thing. How did she like to keep her pubic area?’

‘Her pubic area? You mean the hair around her pussy?’

‘Yes, the hair around her pussy,’ said Amaia without blinking. ‘How did she keep it?’

‘She shaved it, she just left a tiny bit,’ he said, barely hiding his smile.

‘Why did she shave it?’

‘I’ve already told you that we both liked that sort of thing. I loved it …’

Miguel Ángel got to his feet as they made their way to the door.

‘Inspector.’ The guard gestured at him to sit down. Amaia turned towards the boy.

‘Tell me, why now and not before?’

The inspector looked at Jonan before replying, considering whether that cocky little shit deserved an explanation or not. She decided that he did.

‘Because another girl has been found murdered and the crime is a bit similar to what happened to Carla.’

‘Well there you go! Don’t you see? When will I get out of here?’

Amaia turned towards the exit before answering. ‘We’ll keep you posted.’

4

Amaia was looking out of the window as the room started to fill up behind her. As she heard the scraping of chairs and the murmur of conversations she put her hands against the glass, pearly with microscopic drops of breath. The cold left no doubt that it was still winter outside and Pamplona looked damp and grey on that February evening as the light fled rapidly towards darkness. The gesture filled her with nostalgia for a summer that was so distant it seemed to belong to another world, a universe of light and warmth where dead girls would never be found abandoned on a river’s icy bank.

Jonan appeared at her side, offering her a cup of milky coffee. She thanked him with a smile and held it in both hands, hoping in vain that the warmth from the cup would transfer to her frozen fingers. She sat down and waited while Montes closed the door and the general murmur abated.

‘Fermín?’ said Amaia, inviting Inspector Montes to start things off.

‘I’ve been to Elizondo to talk to the girls’ parents and the shepherd who found Carla Huarte’s body. Nothing from the parents. Carla’s say that they didn’t like their daughter’s friends, that they went out a lot and got drunk, and they are convinced her boyfriend did it. One important detail: they didn’t report her missing until the fourth of January, bearing in mind that the girl left the house on the thirty-first … Their explanation is that the girl turned eighteen on the first and they thought she’d left home like she’d often threatened to do. It was only after they contacted her friends that they realised she hadn’t been seen for days.

‘Ainhoa Elizasu’s parents are in complete shock and are here in Pamplona at the Institute of Forensic Medicine, waiting for the body to be released once the autopsy’s taken place. The girl was wonderful and they don’t understand how someone could have done this to their daughter. The brother hasn’t been much help either; he blames himself for not having said anything sooner. And her friends from Elizondo say that they were at one of their houses first and then they went for a wander around town. Ainhoa suddenly realised what time it was and had to run; nobody went with her to the bus stop because it was very close to where they were. They don’t remember being approached by anyone suspicious, they didn’t argue with anyone, and Ainhoa didn’t have a boyfriend and nor was she messing around with anyone. The most interesting thing was talking to the shepherd, José Miguel Arakama, who’s a real character. He’s sticking to his initial statement, but the most important thing is something he remembered days later, a detail he didn’t think was important at the time because it didn’t seem to be at all related to the discovery of the body.’

‘Are you going to tell us then?’ interrupted Amaia impatiently.

‘He was telling me that a lot of prostitutes hang around that area and leave it in a real mess, with cigarette butts, empty cans, used condoms and even knickers and bras lying around, when he happened to mention that one day one of them left a pair of brand-new red party shoes there.’

‘The description matches the ones that Carla Huarte was wearing on New Year’s Eve, and they weren’t found with the body,’ pointed out Jonan.

‘And that’s not all. He’s sure that it was New Year’s Day that he saw them; he was working that day and, although he didn’t take the sheep down to drink there, he saw the shoes clearly. In his own words, it looked as if someone had left them like that deliberately, like when you go to bed or for a swim in the river,’ he said, reading from his notes.

‘But didn’t they find Carla’s shoes when her body was discovered?’ asked Amaia, looking at the report.

‘Someone had taken them,’ clarified Jonan.

‘It seems that the killer left the shoes behind on purpose to mark the area, so it wouldn’t have been him,’ said Montes, who considered this idea for a moment and then continued, ‘Other than that, we know both girls were students at the high school in Lekaroz and, even if they knew one another by sight, which is fairly likely, they weren’t close: different ages, different friends … Carla Huarte lived in the Antxaborda neighbourhood. You must know it, Salazar,’ Amaia nodded, ‘and Ainhoa lived in the neighbouring town.’

Montes leant over his notes and Amaia noticed his hair was covered in an oily substance.

‘What have you put in your hair, Montes?’

‘It’s brilliantine,’ he said, running his hand over the back of his neck, ‘they put it on at the barber’s. Can we continue?’

‘Of course.’

‘Right, well there’s not much more at the moment. What have you got?’

‘We’ve been speaking to the boyfriend,’ Amaia replied, ‘and he’s told us some very interesting things, such as his girlfriend liked rough sex with scratching and love bites and stuff. This has been confirmed by Carla’s girlfriends, with whom she liked to share her sex life in explicit detail, explicit being the operative word here. That would explain the scratches and the love bite on her chest. He’s sticking to his earlier statements; the girl was really feeling the effects of the drugs she’d taken and she became literally paranoid. It’s in line with the toxicology report. He also told us that Carla Huarte normally shaved her pubic hair off, which would explain why there was no trace of it at the scene.’

‘Chief, we’ve got the photos of the crime scene where Carla Huarte was found.’

Jonan spread them out on the table and everyone leaned in around Amaia to see them. Carla’s body had turned up in an area where the river tended to flood. Her red party dress and her underwear, which was also red, appeared to have been slashed from her chest down to her groin. The cord with which she’d been strangled wasn’t visible in the photo due to the swelling of her neck. Something semi-transparent was hanging from one of her legs. Amaia initially thought it was skin but then identified it as the remains of Carla’s knickers.

‘She’s quite well preserved given that she spent five days out in the open,’ observed one of the technicians. ‘It must be due to the cold: it didn’t get above six degrees during the day that week and the temperature dropped below zero for several nights.’

‘Look at the position of her hands,’ said Jonan, ‘they’re turned upwards, like Ainhoa Elizasu’s.’

‘For New Year’s Eve, Carla chose a short, red, strappy dress and a white jacket made of some kind of plush fabric which hasn’t been found,’ read Amaia. ‘The murderer tore her clothing from the neckline to the hem, separating the underwear and the two parts of the dress so they lay to either side. An irregular shaped piece of skin and flesh, about ten centimetres square, is missing from the pubic area.’

‘If the murderer left one of those txantxigorris on Carla’s pubic mound, it would explain why the vermin only bit her there.’

‘And why didn’t they bite Ainhoa?’ asked Montes.

‘There wasn’t time,’ replied Dr San Martín as he entered the room. ‘Sorry I’m late, Inspector,’ he said, taking a seat.

‘And fuck the rest of us,’ murmured Montes.

‘Animals come down to drink at first light; unlike the first girl, she was there for barely a couple of hours. I’ve brought the autopsy report and a lot of news. The two girls died exactly the same way, strangled with a cord that was pulled tight with extraordinary force. Neither of them defended themselves. Both girls’ clothes were slashed with a very sharp object that produced superficial cuts on the skin of their chests and abdomens. Ainhoa’s pubic hair was shaved off, probably using the same sharp object, and sprinkled around the body. A small, sweet cake was left on her pubic mound.’

‘A txantxigorri,’ commented Amaia, ‘it’s a typical local delicacy’.

‘No cake of any kind was found on Carla Huarte’s body. However, as you suggested, Inspector, following careful examination of her clothing, we have found traces of sugar and flour similar to those used in the cake found on Ainhoa Elizasu’s body.’

‘It’s possible that the girl ate one for dessert and a few crumbs fell on her dress,’ said Jonan.

‘She didn’t eat any at home, at any rate, I checked,’ said Montes.

‘It’s not enough to link them,’ said Amaia, tossing her biro onto the table.

‘I think we’ve got what you need, Inspector,’ said San Martín, exchanging a knowing look with his assistant.

‘What are you waiting for, Dr San Martín?’ asked Amaia, getting to her feet.

‘For me,’ answered the Commissioner, entering the room, ‘please don’t bother getting up. Dr San Martín, tell them what you told me.’

The pathologist’s assistant attached a comparative analysis graph with various coloured lines and numerical scales to the whiteboard. San Martín stood up and spoke with the confidence of someone who is used to being believed without question.

‘Our tests confirm that the cords used in the two crimes are identical, although this, in itself, is not conclusive. It’s parcel string, which is commonly used on farms, in construction, in the wholesale business … It’s made in Spain and sold in hardware stores and big DIY chain stores like Aki and Leroy Merlin.’ He paused theatrically, smiled and continued, looking first at the Commissioner and then at Amaia. ‘What is conclusive is the fact that the two pieces came consecutively from the same ball,’ he said, showing them two high definition photographs in which two pieces of string of the same size whose ends matched perfectly could be seen. Amaia sat down slowly without taking her eyes off the photos.

‘We’ve got a serial killer,’ she whispered.

A ripple of suppressed excitement spread around the room. The growing murmur ceased immediately when the Commissioner began to speak.

‘Inspector Salazar, you told me you’re from Elizondo, didn’t you?’

‘Yes, sir, my family all live there.’

‘I think your knowledge of the area and certain aspects of the case, together with your training and experience, make you the ideal candidate to lead the investigation. Furthermore, your time in Quantico with the FBI could prove very useful to us right now. It seems we’ve got a serial killer on our hands and you did in depth work with the best in this field during your time there … methods, psychological profiling, background research … In any case, you’re in charge and you’ll receive all the support you need, both here and in Elizondo.’

The Commissioner raised his hand in a farewell gesture and left the room.

‘Congratulations, chief,’ said Jonan, grinning as he shook her hand.

‘My felicitations, Inspector Salazar,’ said San Martín.

Amaia didn’t miss Montes’s expression of disgust as he watched her in silence while the other officers came over to congratulate her. She did her best to escape the slaps on the back.

‘We’ll leave for Elizondo first thing tomorrow, I want to attend Ainhoa Elizasu’s funeral. As you already know, I have family there, so I’ll definitely be staying. The rest of you,’ she said, turning to the team, ‘can drive up each day for the duration of the investigation. It’s only fifty kilometres and the roads are good.’

Montes came over before leaving. ‘I’ve just got one question,’ he said in a markedly scornful tone, ‘will I have to call you chief?’

‘Don’t be ridiculous, Fermín, this is just temporary and …’

‘Don’t bother, chief, I heard the Commissioner, and you’ll have my full cooperation,’ he said, before giving her a mock military salute and stalking out.

5

Amaia walked slightly distractedly through the old town of Pamplona, making her way towards her house, an old restored building right in the middle of Calle Mercaderes. In the Thirties there had been an umbrella shop on the ground floor and the old sign announcing Izaguirre Umbrellas ‘Hold quality and prestige in your hands’ was still visible. James always said that the main reason he had chosen the house was for the space and light in the workshop, a perfect location to install his sculptor’s studio, but she knew that the thing that had prompted her husband to buy the house in the middle of the bull running course was the same thing that had brought him to Pamplona in the first place. Like thousands of North Americans, he felt an enormous passion for the San Fermín festival, for Hemingway and for this city, a passion that seemed almost childish to her and which he revived each year when the festival arrived. Much to Amaia’s relief, James didn’t take part in the bull running, but every day he would stroll along the eight hundred and fifty metres of the course from Santo Domingo, learning by heart each curve, each stumbling block, each paving stone all the way to the square. She loved the way she would see him smile each year as the festival drew near, the way he would dig his white clothes out of a trunk and would set out to buy a new neckerchief, even though he seemed to have hundreds already. He had been in Pamplona for a couple of years when she met him; he was living in a pretty flat in the city centre at the time and renting a studio to work in very near the town hall. When they decided to get married, James took her to see the house on Calle Mercaderes and she thought it was magnificent, although too big and too expensive. This wasn’t a problem for James, who was already starting to earn a certain prestige in the art world. Furthermore, he came from a wealthy family of state-of-the-art work-wear manufacturers in the United States. They bought the house, James installed his studio in the old workshop and they promised themselves they would fill it with children as soon as Amaia became an inspector on the homicide team.

It was four years since she’d become an inspector, San Fermín came round each year, James became more famous in artistic circles, but the children didn’t arrive. Amaia lifted her hand to her stomach in a subconscious gesture of protection and longing. She quickened her pace until she overtook a group of Romanian immigrants who were arguing in the street and smiled when she saw the light glowing in James’ workshop between the slits in the shutters. She looked at her watch, it was almost half past ten and he was still working. She opened the front door, left her keys on the old table that acted as a sideboard and went to the workshop, passing through what used to be the house’s entrance hall, which still retained its original floor of large round stones and a trapdoor that led to a blind passage where wine or oil had been stored in the old days. James was washing a piece of grey marble in a sink full of soapy water. He smiled when he saw her.

‘Give me a minute to get this great toad out of the water and I’ll be with you.’

He arranged the piece of stone on a rack, covered it with a piece of linen and dried his hands on the white cook’s apron he normally wore to work in.