Copyright

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published by HarperCollinsPublishers 2016

Copyright © Dolores Redondo 2013

Translation copyright © Nick Caistor and Lorenza García 2016

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2018

Cover photographs © Shutterstock.com

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

Originally published in 2013 by Ediciones Destino,

Spain, as Legado en los huesos

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 2016 ISBN: 9780008165604

Version: 2018-10-26

Dedication

For Eduardo, every word.

Epigraph

Has this fellow no feeling of his business?

He sings at grave-making.

William Shakespeare

Often the sepulchre encloses, unawares,

Two hearts in the same coffin.

Alphonse De Lamartine

Pain when inside is stronger

It isn’t eased by sharing.

Alejandro Sanz, ‘Si Hay Dios’

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

Itxusuria

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

Footnotes

Glossary

Acknowledgements

Exclusive extract from Offering to the Storm

If you enjoyed The Legacy of the Bones, read the first book in the Baztan trilogy …

About the Author

By the Same Author

About the Publisher

Itxusuria

Following the line traced by rainwater dripping from the eaves, the grave was easy to find. The figure knelt, fumbling among its clothes for a trowel and a small pick to scrape off the hard surface of the dark soil. It crumbled into soft, moist clods that gave off a rich smell of wood and moss.

A careful scraping of a few centimetres revealed blackened shreds of decayed cloth mixed with the earth.

The figure tugged away the cloth, still recognisable as a cot blanket, to reveal the oilskin enshrouding the body. Only fragments of the rope securing the bundle remained; where it had been pulled tight a deep mark was left on the canvas. Pushing aside the shreds of rope, the figure groped blindly for the edge of the cloth, and could feel it had been wrapped round several times. Tearing at the end of the bundle, the shroud fell open as though cut with a knife.

The baby lay buried face down, cradled in the earth; the bones, like the oilcloth itself, appeared well preserved, although stained by the black earth of Baztán. Stretching out a hand that almost completely covered the tiny form, the figure pressed the baby’s chest further into the earth and pulled the right arm out of its socket. As it came loose, the collarbone snapped with a soft crack. It sounded like a sigh from the tomb, a lament for the sacrilege. Suddenly uneasy, the shadowy figure recoiled and stood up, tucked the bones under its clothes, then cast one last glance at the body before scuffing the soil back into the grave.

1

The atmosphere in the courthouse was stifling. The damp from rain-soaked overcoats was starting to evaporate, mixing with the breath of the hundreds of people thronging the corridors outside the various courtrooms. Amaia undid her jacket as she greeted Lieutenant Padua, who made his way towards her through the waiting crowd, after speaking briefly to the woman accompanying him and ushering her into the courtroom.

‘Good to see you, Inspector,’ he said. ‘How are you? I wasn’t sure you’d make it here today,’ he added, pointing to her swollen belly.

Amaia raised a hand to her midriff, heavy from the late stages of pregnancy.

‘Well, she seems to be behaving herself for the moment. Have you seen Johana’s mother?’

‘Yes, she’s pretty nervous. She’s inside with her family. They’ve just called from downstairs to tell me the van transporting Jasón Medina has arrived,’ he said, heading for the lift.

Amaia entered the courtroom and sat down on one of the benches at the back. From there she was able to glimpse Johana’s mother, dressed in mourning and considerably thinner than at her daughter’s funeral. As though sensing her presence, the woman turned to look, greeting her with a brief nod. Amaia tried unsuccessfully to smile as she contemplated the haggard features of the woman, who was tormented by the knowledge that she had been powerless to protect her daughter from the monster she herself had brought into their home. As the court clerk began to call out the names of the witnesses, Amaia couldn’t help noticing the woman’s face stiffen when she heard her husband’s name.

‘Jasón Medina,’ the clerk repeated. ‘Jasón Medina.’

A uniformed officer entered the courtroom, approached the clerk and whispered something in his ear. He in turn leaned over to speak to the judge, who listened to what he said then nodded, before calling the prosecution and defence barristers to the bench. He spoke to them briefly then rose to his feet.

‘The trial is adjourned; if necessary, you will be summoned again.’ And without another word, he left the courtroom.

Johana’s mother cried out, turning to Amaia for an explanation.

‘No!’ she screamed. ‘Why?’

The women with her tried helplessly to comfort her.

Another officer walked over to Amaia.

‘Inspector Salazar, Lieutenant Padua has asked if you would go down to the holding cells.’

As she stepped out of the lift, she saw a group of police officers gathered outside the toilet door. The guard accompanying her motioned to her to enter. Inside, a prison officer and a policeman stood propped against the wall, their faces distraught. Padua was leaning into one of the cubicles, his feet at the edge of a pool of still fresh blood seeping under the partition walls. When he saw the inspector arrive, he stepped aside.

‘He told the guard he needed to use the toilet. As you can see, he was handcuffed, yet he managed to slit his own throat. It all happened very fast, the officer didn’t move from here, heard him cough and went in, but there was nothing he could do.’

Amaia went in to survey the scene. Jasón Medina was sitting on the toilet, head tilted back. His throat was gaping from a deep, dark gash. His shirtfront was drenched in blood, which oozed like red mucus between his legs, staining everything in its path. His body still radiated warmth, and the air was tainted with the smell of recent death.

‘What did he use?’ asked Amaia, who couldn’t see any object.

‘A box cutter. He dropped it as the strength drained out of him. It’s in the next-door toilet,’ he said, pushing open the door to the adjacent cubicle.

‘How did he get it through security? The metal would have set the alarm off.’

‘He didn’t. Look,’ said Padua, pointing. ‘See that piece of duct tape on the handle? Somebody went to a lot of trouble to hide the cutter in here, no doubt behind the cistern. All Medina had to do was peel it off.’

Amaia sighed.

‘And there’s more,’ said Padua, with a look of distaste. ‘This was sticking out of his pocket,’ he said, holding up a white envelope in his gloved hand.

‘A suicide note?’ ventured Amaia.

‘Not exactly,’ said Padua, handing her a pair of gloves and the envelope. ‘It’s addressed to you.’

‘To me?’ Amaia frowned.

She pulled on the gloves and took the envelope.

‘May I?’

‘Go ahead.’

The adhesive strip opened easily without her needing to tear the paper. Inside was a card; in the middle of it a single word was printed.

‘Tarttalo.’

Amaia felt a sharp twinge in her belly and held her breath to disguise the pain. She turned the card over to make sure nothing was written on the back, before returning it to Padua.

‘What does it mean?’

‘I was hoping you’d tell me.’

‘Well, I’ve no idea, Lieutenant Padua,’ she replied, puzzled. ‘It doesn’t make much sense to me.’

‘A tarttalo is a mythological creature, isn’t it?’

‘Yes, as far as I know it’s a kind of Cyclops. It exists in both Graeco-Roman and Basque mythology. What are you getting at?’

‘You worked on the basajaun case. The basajaun was also a mythological creature, and now Johana Márquez’s confessed murderer, who tried to copy one of the basajaun crimes to conceal his own, kills himself and leaves a note that says: “Tarttalo”. You must admit it’s curious, to say the least.’

‘You’re right.’ Amaia sighed. ‘It’s strange. However, at the time we proved beyond doubt that Jasón Medina raped and murdered his stepdaughter, then made a clumsy attempt to pass it off as one of the basajaun crimes. Not only that, he made a full confession. Are you suggesting he wasn’t the murderer?’

‘I don’t doubt it for a minute,’ said Padua, glancing at the corpse. ‘But there’s the question of the severed arm, and the girl’s bones turning up in the Arri Zahar cave. And now this. I was hoping you might …’

‘I’ve no idea what this means, or why he addressed it to me.’

Padua gave a sigh, his eyes fixed on her.

‘Of course not, Inspector.’

Amaia headed for the rear exit, anxious not to bump into Johana’s mother. What could she say to the woman: that it was all over, or that her husband, like the rat he was, had escaped to the next world? She flashed her ID at the security guards; it came as a relief to be free at last of the atmosphere inside. The rain had stopped and the bright yet hesitant sunlight, typical in Pamplona between showers, emerged through the clouds, making her eyes water as she rummaged in her bag for her dark glasses. As ever when it was raining, finding a taxi to take her to the courthouse during the morning rush hour had been almost impossible; but now several of them sat idling at the rank, while the city’s inhabitants chose to walk. She hesitated for a moment beside the first car. No, she wasn’t quite ready to go home; the prospect of Clarice running around, bombarding her with questions was decidedly unappealing. Since her in-laws had arrived a fortnight earlier, Amaia’s idea of home had been seriously challenged. She gazed towards the enticing windows of the cafés across from the courthouse and at the other end of Calle San Roque, where she could see the trees in Media Luna Park. Working out that it was roughly one and a half kilometres to her house, she set off on foot. She could always hail a taxi if she felt tired.

Leaving behind the roar of traffic as she entered the park gave her an instant sense of relief. The fresh scent of wet grass replaced the exhaust fumes, and Amaia instinctively slackened her pace as she crossed one of the stone paths that cut through the perfect greenness. She took deep breaths, exhaling with deliberate slowness. What a morning, she thought; Jasón Medina perfectly fitted the profile of the criminal who commits suicide in jail. Accused of raping and killing his wife’s daughter, he had been put in solitary confinement pending his trial; no doubt he’d been terrified at the prospect of having to mix with other prisoners after being sentenced. She remembered him from the interrogations nine months earlier, when they were investigating the basajaun case: a snivelling coward, weeping and wailing as he confessed his atrocities.

The two cases weren’t connected, but Lieutenant Padua of the Guardia Civil had invited her to sit in, because of Medina’s clumsy attempts to imitate the modus operandi of the serial killer she was chasing, based on what he had read in the newspapers. That was nine months ago, just when she became pregnant. Since then, a lot of things had changed.

‘Haven’t they, little one?’ she whispered, stroking her belly.

A violent contraction caused her to pull up short. Leaning on her umbrella for support, she doubled over, enduring the terrible spasm in her lower abdomen, which spread in a ripple down her inner thighs, wrenching a cry from her, more of surprise at the intensity than of pain. The sensation subsided as quickly as it had arisen.

So that’s how it felt. Countless times she had wondered what it would feel like to go into labour, whether she would recognise the signs, or be one of those women who arrived at the hospital with the baby already crowning, or who gave birth in the taxi.

‘Oh, my little one!’ Amaia spoke to her sweetly. ‘You still have another week. Are you sure you want to come out now?’

The pain had vanished, as if it had never happened. She felt an immense joy, accompanied by a twinge of anxiety at the imminence of her baby’s arrival. She smiled, glancing about as if she wished she could share her pleasure. But the moist, cool park was deserted and its emerald green colours, still more radiant and beautiful in the dazzling light seeping through the clouds above Pamplona, reminded her of the sense of discovery she always felt in Baztán, which in the city seemed like an unexpected gift. She continued on her way, transported now to that magical forest and the amber eyes of the lord of that domain. Only nine months previously she had been investigating a case there, in the place where she was born, the place she had always wanted to flee, the place where she had gone to hunt down a killer, and where she conceived her baby girl.

The knowledge that her daughter was growing inside her had brought the soothing calm and serenity to her life that she had always dreamt of. At that time it had been the only thing that helped her cope with the terrible events she had lived through, which a few months earlier would have been the death of her. Returning to Elizondo, dredging up her past, and, most of all, Víctor’s death, had turned her world and that of her entire family upside down. Aunt Engrasi was the only one unaffected, reading her tarot cards, playing poker with her women friends every afternoon, smiling like someone who has seen everything before. Overnight, Flora had moved to Zarautz, on the pretext of recording her daily programme on baking for national television, and, who would have believed it, had handed over the running of Mantecadas Salazar to Ros. Much to Flora’s astonishment – and confirming Amaia’s intuitions – Ros had turned out to be a first-class manager, if a little overwhelmed to begin with. Amaia had offered to help her out and for the past few months had been spending almost every weekend in Elizondo, even after she realised that Ros no longer needed her support. And yet she continued to go there, to eat with them, to sleep at her aunt’s house, feeling at home. From the moment her baby girl started to grow inside her, she’d begun to rediscover a feeling of home, of roots, of belonging, that for years she thought she had lost for ever.

As she came out into Calle Mayor it began to drizzle again. She opened her umbrella, picking her way between the shoppers and a few pedestrians who had no protection and were scurrying along beneath the eaves of the buildings and shop awnings. She paused in front of the colourful window of a store selling children’s clothes and contemplated the little pink smocks embroidered with tiny flowers. Clarice was probably right, she ought to buy something like that for her baby. She sighed, all of a sudden irritated, as she thought of the room Clarice had decorated for her child. James’s parents had come over from the States for the birth and after only ten days in Pamplona his mother had more than fulfilled Amaia’s worst expectations of what a meddlesome mother-in-law could be like. From the very first day, she voiced her bewilderment about there being no nursery despite all the spare rooms they had.

Amaia had salvaged an antique hardwood cot from her Aunt Engrasi’s sitting room, where for years it had been used as a log basket. James had sanded it down to the grain before applying a fresh coat of varnish, while Engrasi’s friends had made an exquisite valance and a white bedcover that accentuated the craftsmanship and character of the cot. There was plenty of space in their large bedroom; besides, despite what the experts said, Amaia wasn’t convinced about the merits of her baby having a separate room; for the first few months, while she was breastfeeding, having the baby nearby would make it easier to feed her during the night, and knowing that she could hear her if she cried or had a problem would reassure her …

Clarice had raised the roof. ‘The baby must have her own room, with all her things around her. Believe you me, both mother and baby will sleep better. If you have her next to you, you’ll be listening for her every breath and movement; she needs her space and you need yours. Anyway, it’s not healthy for a baby to share its parents’ bedroom, children become used to it and won’t be taken to their own room.’

Amaia had also read the advice of a host of celebrated paediatricians determined to indoctrinate an entire new generation of children into the ways of suffering: don’t pick them up too often, let them sleep alone from birth, don’t comfort them when they have a tantrum because they need to learn to be independent, to cope with their fears and failures. Such stupidity made Amaia’s stomach churn. It occurred to her that if any of these distinguished doctors had been obliged since birth to ‘cope’ with fear the way she had, they would have an entirely different view of the world. If her daughter wanted to sleep in their bedroom until she was three years old, that was fine by her: she would comfort her, listen to her, take seriously and allay her childish fears, because as she herself knew only too well, they could loom large in a child’s mind. But evidently Clarice had her own ideas about how things should be done, which she didn’t hesitate to share with everybody else.

Three days earlier, Amaia had arrived home to discover that her mother-in-law had given them a surprise gift: a magnificent nursery complete with wardrobes, a changer, chest of drawers, rugs, and lamps. A superabundance of pink fleecy clouds and little lambs, all wreathed in ribbons and lace. Amaia had been alarmed enough when James had opened the door, given her a kiss and whispered apologetically: ‘She means well.’ But when she was confronted by this profusion of pinkness, her smile froze as she realised she was being made to feel like a stranger in her own home. Clarice, on the other hand, was thrilled, gliding amidst the furniture like a TV presenter, while Amaia’s father-in-law, impassive as always when faced with his wife’s enthusiasm, carried on calmly reading the newspaper in the sitting room. Amaia found it difficult to reconcile the image of Thomas at the helm of a financial empire with the way he behaved towards his wife, with a mixture of submissiveness and apathy that never ceased to amaze her. If only because she knew how uncomfortable James felt, Amaia did her best to keep her composure while his mother extolled the marvels of the nursery she had bought for them.

‘Look at this lovely wardrobe, all her clothes will fit in there, and there is room in the changer for nappies as well as everything else. Aren’t the rugs cute? And over here,’ she said, grinning smugly, ‘the pièce de résistance: a cot fit for a princess.’

Amaia had to admit that the huge pink cot was indeed majestic, and big enough for her daughter to sleep in until she was at least four years old.

‘Very pretty,’ she forced herself to say.

‘It’s beautiful, so now you can give your aunt back her log basket.’

Amaia left the nursery without a word and went into her bedroom to wait for James.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart, she doesn’t mean to interfere, it’s just how she is. They’ll only be here a few more days. I know you’re being incredibly patient, and I promise you that after they’ve gone we’ll get rid of everything you don’t like.’

She had agreed for James’s sake and because she didn’t have the strength to argue with Clarice. James was right: she was being incredibly patient, even though it went against her nature. This was possibly the first time she had ever let anyone control her, but in this final stage of pregnancy, she had noticed a change come over her. For days now she had been feeling unwell; all the energy she had enjoyed during the first months had given way to an apathy that was unusual in her. Clarice’s domineering presence only brought that fragility to the fore. Amaia glanced again at the baby clothes in the shop window and decided they had quite enough with everything her mother-in-law had bought. Clarice’s extravagances as a first-time grandmother made Amaia feel queasy, but there was something else: secretly she would have given anything to have the same intoxicating love affair with pink that afflicted her mother-in-law.

Since she had become pregnant, all she had bought for her daughter was a pair of bootees, a few T-shirts, some leggings, and a set of Babygros in neutral colours. She told herself that pink wasn’t her favourite colour. When she browsed the shop windows and saw frocks, cardigans and skirts bedecked with ribbons and embroidered flowers, she thought they looked lovely, perfect for a little princess, but no sooner did she have them in her hand than she felt an intense aversion towards all those tasteless frills and ended up walking out, confused and irritated, without buying anything. She could have done with some of the enthusiasm shown by Clarice, who would dissolve into raptures at the sight of a frock and matching shoes. Amaia knew that she couldn’t have been happier, that she had always loved this baby, from the time when she herself had been a brooding, unhappy child dreaming of being a mother one day, a real mother, a desire that had crystallised when she met James. And when motherhood threatened to elude her, assailed with fears and doubts, she had considered undergoing IVF treatment. But then, nine months ago, while investigating the most important case of her career, she had become pregnant.

Amaia was happy, or at least thought she was, and that puzzled her even more. Until recently she had felt fulfilled, contented, self-assured in a way that she hadn’t for years; yet over the past few weeks, fresh fears, which were actually as old as time, had started creeping back, infiltrating her dreams, whispering familiar words she wished she didn’t recognise.

Another contraction, less painful but more drawn-out, gripped her. She checked her watch. Twenty minutes since the last one in the park.

She headed towards the restaurant where they had arranged to meet. Clarice didn’t approve of James cooking all the time, and kept hinting that they needed staff. Half-expecting to arrive home one day to find they had an English butler, she and James had decided they should lunch and dine out every day.

James had chosen a modern restaurant in the street next to Calle Mercaderes, where they lived. When she arrived, Clarice and the taciturn Thomas were both sipping martinis. James stood up as soon as he saw her.

‘Hi, Amaia, how are you, my love?’ he said, planting a kiss on her lips and pulling out a chair for her.

‘Fine,’ she said, wondering whether to mention the contractions. She glanced at Clarice and decided to keep quiet.

‘And the little one?’ James smiled, resting his hand on her belly.

‘The little one,’ repeated Clarice derisively. ‘Do you think it’s normal that a week before your daughter’s birth you still haven’t chosen a name for her?’

Amaia pretended to browse the menu while looking askance at James.

‘Oh, Mom, not that again. We like several, but we can’t decide, so we’re waiting until the baby arrives. The moment we see her little face we’ll know what to call her.’

‘Oh!’ Clarice perked up. ‘So, you have thought of some names. Is one of them Clarice, maybe?’ Amaia heaved a sigh. ‘Seriously, though what names are you thinking of?’ Clarice persisted.

Amaia glanced up from the menu as a fresh contraction gripped her belly for a few seconds. She looked at her watch again and smiled.

‘Actually, I’ve already chosen one,’ she lied, ‘only I want it to be a surprise. What I can tell you is that she won’t be called Clarice: I don’t like names repeated within families, I think each person should have their own identity.’

Clarice grimaced.

The baby’s name was another missile Clarice fired at her whenever she got the opportunity. James’s mother had harped on about it so much that he had even suggested they choose one just to shut her up. Amaia had snapped. That was the last straw: why should she be forced to choose a name simply to make Clarice happy?

‘Not to make her happy, Amaia, but because we have to call her something, and you don’t seem to want to think about choosing a name at all.’

As with the clothes, she knew they were right. Having researched the subject, she’d become so concerned about it that she consulted Aunt Engrasi.

‘Well, not having had babies myself, I can’t speak from personal experience, but at a clinical level, I gather it’s fairly common among first-time mothers and fathers in particular. Once you’ve had a baby, you know what to expect, there are no surprises, but with a first pregnancy some mothers, despite their swollen bellies, find it hard to relate the changes in their body to the realities of having a child. Nowadays with ultrasound and listening to the baby’s heartbeat, knowing if it’s a boy or a girl, expectant parents have more of a sense that their baby is real, whereas in the past you couldn’t see a baby until it was born; most people only realised they had a child when they were cradling it in their arms and gazing into its little face. Your misgivings are perfectly natural,’ she said, placing her hand on Amaia’s belly. ‘Believe me, no one is prepared for parenthood, although some people like to pretend that they are.’

Amaia ordered fish, which she hardly touched. She noticed that the contractions were less frequent and less intense when she was still.

As soon as they’d finished their meal, Clarice returned to the offensive.

‘Have you looked at crèches?’

‘No, Mom, we haven’t,’ said James, setting his cup down on the table and gazing at her wearily. ‘Because we’re not putting the baby in a crèche.’

‘I see, so you’ll find a child-minder when Amaia goes back to work.’

‘When Amaia goes back to work, I’ll look after my daughter myself.’

Clarice’s eyes opened wide. She looked to her husband for support, but received none from Thomas, who smiled and shook his head as he sipped his rooibos.

‘Clarice …’ he cautioned. These gentle repetitions of his wife’s name in a tone of reproach were the closest Thomas ever came to protesting.

She ignored him.

‘You can’t be serious. How are you going to look after her? You don’t know the first thing about babies.’

‘I’ll learn,’ James replied, smiling.

‘Learn? For goodness’ sake! You’re gonna need help.’

‘We have a cleaner who comes regularly.’

‘I’m not talking about a cleaner four hours a week, I’m talking about a nanny, a child-minder, someone who’ll take care of the child.’

‘I’ll take care of her. We’ll take care of her together, that’s what we have decided.’

James seemed amused, and, judging from his expression, so did Thomas. Clarice sighed, smiled wanly and adopted a calm tone, as though making a supreme effort to be reasonable and patient.

‘Yes, I know all about this modern parenting stuff – breastfeeding children until they grow teeth, having them sleep in your bed, dispensing with a nanny – but, son, you have to work too, your career is at a critical stage, and during the baby’s first year, you’ll scarcely have time to draw breath.’

‘I’ve just finished a forty-eight-piece collection for the exhibition at the Guggenheim next year, and I have enough works in reserve to enable me to devote myself to my daughter. Besides, Amaia isn’t always busy. Yes, she has periods of intense activity in her job, but she often comes home early.’

Amaia could feel her belly tense beneath her blouse, more painfully now. She breathed slowly, dissimulating as she glanced at the clock. Fifteen minutes.

‘You look pale, Amaia, are you feeling OK?’

‘I’m tired. I think I’ll go home and lie down for a while.’

‘Good, Thomas and I are going shopping,’ announced Clarice, ‘otherwise you’ll be using vine leaves instead of baby blankets. Shall we meet back here for dinner?’

‘No,’ Amaia protested. ‘I’ll make something light at home, and try to rest. I was thinking of going shopping tomorrow; I found a store where they sell cute dresses.’

Clarice took the bait: the prospect of a shopping spree with her daughter-in-law instantly made her relax, and she beamed contentedly.

‘Oh, of course, my dear, we’ll have a wonderful time, you’ll see. I’ve seen so many gorgeous things since I came. You have a rest, dear,’ she said, making her way towards the exit.

Thomas stooped to give Amaia a peck before he left.

‘Well played,’ he whispered, winking at her.

Their house in Calle Mercaderes revealed none of its splendours from the outside: the tall ceilings, large windows, wood panelling, the wonderful mouldings that ornamented most of the rooms and the ground floor, which had once been an umbrella factory and where James now had his studio.

Amaia took a shower then stretched out on the sofa, pamphlet in one hand and watch in the other.

‘You look more tired today than usual. I noticed that during lunch you weren’t paying as much attention to my mother’s foolishness.’

Amaia grinned.

‘Is it because of something that happened at the courthouse? You mentioned that the trial had been adjourned, but you didn’t say why?’

‘Jasón Medina killed himself this morning in the courthouse toilets. It’ll be in all the papers tomorrow.’

‘Well,’ James shrugged. ‘I can’t say I’m sorry.’

‘Me neither. He’s no great loss, but I imagine the girl’s family must be a bit disappointed that he won’t be standing trial. On the other hand, they’ll be spared the ordeal of having to listen to all the gory details.’

James nodded thoughtfully.

Amaia considered telling him about the note Medina had left for her, but decided it would only upset him. She didn’t want to ruin this special moment by bringing that up.

‘But, yes, I am more tired today, and my mind is on other things.’

‘Such as?’ he asked.

‘At twelve thirty I started having contractions every twenty-five minutes. At first, they only lasted a few seconds, now they’re getting stronger and I’m having them every twelve minutes.’

‘Oh, Amaia, why didn’t you tell me before? Were you suffering all through lunch? Are they really painful?’

‘Not really,’ she said, smiling. ‘It’s more like an intense pressure, besides I didn’t want your mother going hysterical on me. I need a bit of calm now. I’ll rest and keep checking the frequency of the contractions. When I’m ready, we can go to the hospital.’

The skies above Pamplona were still overcast, and the distant twinkle of winter stars was barely visible.

James was asleep face down, sprawled over a larger area of the bed than he was entitled to, in that peaceful, relaxed way of his that Amaia had always envied. At first he had hesitated about going to bed at all, but she had persuaded him to rest while he could because she’d need him awake later on.

‘Are you sure you’ll be OK?’ he had insisted.

‘I’m sure, James. I only need to check the frequency of the contractions. When it’s time to go I’ll let you know.’

He had fallen asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, and the house was silent save for his steady breathing and the soft rustle as she turned the pages of her book.

She broke off reading as she felt another contraction. Gasping, she clutched the arms of the rocking chair she’d been sitting in for the past hour, and waited for it to subside.

Frustrated, she put down the book without bothering to mark her page, realising that, although she’d read quite a lot, she hadn’t taken any of it in. In the past half-hour the contractions had grown more painful, almost making her cry out. Even so, she decided to wait a little longer. She leaned out of the window gazing down into the street, which was quite busy that Friday night, despite the cold, the occasional drizzle, and the fact that it was well past midnight.

She heard a noise in the hallway and went over to listen at the bedroom door.

It was her in-laws, returning after dinner and a stroll. She glanced at the soft glow coming from the reading lamp she had switched on and thought about turning it off, but there was no need; although Clarice meddled in virtually every area of their lives, she wouldn’t dare barge into their bedroom.

Continuing to check the increasing frequency of the contractions, she listened to the sounds in the house, to James’s parents going to bed, and how everything stopped, giving way to a silence troubled only by the creaks and whispers that inhabited the enormous building, as familiar to her as her own breath. She had nothing to worry about now; Thomas was a heavy sleeper, while Clarice took tablets every night, so she wouldn’t be awake before dawn.

The next contraction was truly terrible, and despite concentrating on breathing in and out the way she’d been taught in her prenatal classes, she felt as if she was wearing a steel corset that was squeezing her kidneys and lungs so tight it made her panic. What frightened her wasn’t so much giving birth, although she admitted feeling some trepidation about it, whilst being aware that this was perfectly normal. No, she knew that what frightened her was something far more profound and deep-seated, because this wasn’t the first time she had confronted fear. She had carried it around with her for years like an unwanted, invisible traveller that only appeared when she was at her lowest ebb.

Fear was an old vampire looming above her bed while she slept, hidden in the darkness, filling her dreams with terrifying shadows. Suddenly she remembered her grandmother Juanita’s word for it: gaueko: ‘the night visitor’. A visitor who retreated into the darkness whenever she succeeded in opening a breach in her own defences, a breach that let in the light of understanding, only to reveal the cruelty of the terrible events that had marked her life for ever, and which through sheer willpower she kept buried deep in her soul. The first step had been to comprehend, to identify the truth and to confront it. And yet, even in that instant of euphoria when she believed she had triumphed over her fear for the first time, she realised she hadn’t won the war, only a battle – a glorious one, but a battle all the same. From then on she had worked hard to keep that breach open, allowing the light that flooded in to strengthen her relationship with James, as well as the image of herself she had built up over the years. And as a postscript, this pregnancy, the little being growing inside her, brought her a feeling of serenity she could never before have imagined. Throughout her pregnancy she had felt amazing: no morning sickness, no discomfort, her sleep was restful and serene, free from nightmares or sudden jolts; she had so much energy during the day that she even surprised herself. The perfect pregnancy, until a week ago, the night that evil returned.

She had been going in to the police station every day as usual; they were investigating the case of a missing woman, whose partner was the chief suspect. For months the disappearance had been regarded as intentional, but her daughters’ insistence that their mother hadn’t left of her own accord had aroused Amaia’s interest, and she had reopened the investigation. Besides her two daughters and three grandchildren, the middle-aged woman was a catechist at her local church and paid daily visits to the care home where her elderly mother lived. Too many commitments for her to vanish without a word. They had established early on that suitcases, clothes, personal documents and money were missing from her house. Even so, when Amaia decided to take over the investigation, she insisted on going back there. Lucía Aguirre’s house was as neat and tidy as the photograph of its smiling owner, which had pride of place in the hallway. In the tiny sitting room, a piece of crochet lay on a coffee table covered with photographs of her grandchildren.

Amaia searched the kitchen and bathroom, which were spotlessly clean. In the master bedroom, the bed was made and there were few clothes in the wardrobe and chest of drawers. In the spare room were twin beds.

‘Jonan, do you notice something strange here?’

‘The bedcovers are different,’ said Deputy Inspector Etxaide.

‘We noticed that the first time around. The matching counterpane is in the wardrobe,’ explained the accompanying officer, checking his notes.

Amaia opened the wardrobe to find the blue counterpane matching one of those on the bed neatly folded in a see-through plastic pouch.

‘And didn’t it strike you as odd that this neat, house-proud woman wouldn’t take the trouble to use matching bedspreads, when she had them to hand?’

‘Why start changing bedspreads if she was planning to disappear?’ the officer said with a shrug.

‘Because we’re slaves to our nature. Did you know that some women from East Berlin mopped the floors of their houses before fleeing to West Germany? They were abandoning their country, but they didn’t want anyone saying they weren’t good housewives.’

Amaia pulled the bulky package out of the wardrobe and put it on one of the beds before unzipping it. The sharp odour of bleach permeated the room. With one gloved hand, she tugged at the edge of the counterpane, unfolding it to reveal a yellowish stain in the middle where the bleach had eaten away the colour.

‘You see, officer, it doesn’t fit,’ she said, turning towards the policeman, who nodded, speechless.

‘Our murderer has seen enough TV programmes about crime scene investigations to know that bleach gets rid of bloodstains, but he’s a terrible house husband because he didn’t take into account that it also removes the colour. Call in Forensics to do a blood search – this stain is enormous.’

After a thorough search by the forensic team, traces had been found, which, despite the attempted clean-up, revealed amounts of lost blood that would have resulted in loss of life: the human body contains five litres of blood; losing five hundred millilitres is sufficient to cause fainting, and the tests suggested more than two litres had been spilled. They had arrested the suspect the same day: a vain, cocky individual, his overly long hair streaked with grey, and his shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. Amaia suppressed a laugh when she saw what he looked like from the adjoining room.

‘The return of El Macho,’ said Deputy Inspector Extaide. ‘Who’s going to question him?’

‘Inspector Fernández, they’ve been working on the case from the beginning …’

‘I assumed it would be us, now that this is a murder inquiry. If it hadn’t been for you, they’d still be waiting for her to send a postcard from Cancún.’

‘It’s a matter of courtesy, Jonan. Besides, I can’t interrogate suspects in this state,’ she said, pointing to her belly.

Inspector Fernández entered the interview room and Jonan switched on the recorder.

‘Good morning, Mr Quiralte. My name’s Detective Inspector Fer—’

‘Wait a minute,’ interrupted Quiralte. He raised his cuffed hands, accompanying the gesture with a flick of his hair worthy of a diva in a celebrity magazine. ‘Don’t I get to be interrogated by the star cop?’

‘Who do you mean?’

‘You know, that inspector woman from the FBI?’

‘How do you know about that?’ asked Fernández, taken aback. Amaia clicked her tongue in annoyance. Quiralte smirked.

‘Because I’m smarter than you.’

Fernández looked nervous. He had little experience interrogating murderers, and the suspect had already succeeded in unsettling him.

‘Don’t let him get the upper hand,’ muttered Amaia.

As if he could hear her, Fernández took control of the interview.

‘Why do you want her to interrogate you?’

‘Because they tell me she’s hot, and I’d rather be questioned by a pretty woman inspector than by you any day,’ he said, settling back in his chair.

‘Well, you’ll have to make do with me. The inspector you are referring to is on leave.’

Sneering, Quiralte turned towards the two-way mirror as if he could see through it.

‘Well, that’s a shame, I’ll just have to wait until she gets back.’

‘You don’t intend to give a statement?’

‘Of course I do.’ He was clearly enjoying himself. ‘Don’t pull that face, if the star cop isn’t here, take me before the judge and I’ll tell him I killed that stupid cow.’

And that was precisely what he did. He confessed straight away, only to remind the magistrate impudently that without a body there was no crime, and that for the moment he had no intention of telling them where it was. One of the youngest magistrates on the circuit, Judge Markina’s chiselled looks and stonewashed jeans occasionally fooled some felons into giving too much away, as had been the case with Quiralte. He gave the man one of those dazzling smiles that wrought havoc among the female clerks, before ordering his detention.

‘So, no body, eh, Mr Quiralte? Well, then we’ll just have to wait until it appears. I’m afraid you’ve been watching too many American movies. The fact of admitting that you know where the body is while refusing to divulge this information is reason enough to detain you indefinitely. Moreover you’ve confessed to a murder. A spell in jail might refresh your memory. I’ll talk to you again when you have something to tell me. Until then …’

Amaia had walked home, trying to thrust the details of the case from her mind, as an exercise in self-control but also to get herself in the mood for celebrating her final day at work with James. The baby was due in two weeks’ time, and although she felt perfectly capable of working right up until the last moment, James had persuaded her to take some annual leave because his parents were due to arrive the following day. After dinner, she had fallen into bed, exhausted, and gone to sleep without realising it. All she remembered was that one minute she was talking to James and then, nothing.

She heard the woman first, before she saw her. She was shivering with cold; the sound of her teeth chattering bone against bone was so loud it caused Amaia to open her eyes. Lucía Aguirre was wearing the same red-and-white knitted sweater as in the photograph in her hallway, a gold crucifix round her neck, short fair hair, no doubt dyed to mask the grey. Nothing else about her appearance resembled the cheerful, self-possessed woman who was smiling at the camera. Lucía Aguirre wasn’t weeping, wailing or sobbing, yet there was a deep, distressing pain in her blue eyes that gave her face an air of profound bewilderment, as if she understood nothing, as if she couldn’t accept what was happening to her. She stood quietly, disoriented, rocked by a relentless wind that seemed to blow from every direction and made her sway rhythmically, adding to her air of helplessness. Her left arm was clasped about her waist, in a self-protective gesture that afforded her little comfort, and every now and then her eyes would cast about like searching probes, until they met Amaia’s gaze. She opened her mouth, surprised, like a little girl on her birthday, before starting to speak. Amaia watched the woman’s lips, blue with cold, but no sound emerged. She sat up in bed, concentrating as hard as she could, trying to understand what the woman was saying, but she was far away and the deafening wind carried off the muted sounds emerging from her lips, intoning over and over words that Amaia couldn’t hear. She woke up in a daze, infected by the woman’s anguish, and her own increasing sense of despair. This dream, this phantom-like apparition, had shattered her state of grace, the freedom from fear she had enjoyed since conceiving her daughter, a time of peace when all the nightmares, the gauekos, the ghosts had been exiled to another world.

Some years earlier, in New Orleans, sitting one evening with a cold beer in a bar on St Louis Street, a jovial agent from the FBI had asked her:

‘So, tell me, Inspector Salazar, do murder victims appear at the foot of your bed during the night?’

Amaia’s eyes had gaped in astonishment.

‘Don’t try to fool me, Salazar; I can tell a police officer who sees ghosts from one who doesn’t.’

Amaia stared at him in silence, trying to decide whether he was joking or not, but the agent went on talking, an inscrutable smile playing on his lips.

‘I know, because they’ve been doing the same to me for years.’

Amaia smiled, but Special Agent Aloisius Dupree looked her straight in the eye and she knew he was serious.

‘You mean …’

‘I mean, Inspector, waking up in the middle of the night and seeing the victim of the crime you are investigating standing beside your bed.’ Dupree’s smile had vanished.

She gazed at him uneasily.

‘Don’t let me down, Salazar. Are you going to tell me you don’t see ghosts? I’d be disappointed.’

She was alarmed, but not enough to run the risk of looking like a fool.

‘Agent Dupree, ghosts don’t exist,’ she said, raising her glass in a silent toast.

‘Of course they don’t, Inspector, but if I’m not mistaken – and I’m not – more than once you’ve awoken in the middle of the night having sensed the presence of one of those lost victims at the foot of your bed. Am I mistaken?’

Amaia took a sip of beer, determined not to tell him anything, but inviting him to go on.

‘You shouldn’t feel ashamed, Inspector … Would you prefer me to say that you “dream” about your victims?’

Amaia sighed. ‘I’m afraid that sounds just as disturbing, dubious and deranged.’

‘Aye, there’s the rub, Inspector: labelling it as deranged.’

‘Explain that to the FBI shrink or his equivalent in the Navarre police,’ she retorted.

‘Oh, come on, Salazar! Neither of us would be foolish enough to expose ourselves to the scrutiny of a shrink when we both know this is something he or she would be incapable of understanding. Most people would think that a cop who has nightmares about a case is at the very least stressed out or, at worst, if you push me, emotionally over-involved.’

He paused, draining the dregs of his glass then raised his arm to order another two beers. Amaia was about to protest, but the stifling New Orleans heat, the soft tones of a piano whose keys someone was stroking at the far end of the room, and an old timepiece stopped at ten o’clock which took pride of place above the bar, made her change her mind. Dupree waited until the barman had set down two fresh glasses in front of them.

‘The first few times it scares the pants off you, to the point where you think you’re starting to go crazy. But that’s not true, Salazar. On the contrary, a good homicide detective doesn’t possess a simple mind, or simple thought processes. We spend hours trying to figure out how a murderer’s mind works, how he thinks, what he wants, how he feels. Next, we go to the morgue, where we view his work, hoping the body will tell us why, because once we know the killer’s motive, we have a chance of catching him. But in the majority of cases the body isn’t enough, because a dead body is just a broken shell. For too long perhaps, criminal investigations have been more focused on understanding the mind of the criminal than that of the victim. For years, murder victims have been seen as little more than the end products of a sinister process, but at last victimology is coming into its own, showing that the choice of victim is never random, even when it’s made to appear so, that too can provide clues. In dreaming about victims, we are accessing images projected by our subconscious, but that doesn’t make them any less significant. It’s simply another form of thought-processing. For a while those apparitions of victims by my bed tormented me. I used to wake up drenched in sweat, terrified and anxious. I’d feel that way for hours, while I tried to figure out to what extent I was losing my mind. I was a rookie agent back then, partnered with a veteran. Once, during a long, tedious stakeout, I woke up suddenly in the middle of one of those nightmares. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” my partner said. I froze. “Maybe I did,” I replied. “So, you see ghosts too?” he said. “Well, next time you should pay more attention to what they say instead of hollering and trying to resist.” That was good advice. Over the years, I’ve learned that when I dream about a victim, part of my brain is projecting information which is already there, but which I haven’t been able to see.’

Amaia nodded slowly. ‘So, are they ghosts or projections inside the investigator’s mind?’

‘Projections, of course. Although …’

‘Although what?’

Agent Dupree didn’t reply. He raised his glass and drank.

She roused James, trying not to alarm him. He sat up in bed with a start, rubbing his eyes.

‘Is it time to go to the hospital?’

Amaia bobbed her head, her face pallid as she gave a weak smile.

James pulled on the pair of jeans and jumper that he had laid out in readiness on the end of the bed.

‘Call my aunt, will you? I promised I’d let her know.’

‘Are my parents home yet?’

‘Yes, but please don’t tell them, James. It’s two in the morning. I’m not going to give birth straight away. Besides, they probably won’t be allowed in. I don’t want them to have to sit for hours in the waiting room.’

‘So, it’s OK to tell your auntie, but not my parents?’

‘James, you know perfectly well that Aunt Engrasi won’t come here, she hasn’t left the valley in years. I promised I’d tell her when the time came, that’s all.’

Dr Villa was about fifty, with prematurely grey hair that she wore in a bob, which fell across her face whenever she leant forward. Recognising Amaia, she approached the side of her bed.

‘Well, Amaia, we have some good news and some not-so-good news.’

Amaia waited for her to continue, reaching out for James, who clasped her hand between his.

‘The good news is that you’re now in labour, the baby is fine, the umbilical cord is not wrapped round her, her heartbeat is nice and strong even during the contractions. The not-so-good news is that, despite the length of time you’ve been having contractions, your labour isn’t very advanced. There’s some dilation, but the baby isn’t properly positioned in the birth canal. What most concerns me though is that you look tired. Have you been sleeping well?’

‘No, not too well these past few days.’

This was an understatement. Since the nightmares had returned, Amaia had been sleeping on and off for a few minutes before drifting into a semiconscious state from which she would awake exhausted and irritable.

‘We’re going to keep you in, Amaia, but I don’t want you to lie down. I need you to walk – it will help the baby’s head engage. When you feel a contraction coming, try to squat; that will ease your discomfort and help you dilate.’

She gave a subdued sigh.

‘I know you’re tired,’ Dr Villa went on, ‘but it won’t be long now. This is when your daughter needs your help.’

Amaia nodded.

For the next two hours she made herself pace up and down the hospital corridor, which was empty at this hour of the morning. By her side, James seemed completely lost, distraught at how impotent he felt watching her suffer without being able to do anything.

For the first few minutes, he had kept asking if she was all right, whether he could help, or did she want him to bring her something, anything. She scarcely replied, intent upon keeping a degree of control over her body, which no longer felt like it belonged to her. This strong, healthy body that had always given her a secret feeling of pleasant self-assurance, was now no more than a mound of aching flesh. She almost laughed at the absurdity of her long-held belief that she had a high pain threshold.

In the end, James had given up and decided to remain silent. She was relieved. She had been making a superhuman effort not tell him to go to hell each time he asked her if it was hurting. Pain produced a visceral anger in her, which, coupled with her exhaustion and lack of sleep, was beginning to cloud her mind, until the only thought she could focus on was: I just want this to be over.

Dr Villa threw away her gloves, satisfied.

‘Good work, Amaia, you need to dilate a little more, but the baby is in position, so it’s all a matter of contractions and time.’

‘How long?’ she asked, anxiously.

‘As a first-time mother, it could take minutes or hours, but you can lie down now – you’ll be more comfortable. We’ll monitor you and prepare you for labour.’

The moment Amaia lay down, sleep overwhelmed her like a heavy stone slab closing eyes she could no longer keep open.

‘Amaia, Amaia, wake up.’

Opening her eyes, she saw her sister Rosaura aged ten, hair dishevelled, wearing a pink nightie.

‘It’s nearly morning, Amaia, go to bed. If Ama finds you here she’ll scold us both.’

Clumsily drawing back the blankets, Amaia placed her small five-year-old feet on the cold floor. She managed to open her eyes enough to make out the pale shape of her own bed amid the shadows, the bed she didn’t want to sleep in, because if she did, she would come in the night, to watch her with those cold black eyes, her mouth twisted in a grimace of loathing. Even without opening her eyes, Amaia could see her with absolute clarity, sensing the stifled hatred in her measured breath as she watched her feigning sleep, well aware that she was awake. Then, just when she felt herself weakening, when her muscles started to go stiff from the pent-up tension, when her tiny bladder threatened to empty its contents between her legs, eyes shut tight, she would become aware of her mother leaning slowly over her strained face, and a prayer, like an incantation, would echo in her head, over and over, preventing her even in those moments of darkest dread from falling into the temptation to disobey the command.

Don’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyesdon’topenyoureyes.

She wouldn’t open them, yet even with them closed she could sense the slow advance, the precision of her mother’s approach, the icy smile forming on her lips as she whispered:

‘Sleep, little bitch. Ama won’t eat you today.’

Amaia knew she wouldn’t come near if she slept with her sisters. Which was why, every night, when her parents went to bed, she would plead with her sisters, promise to do anything for them if only they would let her sleep in their bed. Flora seldom indulged her, or only in exchange for her servitude the following day, whereas Rosaura would relent when she saw Amaia cry; crying was easy when you were scared out of your wits.

She groped her way across the darkened room, vaguely aware of the outline of the bed, which seemed to recede even as the ground softened beneath her feet, and the smell of floor polish changed into a different, more pungent, earthy odour of dank forest floor. She threaded her way through the trees, protected as if by ancient columns, as she heard nearby the babbling waters of the River Baztán flowing freely. Approaching its stony banks, she whispered: the river. And her voice became an echo that bounced off the age-old rock framing the river’s path. The river, she whispered once again.

And then she saw the body. A young girl of about fifteen lay dead on the rounded pebbles of the riverbank. Eyes staring into infinity, hair spread in two perfect tresses on either side of her head, hands like claws in a parody of offering, palms turned upwards, showing the void.

‘No,’ cried Amaia.

And as she glanced about her, she saw not one but dozens of bodies ranged on either side of the river, like the macabre blossoms of some infernal spring.

‘No,’ she repeated, in a voice that was now a plea.

The hands of the corpses rose up as one, their fingers pointing at her belly.

A shudder brought her halfway back to consciousness for as long as the contraction lasted … then she was back beside the river.

The bodies were immobile again, but a strong breeze that seemed to be coming from the river itself tousled their locks, lifting them into the air like kite strings, while it whipped the limpid surface of the water into white, frothy swirls. Above the roaring wind, Amaia could hear the sobs of the little girl, who was her, mingling with others that seemed to come from the corpses. Drawing closer, she saw that this was true. The girls were weeping profusely, their tears leaving silvery tracks on their cheeks that glinted in the moonlight.

The suffering of those souls tore at her little girl’s heart.

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she cried helplessly.

The wind suddenly died down, and the riverbed was plunged into an impossible silence. Then came a watery, rhythmic, tap-tapping.

Splash, splash, splash …

Like slow rhythmic applause from the river. Splash, splash, splash.

Like when she would run through the puddles left by the rain. After the first sounds, more followed.

Splash, splash, splash, splash, splash …

And more. Splash, splash, splash … and yet more, until it was like a hailstorm, or as if the river water were boiling.

‘There’s nothing I can do,’ she cried again, wild with fear.

‘Cleanse the river,’ shouted a voice.

‘The river.’

‘The river.’

‘The river.’ Other voices echoed.

She tried desperately to find the source of the voices clamouring from the waters.

The clouds parted over Baztán, and the silvery moonlight seeped through once more, illuminating the maidens who sat on the overhanging rocks, tapping their webbed feet on the water’s surface, long tresses swaying, their furious incantation rising from red, full-lipped mouths filled with needle-sharp teeth.

‘Cleanse the river.’

‘Cleanse the river.’

‘The river, the river, the river.’

‘Amaia, Amaia, wake up!’ The midwife’s strident voice brought her back to reality. ‘Come on, Amaia, the baby is here. Now it’s your turn.’

But Amaia couldn’t hear, for above the midwife’s voice, the maidens’ clamour still filled her ears.

‘I can’t,’ she cried.

But it was no use; they didn’t listen, only commanded.

‘Cleanse the river, cleanse the valley, wash away the crime …’ they cried, their voices merging with the cry issuing from her own throat as she felt the stabbing pain of another contraction.

‘Amaia, I need you here,’ said the midwife. ‘When the next one comes, you have to push, and depending how hard you push you can do this in two or in ten contractions. It’s up to you, two or ten.’

Amaia grasped the bars to heave herself up, while James stood behind, supporting her, silent and nervous, but reliable.

‘Excellent,’ the midwife said encouragingly. ‘Are you ready?’

Amaia nodded.

‘Right, here comes another,’ she said, her eye on the monitor. ‘Push, my dear.’

She pressed down as hard as she could, holding her breath as she felt something tear inside her.

‘It’s finished. Well done, Amaia, very good. Except that you need to breathe, for your sake and that of your baby. Next time, breathe – believe me, it’ll be over much more quickly.’

Amaia agreed obediently, while James wiped the sweat from her face.

‘Good, here comes another. Push, Amaia, let’s finish this, help your baby, bring her out.’

Two or ten, two or ten, a voice inside her head repeated.

‘Not ten,’ she whispered.

Concentrating on her breathing, she kept pushing until she felt as if her soul were draining out of her, and an overwhelming sensation of emptiness seized her entire body.

Perhaps I’m bleeding to death, she thought. And she reflected that, if she were, she wouldn’t care, because to bleed was peaceful and sweet. She had never bled like this, but Agent Dupree had nearly died from a bullet in the chest; he had told her that, although being shot was agonising, to bleed felt peaceful and sweet, like turning into oil and trickling away. And the more you bled, the less you cared.

Then she heard the wail. Strong and powerful, a genuine statement of intent.

‘Oh my goodness, what a beautiful boy!’ the nurse exclaimed.

‘And he’s blond, like you,’ added the midwife.

Amaia turned to look at James, who was as bewildered as she was.

‘A boy?’ she said.

The nurse’s voice reached them from the side of the room.

‘Yes, indeed, a boy who weighs 3.2 kilos and is pretty as a picture.’

‘But … they told us it was a girl,’ stammered Amaia.

‘Well, they were wrong. It happens occasionally, but usually the other way round, girls who look like boys because of where the umbilical cord is.’

‘Are you sure?’ insisted James, who was still supporting Amaia from behind.

Amaia felt the warmth of the tiny body the nurse had just placed on top of her, wrapped in a towel and wriggling vigorously.

‘A boy, no doubt about it,’ said the nurse, raising the towel to reveal the baby’s naked body.

Amaia was in shock.

Her son’s little face twisted in exaggerated grimaces; he was squirming as though searching for something. Raising a tiny fist to his mouth, he sucked at it hard, then half-opened his eyes and stared.

‘Oh my God, James, it’s a boy,’ she managed to say.

Her husband reached out and stroked the infant’s soft cheek with his fingers.

‘He’s beautiful, Amaia …’ he said with a catch in his voice, as he leaned over to kiss her. The tears ran down his face and his lips tasted salty.

‘Well done, my darling.’

‘Well done to you, too, Aita,’ she said, gazing at the baby, who appeared fascinated by the overhead lights, eyes wide open.

‘You really had no idea it was a boy?’ the midwife asked, surprised. ‘I was sure you did, because you kept repeating his name during the birth. Ibai, Ibai. Is that what you’re going to call him?’

‘Ibai … the river,’ whispered Amaia.

She gazed at James, who was beaming, then at her son.

‘Yes, yes!’ she declared. ‘Ibai, that’s his name.’ And then she burst out laughing.

James looked at her, grinning at her contentment.

‘Why are you laughing?’

She was giggling uncontrollably and couldn’t stop.

‘I’m … I’m imagining your mother’s face when she finds out she has to take everything back.’

2

Three months later

Amaia thought she recognised the song that reached her, scarcely a whisper, from the living room. She had just finished clearing away the lunch things, and, drying her hands on a kitchen towel, she walked over to the door, the better to hear the lullaby her aunt was singing to Ibai in a soft, soothing voice. Yes, it was the same one. Although she hadn’t heard it for years, she recognised the song her Amatxi Juanita used to sing to her when she was little. The memory brought back her adored and much-lamented Juanita, wrapped in her widow’s weeds, hair swept up in a bun, fastened with silver combs that could barely contain her unruly white curls; her grandmother, the only woman who had cradled her as an infant:

Txitxo politori

zu nere laztana,

katiatu ninduzun,

libria nintzana.

Libriak libre dira,

zu ta ni katig,

librerik oba dana,

biok dakigu. ¹

Sitting in the armchair near the blazing fire, Engrasi held the tiny Ibai in her arms, eyes fixed on his little face as she recited the old verses of that mournful lullaby. She was smiling, although Amaia distinctly remembered her grandmother weeping as she sang it to her. She wondered why, reflecting that perhaps Juanita already understood the suffering in her granddaughter’s soul, and shared her fears.

Nire laztana laztango

Kalian negarrez dago,

Aren negarra gozoago da

Askoren barrea baiño. ²

When the song finished, Juanita would dry her tears with the spotless handkerchief embroidered with her initials and those of her husband, the grandfather Amaia had never known, gazing down at her from the faded portrait that presided over the dining room.

‘Why are you crying, Amatxi? Does the song make you sad?’

‘Take no notice, my love, your amatxi is a silly old woman.’

And yet she sighed, clasping the girl still more tightly in her arms, holding her a little longer, although Amaia was happy to stay.

She stood listening to the end of the lullaby, relishing the pleasure of recalling the words just before her aunt sang them. In the air lingered an aroma of stew, burning logs and the wax on Engrasi’s furniture. James had fallen asleep on the sofa, and although the room wasn’t cold, Amaia went over, covering him as best she could with a small, red rug. He opened his eyes for an instant, blew her a kiss and carried on dozing. Amaia pulled up a chair next to her aunt and sat contemplating her: the old lady had stopped singing, yet she continued to gaze in awe at the face of the sleeping child. Engrasi looked at her niece, smiling as she held the child out for her to take. Amaia kissed him gently on the head before putting him in his cot.

‘Is James asleep?’ Engrasi asked.

‘Yes, we hardly slept a wink. Ibai sometimes has cholic after a feed, especially at night, so James was up in the small hours, pacing round the house with him.’

Engrasi turned to look at James. ‘He’s a good father,’ she said.

‘The best.’

‘What about you, aren’t you tired?’

‘No, you know me. I’m fine with a few hours’ sleep.’

Engrasi seemed to reflect, her face clouding for an instant, but then she smiled once more and gestured towards the cot.

‘He’s beautiful, Amaia, the most beautiful baby I’ve ever seen, and I’m not just saying that because he’s ours; there’s something special about Ibai.’

‘You can say that again!’ declared Amaia. ‘The baby boy who was supposed to be a girl but changed his mind at the last minute.’

Engrasi pulled a serious face. ‘That’s exactly what I think happened.’

Amaia looked puzzled.

‘I did a reading when you first became pregnant – just to make sure everything was all right – and it was obvious then that the baby was a girl. Over the following months, I consulted the cards several times, but never looked into the question of the baby’s sex again because it was something I already knew. Towards the end, when you were acting strangely, saying you felt unable to choose a name for the baby or to buy her clothes, I came up with a plausible psychological explanation,’ she said with a smile, ‘but I also consulted the cards. I must confess that, for a while, I feared the worst; that this uncertainty you felt, this paralysis, was a sign that your child would never be born. Mothers sometimes have premonitions like that, and they always reflect something real. But on that occasion, no matter how many times I consulted the cards about the baby’s sex, they wouldn’t tell me – and you know what I always say about the things the cards won’t tell us: if the cards won’t tell, then we’re not meant to know. Some things will never be revealed to us, because their nature is to remain mysterious; other things will be revealed when the time is right. When James called me early that morning, the cards couldn’t have been clearer. A boy.’

‘Are you saying you think I was going to have a girl but in the last month she turned into a boy? That’s physically impossible.’

‘Yes, I think you were going to have a daughter, I think you probably will have her one day, but I also believe this wasn’t the right time for her, that someone left the decision until the last moment and then decided you’d have Ibai.’

‘And who do you think took that decision?’

‘Perhaps the same one who gave him to you.’

Amaia stood up, exasperated.

‘I’m going to make some coffee. Do you want a cup?’

Aunt Engrasi ignored the question. ‘You’re wrong to deny it was a miracle.’

‘I’m not denying it, Auntie,’ she protested, ‘it’s just that …’

‘Don’t believe in them, don’t deny their existence,’ said Engrasi, invoking the old incantation against witches that had been popular as recently as a century earlier.

‘Least of all me,’ whispered Amaia, recalling those amber eyes, the fleeting, high-pitched whistle that had guided her through the forest in the middle of the night as she struggled with the feeling of being in a dream while at the same time experiencing something real.

She remained silent until her aunt spoke again.

‘When are you going back to work?’

‘Next Monday.’

‘How do you feel about it?’

‘Well, Auntie, you know I like my job, but I have to admit that going back has never felt this hard, not after the holidays, or after our honeymoon. Everything’s different now, now there’s Ibai,’ she said, glancing at his cot. ‘It feels too soon to be leaving him.’

Engrasi nodded, smiling.

‘Did you know that in the past in Baztán women had to stay at home for a month after they gave birth? That was the period the Church deemed sufficient to ensure the baby’s health and survival. Only then was the mother allowed out to take the baby to the church to be baptised. But every law has its loophole. The women of Baztán were known for getting things done. A month was a long time, considering most of them were obliged to work, they had other children, livestock and crops to tend, cows to milk. So whenever they had to leave the house, they would send their husbands up to the roof to fetch a tile. Then they tied it tightly on their head with a scarf. That way the women were able to carry out their chores, while continuing to observe the custom, because as you know, in Baztán your roof is your home.’

Amaia grinned. ‘I can’t quite see myself with a tile on my head, but I’d happily wear one if that meant I could take my house with me.’

‘How did your mother-in-law react when you told her about Ibai?’

‘Much as you’d imagine: she began by railing against the doctors and their prenatal screening methods, insisting such things never happen in the States. She was fine with the baby, although clearly a little disappointed, probably because she wasn’t able to smother him in ribbons and lace. Overnight she lost all desire to go shopping, changed the nursery from pink to white, and swapped the baby outfits for vouchers, which will enable me to clothe Ibai until he’s four.’

‘What a woman!’ chuckled Engrasi.

‘Thomas, on the other hand, was thrilled with Ibai. He cradled him in his arms all day, covered him in kisses and took countless photos of him. He’s even opened a college trust fund for him! Clarice grew bored once she stopped shopping. She began to talk about going home, about her many commitments there – she’s president of a couple of clubs for society ladies, how she missed playing golf, and she started to pester us about getting Ibai baptised. James stood up to her, because he always wanted our baby to be baptised at the San Fermín Chapel, but you know how long the waiting list is – a year, at least. So, Clarice showed up at the chapel, spoke to the chaplain, made a generous donation, and managed to get a date next week,’ Amaia said, laughing.

‘Money talks,’ said Engrasi.

‘It’s a shame you won’t be coming, Auntie.’

Engrasi clicked her tongue. ‘You know, Amaia …’

‘I know, you never leave the valley.’

‘I’m happy here,’ said Engrasi, her words embracing a whole philosophy of life.

‘We’re all happy here,’ said Amaia, dreamily. ‘When I was small, I only ever felt relaxed in this house,’ she added all of a sudden. Amaia was gazing into the fire, mesmerised, her voice, at once soft and shrill, was that of a little girl.

‘I scarcely slept at home – because I had to keep watch, and when I could no longer stay awake, when sleep came, it was never deep or restful, it was the sleep of those condemned to death, waiting for their executioner’s face to loom over them because their time has come.’

‘Amaia …’ Engrasi said softly.

‘If you stay awake she won’t get you, you can cry out, wake the others and she won’t be able to—’

‘Amaia …’

She turned away from the fire, looked at her aunt and smiled.

‘This house has always been a refuge for everyone, hasn’t it? Including Ros. She hasn’t been back to her own place since what happened to Freddy.’

‘No, she goes round there regularly, but sleeps here.’

They heard a soft knock at the door. Ros appeared in the entrance, pulling off her colourful woollen hat.

‘Kaixo,’ she said. ‘It’s freezing outside! How cosy you are in here,’ she added, peeling off several layers of clothing.

Amaia studied her sister; she knew her well enough to notice how thin she was, that despite her luminous smile her face had lost its glow. Poor Ros, her anxieties and the sadness she carried around inside had become such a constant part of her life that Amaia could scarcely recall the last time she saw her sister truly happy, despite the success she had made of managing the bakery. Yes, there had been the problems of the past few months, her separation from Freddy, Víctor’s death … But more than anything, the sadness was part of her character. She was one of those people for whom life is more painful, who make you think they might take the easy way out if things get too difficult.

‘Sit here, I’m going to make coffee.’ Amaia rose to offer Ros her chair. As she clasped her sister’s hand, she saw that her nails were flecked with white. ‘Have you been painting?’

‘Just a few bits and bobs in the bakery.’

Amaia hugged Ros, feeling her thinness even more starkly.

‘Sit down by the fire, you’re freezing,’ she urged.

‘I will, but first I want to see the little prince.’

‘Don’t wake him up,’ whispered Amaia, coming over.

Ros gazed at Ibai, frowning.

‘I can’t believe it! Doesn’t this child do anything other than sleep? When is he going to wake up so that his auntie can give him a cuddle?’

‘Try coming to my place between eleven p.m. and five a.m. and you’ll see that, not only is he wide awake but nature has blessed him with a fine pair of lungs, and a cry that threatens to burst your eardrums. You’re welcome to come round and cuddle him anytime.’

‘I might take you up on that – or are you trying to scare me off?’

‘You’d last one night, then you’d hand him straight back to me.’

‘Woman of little faith,’ said Ros, pretending to take umbrage. ‘If you lived here, I’d show you.’

‘Right, go and buy some earplugs; you’re on duty tonight – we’re sleeping over.’

‘What a shame,’ said Ros, feigning disappointment. ‘It just so happens I have other plans.’

They all laughed.

3

Winter 1979

He reached out his hand, seeking his wife’s warm presence, but found only an empty space where the heat from her body had long since evaporated.

Alarmed, he sat up, slid his legs out of bed and listened intently for any tell-tale sounds that his wife was in the house.

Barefoot, he searched every room. He entered the bedroom where the two girls lay asleep in twin beds, the kitchen, the bathroom. He even checked the balcony to make sure she hadn’t collapsed after she got up, and was lying on the floor unable to cry for help. Part of him wished this were true, rather than knowing that she had waited until he was asleep to steal out of the house, to go … He had no idea where or with whom, only that she would return before dawn, that the cold which had seeped into her flesh would take a while to ease, lingering between them, an invisible, insurmountable barrier, as she fell into a deep sleep while he lay there motionless. He went back to the bedroom, stroked the soft pillowcase, instinctively leaning over to breathe in the scent of his wife’s hair. A guttural cry of despair rose from his throat as he struggled once more to understand what had happened to them. ‘Rosario,’ he whispered, ‘Rosario.’ His proud wife, the young woman from San Sebastián who had come to Elizondo on holiday, with whom he had fallen in love the moment he saw her, the woman who had given him two daughters, and was carrying a third in her belly, the woman who had worked alongside him every day, devoting herself to the bakery, who undoubtedly had a better head for commerce than he, who had helped him raise the business beyond his wildest dreams. The elegant woman who never left the house without looking immaculate; a wonderful wife and a loving mother towards Flora and Rosaura, so distinguished and sophisticated that other women looked like housemaids in comparison. Standoffish towards their neighbours, she oozed charm in the bakery, but avoided contact with other mothers. Apart from him, her only friend was Elena. And then a few months ago the two women had stopped speaking to each other. When he bumped into Elena in the street one day and asked her why, all she could say was: ‘Rosario is no longer my friend, I’ve lost her.’ This made all the more puzzling her nocturnal escapades, the long walks she insisted on taking alone, her absences at all hours of the day or night, her silences. Where did she go? At first when he had questioned her, her replies were evasive: ‘Out walking, thinking.’ Once, half in jest, he had said: ‘Can’t you think here with me, or at least let me go with you?’

She had shot him a strange, angry glance, then replied with alarming coldness:

‘That’s completely out of the question.’

Juan considered himself a simple man; he realised that he was lucky to be married to a woman like Rosario, that he knew little about the female psyche, and so, filled with misgivings and guilt for what he saw as an act of betrayal, he sought advice from their local doctor. After all, the doctor was the only other person in Elizondo who knew Rosario relatively well. He had looked after her during her two previous pregnancies and attended the births. That was all, though: Rosario was a strong woman who rarely complained.

‘She sneaks out at night, lies to you about going to the bakery, is uncommunicative and wants to be left alone. What you’re describing sounds to me like depression. Sadly, here in the valley, that kind of affliction is commonplace. Rosario is from the coast, from the seaside, where the light is different even when it rains. The greyness here eventually takes its toll, we’ve had a lot of rain this year, and the suicide rate has reached alarming levels. I suspect that Rosario is slightly depressed. The fact that she showed no symptoms during her previous pregnancies means nothing. Rosario is a very demanding woman, but she makes great demands on herself too; I’m sure she’s a wonderful wife and mother, she looks after both the house and the bakery, is always impeccably turned out, but this pregnancy is more difficult for her because she’s no longer young. Hardy women like her see motherhood as another chore, another self-imposed responsibility. So, although she wants this baby, it has created a conflict between her need to be perfect in everything she does, and her fear of falling short. If I’m not mistaken, this will only get worse after the birth. You must be patient with her, shower her with affection and try to ease her burden. Take the older girls off her hands, hire an extra hand at the bakery, or find a home help.’

Rosario refused even to discuss the matter.

‘That’s all I need, one of those village gossips snooping around my house so she can tell people what I have and don’t have. What’s this all about? Have I been neglecting the house or the girls? Have I stopped going to the bakery every morning?’

He had felt overwhelmed, scarcely able to reply.

‘Of course not, Rosario, I’m not saying that, I just thought that while you are pregnant, you could do with some help.’

‘I’m more than capable of running my house without any help, so stop interfering unless you want me to go back to San Sebastián. I refuse to discuss the matter again, you’ve insulted me simply by mentioning it.’

She had sulked for days, barely speaking to him, until gradually things returned to normal; she would slip out virtually every night while he lay awake until she came back cold and silent, vowing he would speak to her in the morning, even though he knew full well he would put it off to avoid confronting her.

Deep down, he felt like a coward. A fearful child before a mother superior. And realising that what he feared most was her reaction made him feel still worse. Each time he heard her key in the latch, he would heave a sigh of relief, postponing once more the discussion that would never take place.

4

The desecration of a church wasn’t the sort of incident that usually got her out of bed in the early hours to drive fifty kilometres north, but the urgency in Inspector Iriarte’s voice had left her no choice.

‘Inspector Salazar, forgive me for waking you, but I think you need to see this.’

‘Is it a body?’

‘Not exactly. Someone has desecrated a church, but … well, I think you should come and see for yourself.’

‘In Elizondo?’

‘No, a few kilometres away, in Arizkun.’

She hung up and checked the time. One minute past four. She waited, holding her breath for a few seconds until she heard the slight movement, the imperceptible rustle, followed by a sweet, tiny sigh that announced her son was waking up, punctually, for his next feed. She switched on the bedside lamp, draped with a scarf to diffuse the light, and leant over the cot. She picked up the warm bundle in her arms and inhaled the soft smell of his scalp. Placing him on her breast, she gave a start as she felt the force of his suction. She smiled at James, who was propped up on his elbow, watching her.

‘Work?’ he asked.

‘Yes, I have to go, but I’ll be back before his next feed.’

‘Don’t worry, Amaia, he’ll be fine. If for any reason you’re late, I’ll make up a bottle.’

‘I’ll be back in time,’ she said, stroking her son’s head and planting a kiss on the soft spot on his crown.

In the early hours of that winter morning, lights were shining inside the church of San Juan Bautista in Arizkun, contrasting sharply with the gloomy bell tower that stood narrow and erect, like a silent sentinel. Several uniformed police officers were busy examining the lock on the door to the south entrance to the chapel with their torches.

Amaia parked in the street and woke up Deputy Inspector Etxaide, who was dozing on the passenger seat beside her. Locking the car, she walked around it, stepping over the low wall that surrounded the churchyard.

She greeted a few of the officers and entered the chapel. She stretched her hand towards the font but pulled up short when she became aware of a smell of burning in the air that reminded her of freshly ironed clothes and singed fabric. She recognised Inspector Iriarte, who was speaking with two priests, who stood aghast, hands clasped to their mouths, eyes fixed on the altar. Amaia held back, observing the commotion caused by the arrival of the pathologist, Dr San Martín, and the legal secretary, as she wondered what they were doing there.

Iriarte hurried across to them.

‘Thank you for coming, Inspector Salazar; hello, Jonan,’ he said. ‘It seems that several desecrations have taken place in the chapel in the past few weeks. First of all, someone broke into the church in the middle of the night and smashed up the baptismal font. A week later they took an axe to one of the front pews. And now this,’ he said, pointing towards the altar, which showed signs of an arson attempt. ‘Someone set fire to the altar cloths, only luckily they’re made of linen and burn slowly. Since all this started, the chaplain, who lives nearby, has been keeping an eye on the church. He noticed a light inside and called the emergency services. By the time the patrol cars arrived the fire had gone out, and the culprit or culprits had scarpered.’

Amaia looked at him expectantly. She pursed her lips, puzzled.

‘Right, so, an act of vandalism, desecration or whatever you want to call it – I don’t see how we can help.’

Iriarte raised his eyebrows theatrically.

‘Come and see for yourselves.’

They approached the altar, where the inspector crouched down and lifted a sheet to reveal what looked like a stem of dry, yellow bamboo cane, charred at one end where it had been set alight.

Bewildered, Amaia glanced at San Martín, who leant over to inspect it more closely.

‘Good Lord!’ he said with surprise.

‘What is it?’ asked Amaia.

‘A mairu-beso,’ he whispered.

‘A what?’

San Martín drew back the sheet, revealing another piece of broken cane and the tiny bones of a hand.

‘Good God, it’s a child’s arm,’ said Amaia.

‘A child’s arm bones, to be precise,’ San Martín corrected her. ‘Probably less than a year old; the bones are tiny.’

‘I’ll be …’

‘A mairu, Inspector Salazar, a mairu-beso is a baby’s arm bone.’

Amaia looked at Jonan, seeking confirmation of what the doctor had said. She saw that his face had turned visibly white as he contemplated the charred little bones.

‘Etxaide?’

‘Yes,’ he said in a hushed voice, ‘it’s a mairu-beso. For it to be genuine, it has to come from a child that died before being baptised. In the olden days, it was believed they had magical powers that protected people when used as torches; the smoke they gave off could put to sleep the inhabitants of a house or an entire village, while the bearers carried out their “sorcery”.’

‘So, what we have here is not only the desecration of a church but of a grave as well,’ declared Iriarte.

‘In the best-case scenario,’ whispered Jonan Etxaide.

It didn’t escape Amaia, the way Iriarte drew Jonan aside, their uneasy conversation coupled with furtive glances towards the altar. In the meantime she went on listening to Deputy Inspector Zabalza’s observations:

‘As with suicides, desecrations carried out on human remains aren’t usually made public, due to their social consequences and because of the possible copycat effect, but they occur more often than is reported in the media. Since the arrival of immigrants from Haiti, the Dominican Republic and Cuba, as well as parts of Africa, religious practices that originated in those countries have gained acceptance among Europeans. Santería, for example, has become more popular in recent years; in some of its rituals, human bones are used to summon the spirits of the dead – as a result, desecrations of tombs and niches have increased significantly. A year ago, during a routine drugs search, a car was intercepted on its way to Paris containing fifteen human skulls stolen from various cemeteries along the Costa del Sol. Apparently, they fetch a good price on the black market.’

‘So, these bones could have come from anywhere,’ ventured San Martín.

‘No, not from anywhere,’ Jonan said, rejoining the group. ‘I’m convinced they were stolen here in Arizkun, or in one of the surrounding villages. It’s true that human bones are used in many religious rituals, but mairu-beso are limited to the Spanish and French Basque Country, and Navarre. As soon as Dr San Martín has dated the bones, we’ll know where to look.’

He turned round and walked towards the far end of the nave, while Amaia gazed after him bemused. She had known Jonan Etxaide for three years, and in the last two her respect and admiration for him had grown in leaps and bounds. Jonan had joined the police force after finishing his studies – he held a twin degree in anthropology and archaeology – and although he wasn’t a typical cop, Amaia appreciated his somewhat romantic viewpoint and his discreet, non-confrontational approach. She was all the more surprised, therefore, by his somewhat stubborn insistence about where to steer the case. Concealing her unease, she said goodbye to the pathologist, still puzzling over the way Iriarte had nodded while Jonan spoke, the two of them casting anxious glances at the walls of the chapel.

She could hear Ibai as soon as she turned the key in the lock. Leaning back against the door to close it, she hurried upstairs, slipping off her coat. Guided by his urgent cries, she burst into the bedroom to find her son screaming his lungs out in his cot. She glanced around, a knot of anger clenching her stomach.

‘James,’ she yelled, as she lifted the baby out of the cot. He walked in carrying a feeding bottle.

‘How could you leave him to cry like that? He was desperate. What on earth were you doing?’

James stopped in his tracks, holding up the bottle.

‘He’s fine, Amaia. He’s crying because he’s hungry, which is what I was trying to deal with. It’s time for his feed, you know how punctual he is. I waited a few minutes, but when you didn’t arrive, he started getting louder …’

Amaia bit her tongue. She knew James’ words weren’t meant as a reproach, but they felt like a slap in the face. She turned away, sat down on the rocking chair and lifted the baby to her.

‘Throw that muck away,’ she ordered.

She heard him sigh good-naturedly as he walked out.

Grilles, railings, and French windows: the flat, three-storey façade of the Archbishop’s palace, whose weather-worn oak door gave on to Plaza Santa María. Inside, a priest dressed in a smart suit and clerical collar introduced himself as the Archbishop’s secretary, then led them up a wide staircase to the first floor. After ushering them into a room, he asked them to wait while he announced their arrival, then disappeared noiselessly behind a hanging tapestry. Within seconds he was back.

‘This way, please.’

The Archbishop received them in a magnificent room, which Jonan estimated must have spanned the entire length of the first floor. Four windows, which opened on to balconies with close-set railings, were closed against the bitter morning cold of Pamplona. The Archbishop greeted them standing beside his desk, proffering a firm handshake as the police commissioner made the introductions.

‘Monsignor Landero, this is Inspector Salazar who heads the murder squad at the Navarre regional police, and Deputy Inspector Etxaide. I believe you’ve already met Father Lokin, the parish priest at Arizkun.’

Amaia noticed a middle-aged man standing gazing out of the nearest balcony window. He wore a dark suit that made the secretary’s look shoddy in comparison.

‘Allow me to introduce Father Sarasola. He is attending this meeting in an advisory capacity.’

Sarasola walked over, shook hands with them while staring straight at Amaia.

‘I’ve heard a great deal about you, Inspector.’

Amaia didn’t reply, but bobbed her head by way of greeting, before taking a seat. Sarasola returned to the window where he stood with his back to the room.

Monsignor Landero was one of those people who can’t keep their hands still while they speak. Picking up a pen, he began to twirl it in his pale, slender fingers, until all eyes were focused on him. However, to everyone’s astonishment, Father Sarasola spoke first.

‘I’m grateful for your interest in this case, which both involves and concerns us,’ he said, turning to face the company, without moving from the window. ‘I’m aware that you went to Arizkun yesterday when the, shall we say “attack”, took place, so I assume you’ve been informed about the spate of previous incidents. All the same, permit me to run through them once more with you. Two weeks ago, in the dead of night, exactly like yesterday, somebody broke into the chapel through the sacristy door. It’s an ordinary door with a simple lock and no alarm, so it didn’t present much of a problem. However, instead of behaving like common thieves, pilfering money from the donation box, the intruders with a single blow, split in two the baptismal font: a work of art over four centuries old. Last Sunday night, they broke in again, took an axe to one of the pews, reducing it to a pile of fragments the size of my hand. And yesterday they desecrated the temple a third time, setting fire to the altar, and placing beneath it that atrocious offering.’

Amaia noticed the parish priest fidgeting anxiously in his seat, while Deputy Inspector Etxaide wore the same frown she had seen the morning before.

‘We live in turbulent times,’ Sarasola went on, ‘and of course, more often than we would like, churches suffer acts of desecration, most of which go unreported to avoid any copycat crime. Although the way some of them are staged is quite spectacular, few possess such a dangerous element as in this latest case.’

Amaia listened carefully, suppressing the urge to interrupt. Try as she might, she couldn’t understand what importance all this had, beyond the destruction of a four-hundred-year-old liturgical object. And yet she was curious to see what direction this unusual meeting would take; the attendance of the city’s highest police and Church authorities was an indication of how seriously they viewed these incidents. And this priest, Father Sarasola, was seemingly in control, despite the presence of the Archbishop, to whom he scarcely paid any attention.

‘We believe that these acts demonstrate a hatred towards the Church based on a misinterpretation of historical concepts. The fact that the most recent attack entailed the use of human remains leaves us in no doubt as to the complexity of the case. Needless to say, we count on your discretion; in our experience, nothing good ever comes of giving publicity to such matters. Not to mention the concern this would arouse among the parishioners of San Juan Bautista, who are shrewd enough to understand the significance of these attacks and liable to be very disturbed by this sort of thing.’

The Commissioner took the floor:

‘You have my assurance that we shall proceed with the utmost care and discretion. Inspector Salazar’s abilities as a detective and her knowledge of the area make her the best person to lead this investigation; she will look into the case with her team.’

Amaia glanced uneasily at her boss, barely managing to stifle a protest.

‘I’m sure you will,’ Father Sarasola replied, turning to Amaia. ‘I’ve heard excellent things about you. I know you were born in the valley and that you’re the right person to investigate this case. I trust you will proceed with sensitivity and care while resolving this delicate matter.’

Amaia didn’t reply, but took the opportunity to examine more closely this Armani-suited priest, who impressed her less by what he knew about her than by the influence he seemed to wield over the company, including the Archbishop, who had agreed with all Father Sarasola’s statements, without the priest having turned to him once to seek his approval.

As soon as they stepped through the door into Plaza Santa María, Amaia addressed her superior.

‘Commissioner, I think—’

‘I’m sorry, Salazar,’ he interrupted. ‘I know what you’re going to say, but my hands are tied. Father Sarasola holds a senior position at the Vatican. So get to the bottom of this as quickly as possible and move on.’

‘I understand that, sir, but I have no idea where to start or what to expect. I simply don’t think this case is right for my team.’

‘You heard what he said, they want you.’

He climbed into his car, leaving her with a frown on her face, gazing at Jonan, who was chuckling.

‘Can you believe it?’ she exclaimed. ‘Inspector Salazar’s skills as a detective and her knowledge of the area make her the best person to investigate this case of vandalism vulgaris. Can someone explain to me what went on in there?’

Jonan was still chuckling as they walked over to the patrol car.

‘It’s not that simple, chief. What’s more, this VIP from the Vatican specifically asked for you. Father Sarasola, also known as Dr Sarasola, is attaché to the Vatican in defence of the faith.’

‘You mean he’s an inquisitor.’

‘I don’t think they like to be called that nowadays. Shall I drive or will you?’

‘I’ll drive. I want you to tell me more about this Dr Sarasola. Doctor of what, exactly?’

‘Psychiatry, I think; possibly other things. I know he’s a prelate of Opus Dei with a lot of influence in Rome, where he worked for many years with Pope John Paul II, as well as being advisor to his predecessor when he was still a cardinal.’

‘Why would an attaché to the Vatican in defence of the faith take such an interest in a local affair like this? And how did he hear about me?’

‘As I said before, he’s an important member of Opus Dei, so he receives regular reports about everything that goes on in Navarre. As for his interest in the case, perhaps that can be explained, like he said, by the concern that there’s an element of hatred or vengeance towards the Church due to, how did he put it, the misinterpretation of a historical concept.’

‘A concept you appear to agree with …’

Jonan looked at her, taken aback.

‘I noticed the way you and Inspector Iriarte responded to this yesterday morning. You seemed more worried than the parish priest and the chaplain.’

‘That’s because Iriarte’s mother is from Arizkun, as is my grandmother, and anyone who comes from there takes what happened in the church very seriously …’

‘Yes, I heard what Sarasola said about parishioners understanding the significance and being disturbed, but what did he mean?’

‘You’re from the valley, you must have heard of the agotes.’

‘The agotes? You mean the people who lived in Bozate?’

‘They lived all over the Baztán Valley and in Roncal, but mostly they were concentrated in a ghetto in Arizkun, which is now part of the Bozate neighbourhood. What else do you know about them?’

‘Not much, to be honest. They were artisans and they were never really assimilated.’

‘Pull over,’ Jonan ordered.

Amaia looked at him in surprise, but said nothing. She found a space by the roadside, stopped the car and turned round in her seat to study Deputy Inspector Etxaide, who gave a loud sigh before beginning:

‘Historians disagree about where the agotes came from originally. They were thought to have crossed the Pyrenees into Navarre during the Middle Ages, fleeing war, famine, plague and religious persecution. The most widely accepted theory is that they were Cathars, members of a religious sect persecuted by the Inquisition. Another theory suggests they were deserters from the Visigoth armies who sought refuge in the leprosy colonies of southern France and became infected with the disease themselves – one of the reasons why they were so feared. A third explanation is that they were bandits and social outcasts, forced into serfdom by the feudal lord of the area, who at that time was Pedro de Ursua. The remains of one of his fortresses still exist to this day in Arizkun. And that would explain why most of the agotes lived in Bozate.’

‘Yes, that’s more or less what I thought: a group of social outcasts, lepers or fleeing Cathars who settled in the valley in medieval times. But what does this have to do with the desecration of the church in Arizkun?’

‘A great deal. The agotes lived in Bozate for centuries and were never allowed to integrate into society. Treated as second-class citizens, they were prohibited from settling outside Bozate, running businesses or marrying outside their group. As artisans they worked with wood and hides, because those trades were seen as dirty and dangerous. They were obliged to wear identifying markings sewn into their clothes, even to ring a bell, like lepers, to warn passers-by of their presence. And, in common with many periods throughout history, the Church, far from encouraging their integration, did the exact opposite. We know they were Christians and observed and respected Catholic rites, yet the Church treated them like pariahs. They had a separate baptismal font, and the holy water they used was thrown away. They were forbidden from approaching the altar, often forced to remain at the back of the nave and to enter the church through a different, smaller door. In Arizkun, they were kept apart from the other parishioners by a grille, which was later removed in recognition of the deep shame the recollection of this treatment arouses in the people of Arizkun even to this day.’

‘Let’s see if I’ve got this right. You’re telling me that the exclusion of a racial group in the Middle Ages is the historical misunderstanding Father Sarasola referred to in his attempt to explain the current desecration of the church in Arizkun?’

‘Yes.’ Jonan nodded.

‘The same exclusion suffered by Jews, Moors, Gypsies, women, witch doctors, the poor, etc. If as you say, on top of everything else, they were suspected of spreading leprosy, then it’s hardly surprising they were excluded. The mere mention of that dread disease must have been enough to strike terror into the hearts of the entire population. I know that dozens of women in the Baztán Valley were accused of witchcraft and burnt at the stake, many of them denounced by their neighbours – and those were women who’d been born and bred in the valley. Anything that deviated from the norm was thought to be the work of the devil, for which countless minorities and ethnic groups throughout Europe suffered as a consequence. No country’s history is free of such episodes. I’m no historian, Jonan, but I know that during the Middle Ages the whole of Europe reeked of human flesh, burnt at the stake.’

‘That’s right, but the agotes were excluded for centuries. Generation after generation were deprived of the most basic rights; in fact, they suffered such ill treatment for so long that a papal decree was issued in Rome granting them equal rights and demanding the cessation of all discrimination. But the evil had already been done; tradition and belief are stubbornly resistant to logic and reason, thus the agotes continued to be subjected to discrimination for many years.’

‘Yes, things take a long time to change in the Baztán Valley. It feels like a privilege to live there now, but life must have been tough back then. Even so …’

‘Chief, the desecrated objects are clear references to the exclusion of the agotes: the baptismal font they couldn’t be baptised in; a pew at the front of the church, reserved for nobles and off limits to the agotes. The cloth on the altar they were forbidden to approach—’

‘What about the bones? The mairu-beso?’

‘That’s an old piece of witchcraft, also associated with the agotes.’

‘Yes, of course, witchcraft … In any case, it sounds far-fetched to me. I won’t deny that this matter of the bones sets the latest incident apart, but the previous acts were sheer vandalism. You’ll see, in a few days’ time, we’ll arrest a couple of stoned teenagers who broke into the church as a prank, and things got out of hand. What intrigues me is that even the Archbishop is taking an interest in this.’

‘That’s the point. If anyone can and should recognise a crime with a historical motive, it’s the Church. You saw the look on the parish priest’s face: he was beside himself.’

Amaia sighed, irritably.

‘You could be right, but you know how much I hate all this stuff about the valley’s dark past. There always seems to be somebody eager to exploit it,’ she said, glancing at her watch.

‘We’ve got plenty of time,’ Jonan reassured her.

‘Not really – I have to stop off at my place first, Ibai needs his feed,’ she said with a smile.

5

Amaia spotted Lieutenant Padua as soon as she entered Bar Iruña in Plaza del Castillo, a stone’s throw from her house. He was the only man sitting alone, and although he had his back turned, she recognised the tell-tale dampness of his raincoat.

‘Raining in Baztán, is it, Lieutenant?’ she said by way of greeting.

‘As always, Inspector, as always.’

Taking a seat opposite him, she ordered a decaf and a small bottle of water. She waited for the barman to put her drinks down on the table.

‘So, tell me what you wanted to talk to me about.’

‘About the Johana Márquez case,’ said Lieutenant Padua, without preamble. ‘Or rather, the Jasón Medina case, because we all agree that he alone was responsible for the girl’s murder. It’s been nearly four months since Jasón Medina took his own life in the courthouse toilets the day his trial was due to start.’ Amaia nodded. ‘As is customary with these incidents, we carried out a routine inquiry, which would have ended there, had I not received a visit a few days later from the prison guard who’d accompanied Medina from the jail. Perhaps you remember him? He was downstairs in the toilets, white as a sheet.’

‘Yes, I remember a prison guard as well as a policeman.’

‘That’s the guy, Luis Rodríguez. He came to see me, visibly upset, implored me to make it clear in my conclusions that he was absolved of any responsibility, especially over the box cutter Medina used to kill himself, which a third party must have brought into the courthouse. He was extremely worried, he said, because this was the second time a prisoner had committed suicide on his watch. The first time was three years ago: a prisoner hanged himself in his cell during the night. On that occasion the prison authorities admitted responsibility for having failed to activate the suicide prevention protocol by placing two guards on watch, but Rodríguez was afraid this latest suicide might lead to his being suspended or possibly dismissed. I reassured him then casually asked about this other guy. He had murdered his wife and then mutilated her body by severing one of her arms. Rodríguez didn’t know whether the limb had been recovered or not, so imagine my surprise when I call the Logroño police, who investigated the case, and they tell me, yes, this guy had murdered his estranged wife, who’d taken out a restraining order following a previous attack. The kind of story we hear about every day on the news, nothing more to it. He rang her bell and, when she opened the door, he pushed her against the wall, knocked her unconscious, then stabbed her twice in the stomach. Afterwards, he ransacked the house, even heating up a plate of stew, which he ate in the kitchen while he watched her bleed to death. Then he left without bothering to close the door. A neighbour found the dead woman. Two hours later they arrested the husband in a local bar, drunk and still covered in his wife’s blood. He immediately confessed to her murder, but when asked about the mutilation denied all knowledge of it.’

Padua gave a sigh. ‘Amputation at the elbow, using a sharp, serrated object, such as an electric carving knife or a compass saw. What do you think of that, Inspector?’

Amaia clasped her hands together, pressed both forefingers to her lips, and remained silent for a few moments before replying.

‘What I think, for now, is that this is a coincidence. He could have severed her arm to remove items of jewellery, a wedding ring, or to try to conceal her identity – although, given she was in her own house, that wouldn’t make much sense. Unless there’s something else …’

‘There is,’ Padua affirmed. ‘I went to Logroño and spoke to the two police officers who led the investigation. What they told me bore even more resemblance to the Johana Márquez case: the crime had been violent and gruesome, the house was a mess, even the blood-soaked knife they found next to his wife’s body was taken from her kitchen. During the attack, he cut his hand, but rather than bandage it, he left his bloody fingerprints all over the house. He even urinated in the toilet and didn’t bother to flush. His actions were brutal and chaotic, like the man himself. Yet the amputation was carried out post-mortem, with no significant loss of blood, neatly severed at the elbow. Neither the limb nor the sharp blade used to carry out the amputation were ever recovered.’

Amaia nodded, absorbed.

‘I spoke to the prison governor, who informed me that the prisoner had only been there a matter of days before he killed himself, and had shown neither remorse nor depression – which is unusual in cases of this nature. He was calm, relaxed, had a good appetite, and slept like a baby. As he was still adapting to prison life, he spent most of the time alone in his cell, where he received no visits from relatives or friends. Then suddenly one night, despite never having shown any inclination to self-harm, he hanged himself in his cell. And trust me, it must have taken a supreme effort, because there’s nothing in those cubicles high enough for a person to hang themselves from. He basically sat on the floor and strangled himself, which requires enormous willpower. The guard heard him struggling to breathe and sounded the alarm. He was still alive when they entered the cell, but died before the ambulance arrived.’

‘Did he leave a suicide note?’

‘I asked the governor about that. He said “sort of”.’

‘Sort of?’

‘He told me the guy had carved some gibberish into the plaster on the wall with the tip of his toothbrush,’ said Padua, sliding a photograph out of an envelope he laid on the table. He swivelled it until the image was facing her.

It had been painted over, although they hadn’t bothered to plaster over the grooves. The photograph had been taken at an angle so that the flash clearly highlighted the bold lettering. A single, perfectly legible word:

‘TARTTALO.’

Amaia raised her eyes in astonishment, gazing at Padua searchingly. The lieutenant grinned, pleased with himself, as he leant back in his chair.

‘I can see this has piqued your interest, Inspector. Tarttalo, spelled the same way as in the note Medina left for you,’ he said. He dropped a plastic folder on to the table. Inside was an envelope addressed to Inspector Salazar.

Amaia remained silent, considering everything Lieutenant Padua had told her during the past hour. Despite her best efforts, she could find no logical, satisfactory explanation as to how two ordinary, bungling, disorganised killers could have performed identical mutilations on their victims without leaving any clues as to how they did it, when the rest of the crime scene was littered with evidence; or why they had used the exact same word to sign their crime, a word that was anything but commonplace.

‘Well, Lieutenant, I see where you’re going with this. What I don’t understand is why you’re telling me about it. After all, the Johana Márquez affair is the Guardia Civil’s responsibility, as are prisoner transports. The case, if there is one, is yours,’ she said, sliding the photographs back towards Padua.

He picked them up, gazed at them in silence, then heaved a loud sigh.

‘The problem, Inspector Salazar, is that there isn’t going to be a case. I looked into this on my own, based on what Rodríguez told me. The Logroño case was handled by the police there and is officially closed, as is that of Johana Márquez, now that her confessed killer is dead. I presented everything I told you to my superiors, but they say there’s insufficient cause to open an investigation.’

Head in hand, Amaia listened intently, chewing on her bottom lip.

‘What do you want me to do, Padua?’

‘What I want, Inspector, is to be sure that the two crimes aren’t related, but my hands are tied … In any event, at the end of the day, you’re already involved. And this,’ he added, sliding the envelope back to her, ‘is yours.’

Amaia ran her finger over the shiny plastic folder and along the edge of the envelope that bore her name in small, neat handwriting.

‘Have you visited Medina’s cell at the prison?’

‘How did you guess!’ Padua laughed and shook his head. ‘I went there this morning before I called you.’

Leaning to one side, he took a file out of his bag. ‘Page eight,’ he said, placing it on the table.

Amaia instantly recognised the file: an autopsy report. She had seen hundreds of them, the name and number printed on the cover.

‘Medina’s autopsy report, but we already know how he died.’

‘Page eight,’ Padua insisted.

While Amaia started to read, the lieutenant reeled off the passage as if he knew it by heart.

‘The index finger on Jasón Medina’s right hand showed significant damage. The nail was missing, and the skin flayed so that the flesh was showing. The prison governor let me go through Medina’s personal effects. His wife doesn’t want them, and no one else has claimed them, so they’re still at the prison. As far as I can see, Medina was quite a simple fellow. No books, no photographs, no real possessions, just a few back issues of a glossy magazine and a sports journal. His personal hygiene was basic; he didn’t even own a toothbrush. I asked to see his cell, which at first glance appeared unremarkable. Other inmates have occupied it over the past four months. But I had a hunch, so I sprayed the walls with Luminol and the place lit up like a Christmas tree. Inspector, the night before his trial Jasón Medina scraped his finger practically down to the bone to write in blood on his cell wall the same word as the prisoner in Logroño. And afterwards, like his predecessor, he took his own life, the only difference being that Medina did so outside the prison, because he had to give you this,’ he said, pointing to the envelope.

Amaia picked it up without looking at it and slipped it into her pocket before leaving the bar. As she made her way home, she could feel its ominous presence, pressed against her side like a warm poultice. She took out her mobile phone and punched in Deputy Inspector Etxaide’s number.

‘Hello, chief.’

‘Good evening, Jonan, forgive me for calling you at home …’

‘How can I help?’

‘I want you to find out everything you can about the mythological creature tarttalo, or any references to something spelled t-a-r-t-t-a-l-o.’

‘No problem, I’ll have it for you tomorrow. Was there anything else?’

‘No, that’s all. Thanks a lot, Jonan.’

‘My pleasure, chief. See you tomorrow.’

Hanging up, she realised how late she was; Ibai had been due his feed nearly three-quarters of an hour earlier. Anxious to get home, she broke into a run, dodging the few pedestrians who had braved the chilly Pamplona weather. As she ran, she couldn’t help thinking about how punctual Ibai was with his feeds, how he woke up demanding to be fed every four hours, practically to the minute. She glimpsed her house halfway along the street. Still running, she fumbled in the pocket of her quilted jacket for her key, and, as though performing a perfect bullfighter’s lunge, inserted it in the lock and opened the door. The baby’s hoarse cries reached her like a wave of despair from the first floor. She bounded up the stairs without taking off her coat, her mind filling with absurd images of Ibai left to cry in his cot while James lay asleep, or of James staring at the baby, incapable of consoling him.

But James wasn’t asleep. Rushing into the kitchen, Amaia found him rocking Ibai on his shoulder, singing in an effort to calm him.

‘For heaven’s sake, James, haven’t you given him the bottle?’ she asked, reflecting on her own ambiguous feelings about the matter.

‘Hi, Amaia, I did try,’ he said, gesturing towards a feeding bottle full of milk languishing on the table, ‘but he doesn’t want to know,’ he added, smiling sheepishly.

‘Are you sure you mixed it properly?’ she said, looking askance at him and shaking the bottle.

‘Yes, I’m sure,’ James replied good-naturedly, still rocking the baby. ‘Fifty millilitres of water to two level scoops of formula.’

Amaia slipped off her coat and tossed it on to a chair.

‘Give him to me,’ she said.

‘Relax, Amaia,’ said James, trying to calm her. ‘Ibai is fine, he’s just a bit grouchy, that’s all. I’ve been holding him all this time, he hasn’t been crying long.’

She all but snatched the baby from James, walked into the sitting room and sank into an armchair as his wails crescendoed.

‘How long is not long?’ she demanded, crossly. ‘Half an hour, an hour? If you’d fed him on time, he would never have got into this state.’

James’s smile faded.

‘Less than ten minutes, Amaia. When you didn’t come home, I prepared the bottle in time for his feed. But he didn’t want it, because he prefers breast milk, the artificial stuff tastes funny. I’m sure if you hadn’t come back when you did, he would have ended up taking the bottle.’

‘I wasn’t late out of choice,’ she snapped. ‘I was working.’

James looked at her, bewildered. ‘No one is saying otherwise.’

Ibai was still crying, moving his head from side to side frantically in search of her tantalisingly close nipple. She felt the intense, painful suction, as the wailing ceased, leaving a deafening silence in the room.

Distraught, Amaia closed her eyes. It was her fault. She had been out too long. Carelessly, she’d lost track of time, while her son was crying to be fed. She placed a trembling hand on his tiny head and stroked his downy hair. A tear rolled down her cheek and fell on to her child’s face. Oblivious to his mother’s anguish, he was suckling softly now as sleep overtook him and his eyelids closed.

‘Amaia,’ whispered James, drying the wet streaks on his wife’s face with his fingers. ‘It’s no big deal, my love. He didn’t suffer, I promise. And he only started hollering a few minutes before you arrived. Don’t fret, Amaia, he isn’t the first baby to start taking formula. I’m sure the others protested just as loudly.’

By now Ibai was sound asleep. Amaia buttoned up her blouse, handed the baby to James, and fled the room. He could hear her throwing up.

She hadn’t been aware of falling asleep, which usually happened when she was exhausted. She woke up with a start, convinced she’d heard a loud sigh from her son in his sleep, after the terrible tantrum he’d had earlier. But the room was quiet, and, raising herself up a little, she could see, or rather sense in the dim light, that her son was sleeping peacefully. She turned towards James, who was also asleep, face down, right arm crooked under his pillow. She leant over without thinking and kissed his head. He fumbled for her hand with his free arm, in a mutual gesture they both made several times each night unconsciously. Reassured, she closed her eyes and went back to sleep.

Until she was woken by the wind. The deafening gusts howled in her ears, roaring magnificently. She opened her eyes and saw her. Lucía Aguirre was staring at Amaia from the banks of the River Baztán. She was wearing her red-and-white pullover, which looked oddly festive, her left arm clasped about her waist. Lucía’s mournful gaze reached her like an enchanted bridge spanning the turbulent waters of the river; Amaia could see in the woman’s eyes all her fear, her pain, but most of all, in the despairing look she gave Amaia, her infinite sadness as she accepted an eternity of wind and solitude. Suppressing her own fear, Amaia sat up in bed, held the woman’s gaze, then nodded, encouraging her to speak. And Lucía spoke, but her words were snatched away by the wind before Amaia could make out a single sound. She seemed to be shrieking, desperate to be heard, until her strength failed her and she sank to her knees, her face hidden momentarily. When she looked up again, her lips were moving rhythmically, repeating what sounded like just one word: ‘tar … trap … rat … rat …’

‘I will,’ Amaia whispered. ‘I’ll trap the rat.’

But Lucía Aguirre was no longer looking at her. She simply shook her head, even as her face sank into the river.

6

She had spent longer than usual saying goodbye to Ibai. Holding the baby in her arms, she had dawdled, pacing from room to room, whispering sweet nothings in his ear while putting off getting dressed and leaving for work. And now, an hour later, she couldn’t shrug off the imprint of his fragile little body in her arms. She yearned for him in a way that was almost painful; she had never missed anyone like that before. His smell, his touch enchanted her, arousing in her feelings so rooted in her being they felt like memories. She thought of the soft curve of his cheek, his clear eyes – the same blue as hers – and the way he gazed at her, studying her face as if, inside him, instead of a child, there was the serene spirit of a sage.

Jonan held out a mug of milky coffee, which Amaia took from him, cupping it in her hand in an easy gesture that had become part of her routine, but which today gave her no comfort.

‘Did Ibai give you a hard night?’ he asked, noticing the dark rings around her eyes.

‘No. Well, sort of …’ she said, evasively.

Jonan had worked with Inspector Salazar long enough to know that her silences spoke volumes.

‘I have that information you asked me for yesterday,’ he said, his gaze wandering back to his desk. She seemed puzzled for an instant.

‘Oh, yes. That was quick.’

‘I said it wouldn’t be a problem.’

‘Read it to me,’ she said, inviting him to talk while she sat next to him at the desk, sipping her coffee.

He opened the document on his computer and began reading out loud.

‘Tarttalo, also known as tártaro and torto, is a mythological creature from the Basque region of Navarre, a one-eyed giant, exceptionally strong and aggressive, that feeds on sheep, young girls and shepherds, although in some references the tarttalo is portrayed as a shepherd with its own flock, but in any event, always as a devourer of Christians. There are similar references to Cyclops all over Europe, in Ancient Greece and Rome. They figure prominently in the Basque Country, among the ancient tribe of the Vascones, although accounts of them were recorded well into the twentieth century. They are solitary creatures that dwell in caves, whose locations may vary according to the area, but not in such remote places as the goddess-genie Mari. Instead they prefer to stay close to the valleys, where they can stockpile enough food to satisfy their voracious appetite for blood. They are distinguished by a single eye in the centre of the forehead, and, of course, bones, mounds of them stacked outside their cave entrances, the fruits of their depravity. I’m attaching a couple of popular tales about their encounters with shepherds, more than one of whom was gobbled up. And here’s one about a Cyclops that drowned in a well after being blinded by a shepherd – you’re going to love this:

‘In Zegama, the tarttalo was a hideous one-eyed ogre who lived in a place called Tartaloetxeta (“tarttalo’s house”), near Mount Sadar. From there he roamed the nearby valleys and mountains, stealing sheep and men that he would roast and then eat.

‘On one occasion, two brothers were walking along a path on their way home from a fair in a neighbouring village, where they had sold their sheep and had a good time. They were chatting happily when suddenly they stopped in their tracks: they had seen the tarttalo.

‘They tried to flee, but the ogre seized them both with one hand and carried them back to his cave. When he got there, he flung them into a corner and started to build a huge fire with oak branches. When he’d finished, he placed a big roasting spit over the fire. The two brothers watched, quaking with fear. The ogre picked up the fatter of the two, killed him with a single blow and stuck him on the spit. The other shepherd wept bitter tears as he witnessed the ogre devouring his brother’s body. When it had finished its gruesome meal, the ogre picked up the other lad and threw him on to a pile of sheepskins.

‘“You need fattening up,” he said contemptuously, his sadistic laughter echoing off the walls of the cave. Then he added: “But to stop you from running away, I’m going to put this ring on your finger.”

‘And with that he slipped a magic ring on to the lad’s finger. It had a human voice that cried out incessantly: “Here I am! Here I am!”

‘After that, the tarttalo fell soundly asleep.

‘Rather than wait to be fattened up and eaten by the ogre, the shepherd resolved to escape, come what may. And so, crawling over to the fire, he picked up a spit and held it over the flames until it was red-hot. Then, clutching the end firmly, he made his way over to where the tarttalo was snoring, and drove it into the one eye on his forehead.

‘The monster, crazed with pain and rage, rose to his feet, letting out savage roars and sweeping the air with his huge paws in search of the shepherd who had stabbed him in the eye.

‘But the youth dodged his assailant’s frenzied attacks, nimbly clambering over the sheep huddled inside the cave and covering himself in an animal hide to try to sneak past the ogre, who was now blocking the mouth to the cave.

‘The lad managed to get past him, but the magic ring started to cry out:

‘“Here I am! Here I am!”

‘Guided by the ring, the tarttalo, despite his vast size, bounded like a deer after his prey.

‘The young shepherd feared he would never escape. Though he ran and ran, trying to hide in the forest, each time the ring led the ogre to him with its resounding cry:

‘“Here I am! Here I am!”

‘Realising he would be caught – and terrified by the ogre’s angry howls and curses – the shepherd made a brave decision: he tore off the finger with the tell-tale ring on it and threw it down a well.

‘“Here I am! Here I am!”

‘Following the ring’s calls, the tarttalo leapt head-first down the well and drowned.’

‘You’re right,’ Amaia said, grinning. ‘It’s a great story – and I can tell you’re in your element here.’

‘Well, it isn’t all myth and fable. In a more modern context, tarttalo is the name given by some terrorist groups to a type of bomb: a box with no visible wiring, containing an LDR photoelectric cell – in effect, a single, light-sensitive eye; hence tarttalo. As soon as the box is opened, the light detonates the explosive device.’

‘Yes, I’ve heard of that, but I don’t think it’s relevant. What more do you have?’

‘A small film production company called Tarttalo, plus half a dozen restaurants in various parts of the Basque Country. On the Internet I came across various references to the fables, animation shorts about ogres, silkscreens for T-shirts, a village where they bring out an effigy of the tarttalo during local fiestas. Then there are a handful of blogs that either use the name Tarttalo, or make references to it. I’ll send you the links. Ah, and it seems the spelling you mentioned, with two “t”s, is the old way of writing it. And then there are José Miguel de Barandiarán’s books on Basque mythology.’

At that moment, the telephone on Jonan’s desk rang, interrupting his explanations. He apologised, picking up the receiver and listened briefly before gesturing to her as he hung up.

‘The Commissioner wants to see you, chief.’

The Commissioner was on the phone when she entered his office. She murmured an apology and turned towards the door, but he raised his hand, motioning for her to wait.

He hung up and sat staring at her. Amaia assumed he was being leant on by the Archbishop, and was about to tell him they hadn’t come up with anything yet, when he took her by surprise.

‘You aren’t going to believe this – that was Judge Markina. He called to tell me that the man being held for the murder of Lucía Aguirre has been in touch to tell him that if you go to see him in prison, he’ll tell you where to find the victim’s body.’

Amaia drove out to Santa Lucía hill, where the new Pamplona prison was situated, flashed her badge at security and was immediately shown into an office where the prison governor, whom she had met before, was waiting for her. So too were Judge Markina and a legal secretary. As she entered, the judge rose to greet her.

‘Inspector, I’ve not had the pleasure of greeting you in person, as I was appointed when you were on maternity leave; thank you for coming. This morning Quiralte asked to see the governor. He told him that if you agreed to see him he would tell you where Lucía Aguirre’s body is.’

‘And do you think he will?’ she asked.

‘The truth is, I don’t know what to think. Quiralte is a cocky individual who bragged about his crime then refused to say where he had hidden the body. According to the director, he’s like a pig in clover. He eats well, sleeps well, is sociable and active.’

‘He seems in his element,’ agreed the governor.

‘So this could be a trick, or perhaps he means it. Either way, he insisted it had to be you and no one else.’

Amaia recalled the day they had arrested him and the way he had stared at the two-way mirror while another officer was interrogating him.

‘Yes, he asked to talk to me when we arrested him as well, but the reasons he gave seemed like a joke. Back then I was about to go on leave, so he was questioned by the team that had been working on the case.’

Quiralte had been waiting for ten minutes when Amaia and the judge entered the interview room. He was sitting slumped in an upright chair by the table, his prison uniform unbuttoned halfway to the waist. He gave a forced smile that revealed whitish, overly long gums.

‘The return of El Macho, indeed,’ thought Amaia, recalling Jonan’s comment the day they had first arrested him.

Quiralte waited for them to install themselves on the other side of the table, then sat up straight and proffered his hand to Amaia.

‘So you’ve finally condescended to see me, Inspector. It’s been a long wait, but I must say it’s worth it. How are you? How’s your baby boy?’

Amaia ignored his outstretched hand. After a few moments he lowered his arm.

‘Señor Quiralte, the only reason I came here today is because you promised to reveal the whereabouts of Lucía Aguirre’s remains.’

‘As you wish, Inspector, you’re the boss, but the truth is I thought you might be a little friendlier, seeing as I’m helping raise your profile as star cop,’ he said, grinning.

‘Señor Quiralte—’ Markina began.

‘Shut up,’ Quiralte hissed. Markina looked daggers at him. ‘If you don’t stay quiet, your honour, I won’t say a word. In fact, what the hell are you doing here? Wasn’t I clear enough about only wanting to speak to Inspector Salazar? You should be grateful I let you stay.’

Judge Markina pulled his arms away from the table, stiffening as though ready to pounce on the prisoner if necessary. Amaia could almost hear his muscles crack with indignation; nevertheless, he remained silent.

Quiralte’s wolfish grin returned, and, ignoring Markina, he addressed Amaia once more.

‘I’ve been waiting a long time, four whole months. I wanted to get this over with sooner – it’s entirely your fault that the situation dragged on, Inspector. As I’m sure you know, I asked to speak to you when I was arrested. If you hadn’t refused, you would have that slut’s body by now, and I wouldn’t have been forced to rot away in prison all this time.’

‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ said Amaia.

Quiralte shook his head, grinning. It occurred to her that he was enjoying himself.

‘So?’ she asked.

‘Do you like to drink patxaran, Inspector?’

‘Not all that much.’

‘No, you don’t seem like that kind of woman. I’ll bet you didn’t drink at all while you were pregnant. A wise choice, otherwise you’d end up with kids like me.’ He guffawed. ‘And you’re breastfeeding now, right?’ he added.

Amaia concealed her surprise by feigning irritation, turning towards the door and pushing her chair back to stand up.

‘Hold your horses, Inspector, I’m getting there. My father used to brew patxaran at home, you see. It was nothing special, but it was drinkable. He worked for a well-known liqueur company in a small village called Azanza. When the sloe harvest was finished, employees were allowed to pick any leftover berries. My father used to take me with him out to the countryside. Those blackthorn trees are lethal, if you prick your finger it always goes septic and the pain lasts for days. I thought the ideal place for her would be among those bushes.’

‘You buried her there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right,’ said Judge Markina, ‘you’ll be coming with us to point out the exact spot.’

‘I’m not going anywhere! The last thing I want is to see that bitch again, she’ll be disgusting by now, anyway. I can tell you which field she’s in, but the rest is up to you. I’ve kept my side of the bargain and, once this is over, I intend to go back to my cell to rest.’ He leant back in his chair again, beaming. ‘I’m feeling quite tired after all this excitement,’ he said, staring straight at the judge.

‘That’s not how this works,’ said Markina. ‘We didn’t come here so that you could play cat and mouse with us. You’ll show us the place in situ. Verbal directions could make the search difficult. In addition, it’s been a while, so there won’t be any visible signs. Even you might have difficulty remembering the exact spot.’

Quiralte interrupted Markina’s monologue.

‘Oh, for God’s sake! This guy’s a bore. Give me a pen and paper and I’ll show you, Inspector.’

Amaia handed them to him, while Markina carried on protesting:

‘A clumsy drawing doesn’t make a reliable map; in a plantation all trees look alike.’

Amaia watched Quiralte, who gave the judge a knowing smile, then started to write.

‘Don’t worry, your honour,’ he said patronisingly, ‘I’m not doing a drawing.’ And he handed them the piece of paper with a brief series of numbers and letters, which left Markina puzzling.

‘What on earth is this?’

‘Coordinates, your honour,’ Amaia explained.

‘Longitude and latitude, your honour – didn’t I tell you I was in the Foreign Legion?’ Quiralte added jauntily. ‘Or maybe you’d prefer a little drawing?’

Azanza turned out to be a small village on the outskirts of Estella, whose main industry was devoted to producing the sloe-flavoured liqueur called patxaran. By the time they managed to summon the whole team and find the location, it was growing late. The fading light seemed to be held for an instant by the millions of little white flowers, that, despite the remoteness of spring, adorned the tree branches and gave the impression of a palace corridor rather than a burial spot improvised by a cruel brute.

Amaia looked carefully around her while the forensic team installed spotlights and a tent, which she had insisted they put up regardless of the hurry they were in; although there was no real chance of rain, she didn’t want to risk clues at the site of the grave being destroyed by a downpour.

Judge Markina came over and stood next to her.

‘You look sceptical, Inspector. Do you doubt that we’ll find the body there?’

‘No, I’m pretty certain we will,’ she said.

‘Then what is bothering you? … Allow me,’ he said, raising his hand towards her face. She shrank back in surprise. ‘You’ve got something in your hair.’ He picked out a little white flower and held it to his nose.

Amaia saw Jonan glance at her from the far side of the tent.

‘Tell me, what doesn’t convince you?’

‘Quiralte’s behaviour doesn’t convince me. He’s a textbook thug, court-martialled from the army, a drunk, arrogant, violent, and yet …’

‘I know, I also find it hard to understand what made a charming woman like Lucía Aguirre associate with a man like that.’

‘Well, that I can help you with. She fits the profile perfectly. Sweet-natured, altruistic, devoted to helping others, pious and empathic to a fault. She was a catechist, helped out at a soup kitchen, babysat her grandchildren, regularly visited her elderly mother … but she was single. For a woman like that, life has no meaning unless she is caring for others, even though at the same time she dreams of someone who will come and take care of her. She yearned to feel like a woman; not a sister, a mother, or a friend, but a woman. Her mistake was to believe that to achieve this she needed a man at any price.’

‘Well, Inspector, without wishing to appear sexist, I don’t see anything wrong with a woman needing a man by her side in order to feel whole, in matters of love, at any rate.’

Jonan stopped taking notes. Keeping his head down, he grinned, his attention split between the technicians digging the pit and his superior.

‘Your honour, Quiralte isn’t a man. He’s a specimen of the male sex. There’s a big difference.’

The diggers raised the alarm as they started to uncover some black plastic sheeting. Amaia approached the grave, but not without turning to Markina to say:

‘I’m sure Lucía Aguirre also realised that, which is why she reported him. Too late.’

When the bundle was completely exposed, it was clear the murderer had placed the woman’s body inside two bin liners, top and tail, which he had then fastened at the waist with Sellotape. The tape had come unstuck and was fluttering in the breeze, creating an eerie sensation of movement, as if the victim were writhing in her grave, clamouring to be let out. A sudden gust revealed the victim’s red-and-white pullover among the folds of the bag. Amaia recognised it from her dream. A shiver ran down her spine.

‘I want this photographed from every angle,’ she ordered. While waiting for the photographers to do their work, she stepped back a few paces, crossed herself, and, lowering her head, said another prayer for the victim.

Judge Markina stood gaping at her, as Dr San Martín approached.

‘It’s just another way of distancing oneself from the dead,’ he murmured to Markina, who looked away, shamefaced.

Stepping over the grave, Dr San Martín took a pair of nail scissors from his bag, then glanced at Markina, who gave a nod of approval. With a single movement, he snipped the plastic lengthways, exposing the top half of the body.

The corpse lay fully outstretched, tilted slightly on its right side. Decomposition was relatively advanced, although somewhat delayed by the cold, dry soil. The flesh looked sunken and shrivelled, above all on the face.

‘Fortunately, because of the recent cold weather, the degree of decomposition is less than you’d expect after five months,’ San Martín explained. ‘At first glance, the corpse presents a deep gash to the throat. Bloodstains on the pullover indicate the victim was still alive when this was done to her. The wound is deep and straight, indicating an extremely sharp blade and a clear intent to cause death. There is no sign of hesitation; what’s more, the wound travels from left to right, suggesting her assailant was right-handed. Blood loss was extreme, so that despite being well wrapped up in relatively dry ground, there is abundant evidence of insect activity in the initial phase.’

Amaia approached the head of the grave and crouched down. Tilting her head slightly to one side, she remained like that for a few moments, as if she were feeling dizzy.

Judge Markina looked at her with concern. He moved towards her, but Jonan restrained him with a gesture, then whispered something in his ear.

‘That mark on her eyebrow, is it from a blow?’ asked Amaia.

‘Well spotted,’ said San Martín, beaming with the pride of a teacher who has trained his pupil well, ‘and it would appear to be post-mortem, because there’s an indentation but no bleeding.’

‘Look,’ said Amaia, pointing, ‘there seem to be others all over her head.’

‘Yes.’ San Martín nodded, leaning closer. ‘There’s some hair missing here, which isn’t due to decomposition.’

‘Jonan, take a photograph from here, will you?’ asked Amaia.

Markina crouched down beside Amaia, so close that he brushed her with his jacket sleeve.

He murmured an apology, then asked San Martín if the body had been there the entire time or if it had been brought there immediately after death. San Martín said he thought it had, explaining that the maggots’ remains corresponded to early stage soil fauna typical of the area, but that he would only know for sure when he had carried out all the relevant tests.

Markina stood up and walked over to the judicial clerk, who was busy taking notes at a discreet distance.

Amaia remained kneeling for a few seconds, puzzling over the body.

Jonan gazed expectantly at her.

‘Can we take it away now?’ one of the technicians asked.

‘Not yet,’ said Amaia, raising her hand without looking round. ‘Your honour,’ she called out.

Markina turned towards her and obediently made his way back.

‘Quiralte said that if he’d spoken to me sooner he wouldn’t have had to rot in jail for four months, didn’t he?’

‘Yes, he did, although having confessed to the crime, I’m not quite sure how he imagined that would happen.’

‘I think I do …’ she whispered, pensive.

Markina held out his hand, which she frowned at, rising to her feet and circling the grave.

‘Doctor, could you cut through more of the bag, please?’

‘Certainly.’

He went to work with the scissors again, this time opening the lower half of the bag down to the knees.

The skirt Lucía Aguirre had been wearing with her striped pullover appeared hitched up, and her underclothes were missing.

‘I assumed we would find evidence of sexual aggression – it’s common in cases like these. I wouldn’t be surprised if it occurred post-mortem,’ said the pathologist.

‘Yes, like a furious unleashing of all his fantasies – but that’s not what I’m looking for.’

Gingerly, she peeled away the bag on either side.

‘Jonan, come here a minute. Keep the plastic taut so the mud doesn’t get in.’

Jonan nodded and passed the camera to one of the technicians. He knelt down and clasped the two bits of plastic firmly in both hands.

Crouching beside him, Amaia fumbled for the victim’s right shoulder, slowly feeling her way down the arm, which was partially obscured by the body leaning slightly on to its side. Using both hands, she dug her fingers underneath the body at the level of the bicep, and pulled gently to reveal the arm.

Jonan gave a start, lost his balance and fell on to his backside, still clinging to the plastic sheet.

The arm appeared to have been severed from the elbow in a clean, neat incision; the absence of any blood made it easy to see the tip of the arm bone and the atrophied flesh surrounding it.

A terrible shiver coursed through Amaia’s whole body. For an instant all the cold in the universe converged on her backbone, making her judder as if she’d received an electric shock.

‘Chief …’ Jonan’s voice brought her back to reality.

She looked straight at him and he nodded.

‘Come on, Jonan,’ she ordered, tearing off her gloves and starting to run towards the car.

She stopped in her tracks, wheeling round to address Markina:

‘Your honour, call the prison and tell them to keep Quiralte under strict surveillance. If necessary, they should put a guard inside his cell.’

Markina was already clutching his mobile.

‘Why?’ he asked with a shrug.

‘Because he’s going to kill himself.’

She had let Jonan take the wheel – she always did when she needed to think and was in a hurry. He was a good driver, managing to achieve the right balance between safety and the impulse to put his foot down on the accelerator, which she would have yielded to. The journey from Azanza to Pamplona took them less than thirty minutes. In the end the rain had held off, but the overcast skies had led to a starless, moonless night that seemed to dampen even the city lights. As they turned into the prison car park, they saw an ambulance with its lights extinguished.

‘Shit,’ she whispered.

An officer was waiting for them at the door and ushered them into a corridor so they didn’t have to go through security. As they hurried along the passageway, he brought them up to date:

‘The paramedics and the prison doctor are with him now. He seems to have swallowed something, rat poison probably. A fellow inmate on cleaning duty must have sold it to him. They usually put it in each other’s food or cut drugs with it; in small doses it causes stomach cramps and nausea. When you gave the alert, he was already unconscious, lying in a pool of his own blood and vomit; I reckon he’s puked his guts out. He regained consciousness, but I don’t think he even knows where he is.’

Pale and worried-looking, the prison governor was waiting for them outside Quiralte’s cell.

‘We had no way of knowing …’

Amaia walked straight past him and peered into the cell. There was a pervading stench of faeces and vomit, and in the middle of it lay Quiralte, motionless on his bunk and with several tubes sticking out of him. Even with the oxygen mask on, she could see the severe blistering around his nose and mouth. One of the paramedics was taking notes, while the other quietly gathered up their equipment.

The prison doctor, who was an old acquaintance, wheeled around, removing his gloves before shaking Amaia’s hand.

‘Inspector Salazar, this was a tough one,’ he said arching his bushy eyebrows. ‘I got here first because I was still in the building. The paramedics arrived a few minutes later. We did our best, but we couldn’t save him. Ingesting this type of toxic substance seldom ends happily, still less when it’s self-administered.’ The doctor pointed to a discarded cyclist’s water bottle in the corner and continued: ‘As soon as he returned to his cell, he prepared the cocktail and drank it. He must have been in agony, but he didn’t make a sound or call for help.’ He contemplated the dead man once more. ‘One of the most horrific deaths I’ve ever encountered.’

‘Do you know if he left a letter or a note?’ Amaia asked, glancing about.

‘He left this,’ said the doctor, gesturing towards the bunk beds behind her.

She turned, stooping slightly to read what Quiralte had written on the wall of the lower bunk.

TARTTALO

Jonan did so too, wrinkling his nose.

‘He’s written it in …’

‘Faeces,’ confirmed the doctor, behind him. ‘Using it to write with is a common protest tradition in prisons. As for the word, I’ve no idea what it means.’

7

Whenever Amaia called a meeting, she tried to make sure she’d be the first to arrive. She would remain for a few minutes staring through the windows looking out over Pamplona, collecting her thoughts, lulled by the growing murmur of voices behind her. Only Jonan would approach her, quietly, with a mug of coffee, which she always accepted, though it would often be left untouched after she had warmed her hands on it.

When she heard Inspector Iriarte’s voice cheerily greeting the assembled company, she turned to face the room. Accompanying him was Deputy Inspector Zabalza, who nodded and said something under his breath as he sat down next to Iriarte. She waited until they were all seated, and was about to begin talking when the door swung open and the Commissioner entered. He stood with his arms folded, leaning against the wall, offering his apologies before inviting her to carry on.

‘Pretend I’m not here,’ he said.

‘Good morning, everyone. As I’m sure you’ve already gathered, the aim of this meeting is to establish a plan of action for investigating the desecrations that have been taking place at the church in Arizkun. The results of preliminary tests carried out on the bones show they belong to a human infant of less than a year old, but otherwise don’t shed much light on the matter. Dr San Martín will keep us informed of his progress as and when further results come in, but in the meantime I want to begin by looking at what constitutes an act of desecration and why this particular case falls unmistakably into that category …’ She got to her feet and walked over behind Deputy Inspector Etxaide.

‘Desecration is the act of depriving something of its sacred character, despoiling and treating with contempt objects that should be respected. Based on this premise, and bearing in mind these acts were perpetrated in a place of worship and involved the use of human remains, we would seem to be dealing with an act of desecration. However, before deciding how we take the case forward, there are a few things worth clarifying. As with every type of criminal behaviour, desecration takes many forms. Understanding the mechanics of desecration will give us a profile of the sort of person we’re looking for.

‘The most common type of desecration is vandalistic in nature, generally associated with urban gangs and marginal groups, who express their hatred of society by attacking its sacred and religious symbols. They might choose to attack a monument or a library, to burn a flag or smash the windows of a large department store. This type of desecration is the easiest to identify, because it shows clear signs of irrational violence.

‘The second type concerns people who desecrate churches and cemeteries, gangs or groups of criminals whose sole aim is to steal valuable objects, to strip the church of microphones, sound or lighting equipment, anything made of silver or gold, tabernacles, candlesticks, chalices, even gravediggers’ tools. In the most heinous cases, they may steal jewellery or even gold teeth from corpses. Recently, a gang was arrested for stealing the platinum frames from the photographs of the deceased that adorn many graves. Some of these delinquents admit to staging their crimes to look like satanic rituals in order to throw the police off the scent, directing the blame at sects and spreading fear among the locals. In such cases, it’s important not to be duped, to remember that satanists aren’t usually interested in pocketing a priest’s mobile phone. And this brings us to the third type of desecration, the esoteric kind. Jonan …’

Jonan stood up and walked over to the whiteboard.

‘These are magic rituals that derive from various cultures. The majority of these so-called desecrations are in fact religious rituals used in santería, Haitian voodoo, Brazilian candomblé or the Cuban palo mayombé,’ he said, writing the words on the whiteboard.

‘These rituals are associated with death and spiritism and are habitually performed in cemeteries rather than in churches and temples. Only satanists choose places of Christian worship, because besides being devil-worshippers, their aim is to offend God. Satanic desecrations are rare, although at yesterday’s meeting with the Archbishop it was suggested that such acts are often hushed up in order to deter copycat crimes. Most frequently we find sacred symbols being soiled with faeces, vomit, urine, animal blood, and ashes, with the aim of creating a spectacle: decapitated saints, virgins with phallic symbols scrawled on them, inverted crucifixes, that kind of thing. A few years ago, a group of satanists broke down the door of a tiny chapel at A Lanzada in Galicia with an axe. They chopped the hands off a statue of the Virgin that was much revered in the region and tossed them over a cliff. This is a typical example of the theatrical gesture: they could have simply forced open the door, which was sturdy but had an ancient lock and no alarm; they could have taken away the whole statue, but what they did was much more spectacular and offensive.’

Amaia took the floor again.

‘Lastly we have desecration as social protest, or so the perpetrators claim. I had the opportunity to study this type of behaviour close up while working alongside the FBI in the United States. This consists of vandalising graves, digging up bodies of specific people and performing amputations and mutilations, the sole aim of which is to shock. Individuals who perform such acts harbour strong feelings of hatred towards society, and profilers consider them extremely dangerous, because desecration is simply a starting point for their actions, which may go on to target living people. A well-known case occurred when a police officer was killed in an explosion during a raid on a safe house in Leganés where terrorists were hiding out after the 11-M atrocity in Madrid. After the funeral, a group dug up his body, mutilated it and then set it alight. It is worth pointing out that in the Muslim faith, fire signifies the total annihilation of the dead person’s soul, making their resurrection to eternal life impossible.

‘Studies of criminal behaviour consider this type of conduct as a stage of psychopathy. Subjects often have a history of torturing animals, arson, bed-wetting, extreme backwardness at school, abuse … There is often a significant psychosexual element, because of the difficulties they have in relating normally to the opposite sex.

‘To begin with, I must admit that I favoured the vandalistic theory – and I haven’t entirely ruled it out. However, there are aspects of the history of Arizkun – for those of you unfamiliar with it, Jonan has prepared a report explaining the possible historical motive – which mean we can’t dismiss the possibility that these attacks are a form of social protest, albeit in an embryonic phase.

‘Another kind of desecration which we have ruled out is art theft. Perpetrators enter a church they have previously identified, causing minimum damage, and remove only the most valuable objects. These people are usually working for someone else, are never opportunistic or disorganised.’

‘Good,’ the Commissioner chimed in. ‘Now, tell me what you’ve done so far?’

Iriarte opened his notebook and read out loud:

‘For the moment we have a round-the-clock patrol car outside the church; that seems to have gone some way towards reassuring the locals; a few of them have been over to thank the officers. No further incidents have taken place.’

‘Have you questioned people living in the immediate vicinity?’ asked Amaia.

‘Yes, but, even though Arizkun is quiet as the grave at night, no one saw or heard anything. Chopping up the pew with an axe must have made quite a din.’

‘That church has solid walls, which would have muffled the blows, not to mention the walls of the houses themselves. And on a cold winter night, people’s doors and windows would have been firmly shut.’

Iriarte nodded. ‘We’ve also looked into local teenage gangs with antisocial tendencies, but drawn a blank. On the whole, young people in Arizkun are pretty laid-back, a bit nationalistic, but that’s about it. The majority, practising or not, see the church as a symbol of the village.’

‘What about the issue of the agotes?’ asked Amaia.

Iriarte sighed. ‘That’s an extremely sensitive subject, chief. And one most people in Arizkun prefer not to talk about. I can assure you that, until recently, an outsider coming to Arizkun asking about them would encounter an impenetrable wall of silence.’

‘There are a couple of odd stories about that,’ Zabalza chimed in. ‘I heard that some years ago, a well-known author arrived in Arizkun intending to write about the agotes, but was forced to abandon his project, because everyone he asked played dumb, or pretended they’d never heard of them. They all assured him the agotes were a myth and no one believed they had really existed. Apparently the novelist Camilo José Cela was interested in them too, and was given the same treatment.’

‘Those are my people you’re talking about,’ said Amaia, smiling. ‘Things must be different among the younger generation. They’re usually proud of their roots, but don’t feel the guilt the older generations carry around. As I was saying to Jonan yesterday, the story of the agotes is similar to that of the Jews or Muslims in Spain; people were treated differently because of their religion, gender, ancestry, wealth: the same as now, more or less … Even noblewomen were forced to marry or confined in convents.’

‘You’re probably right. For most young people, anything that happened before the civil war is prehistoric. Nevertheless, we need to avoid treading on people’s toes.’

‘We will,’ Amaia assured him. ‘This afternoon I’m heading off to Elizondo for a few days to take charge of the investigation.’

The Commissioner nodded, so she went on:

‘Jonan is going to look at anti-Catholic action groups and everything relating to the agotes, as well as the desecrated objects. I’d like someone to arrange for me to meet separately with the parish priest and the chaplain at Arizkun: we can’t rule out the possibility that this is an act of revenge against one of them. Don’t forget the recent theft of the Codex Calixtinus, which turned out to be part of a personal vendetta against the dean of Santiago Cathedral by a former employee. In other words, before we start developing any historical or mystical theories, we should do a bit of digging on the people involved, as we would with any other case. I have a few ideas I want to follow up. That’s all for now,’ she said, rising and following the Commissioner out of the room. ‘See you there tomorrow morning.’

The report, which had kept her awake until three in the morning, was lying on the Commissioner’s desk. She examined the cover for any sign that he had read it.

‘Sir, have you had a chance to look at my report?’

The Commissioner turned and gazed at her pensively for a few moments before responding.

‘Yes, I have, Salazar. It’s exhaustive.’

Amaia scanned his inscrutable face, wondering whether for him exhaustive was a good or a bad thing.

After a brief silence, to her astonishment he added:

‘Exhaustive and extremely interesting. I can understand why all this caught your attention. I can also see why Lieutenant Padua might consider it merits further investigation, but I agree with his superiors. If you’d brought me this report a week ago, I would have told you exactly what they told him. The similarities are somewhat far-fetched and could be a coincidence. The fact that prisoners communicate amongst themselves or with people who admire their crimes is commoner than people think.’

He broke off and sat down facing her.

‘Of course, yesterday’s events cast a different light on things. Quiralte directly involved you by deciding to tell you where the body was. I’ve given it a lot of thought, but I’m still not sure. These cases are all officially closed. The killers are all dead, by their own hand. Separate cases, in different provinces, run by different forces, and you’re asking me to open an investigation.’

Amaia remained silent, holding his gaze.

‘I have faith in you, Salazar, I trust your instinct. I know there must be something there to have aroused your interest. However, I don’t consider there’s enough evidence to authorise opening an official investigation, which would only stir up rivalries between the different forces.’

He fell silent, while Amaia held her breath.

‘Unless there’s something else you aren’t telling me …’

Amaia smiled. Not for nothing was he commissioner. She slipped the plastic sheath out of her pocket and handed it to him.

‘Jasón Medina was carrying this envelope the day he killed himself in the courthouse toilets.’

He took it from her, examining the contents through the plastic. ‘It’s addressed to you,’ he said, surprised. He opened his desk drawer, searching for gloves.

‘You can touch it, it’s been tested for fingerprints – they didn’t find a single one.’

The Commissioner took the envelope out of the plastic sheath and read the card inside before looking up at Amaia.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘I’m authorising an investigation based on the fact that the two murderers addressed themselves exclusively to you.’

Amaia nodded.

‘Do your best not to tread on any toes – and before you proceed you’ll need to secure Markina’s blessing, although I doubt he’ll be a problem. He seems to have the greatest respect for you as a detective. Why, only this morning he called to discuss the Aguirre case and was singing your praises. I don’t want any run-ins with the other forces, so I’m asking you to be polite and treat them with kid gloves.’ He paused for effect. ‘And in return, I expect to see some progress on the desecrations at Arizkun.’

Amaia pulled a weary face.

‘I know your thoughts on the matter, but it’s imperative we solve the case as soon as possible. The Mayor was on the phone earlier. He sounded extremely concerned.’

‘I’m sure the culprits will turn out to be some young tearaways.’

‘Well then, arrest them and give me some names; that’ll get the Archbishop off my back. They’re in a panic over this and, while it’s true that they’re inclined to exaggerate when it comes to Church affairs, I’ve not seen them this stirred up over other, more sensational cases of desecration.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ll do all I can. As you know, we have a patrol car stationed outside the church. That should reassure them, and maybe they’ll stop pestering you.’

‘I hope so,’ he said.

Amaia stood up and walked towards the door.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Hold on, Salazar, there’s one more thing.’

Amaia stopped in her tracks and waited.

‘It’s been a year since Inspector Montes was suspended after what happened during your investigation of the basajaun murders. Having looked into the matter, Internal Affairs recommend he be reinstated. As I’m sure you’re aware, that will only happen if the other officers involved – in this case, yourself and Inspector Iriarte – give Montes a favourable report.’

Amaia kept quiet, waiting to see where the Commissioner was going with this.

‘Things have changed. Then you were the detective leading the investigation, now you’re head of the murder squad. If Inspector Montes is reinstated, he’ll be under your command like everyone else. I have the last word over whether to assign him to your team or not, but your team is one short, so if you don’t want Montes, I’ll have to assign another permanent officer.’

‘I’ll think about it,’ she said frostily.

The Commissioner sensed her animosity.

‘I’m not trying to influence your decision, Inspector, I’m merely keeping you informed.’

‘Thank you, sir,’ she replied.

‘You can go now.’

Amaia closed the door behind her and whispered:

‘No, of course you aren’t.’

The Navarre Institute of Forensic Medicine was deserted at midday. Between showers, a hesitant sun shone on surfaces glistening from the recent rain; the number of spaces in the car park showed it was lunchtime. Even so, Amaia wasn’t surprised to see two women throw away the cigarettes they had been smoking and walk over to her as soon as they saw her. She found herself resorting to a memory cue, as she struggled with their names: ‘Lazaro’s sisters’.

‘Marta, María,’ she greeted them. ‘You shouldn’t be here,’ she said, knowing full well that there was no obvious place for family members to go, and that they would either remain in the doorway or in the tiny waiting room until their loved one was released. ‘You’d be better off at home, I’ll let you know as soon as the …’ She always found the word autopsy, with its sinister connotations, impossible to pronounce in the presence of family members. It was just another word; they all knew why they were there; some of them even used it themselves. But, knowing what it entailed, for her it was as painful as the scalpel making a Y-shaped incision on the corpse of their loved one. ‘… As soon as they’ve finished all the tests,’ Amaia said.

‘Inspector.’ It was the older sister who spoke, Marta or María, she could never be sure. ‘We realise there has to be an autopsy because our mother was the victim of a violent crime, but they told us today that it could be a few more days before they release her … well, her body.’

The younger sister burst out crying. As she attempted to stifle her tears, she gasped as if she were choking.

‘Why?’ demanded the older sister. ‘They already know who killed her. They know it was that animal. But now he’s dead and, God forgive me, I’m glad, because he died like the filthy rat that he was.’

Tears started to stream down her face too. She wiped them away furiously, for unlike her sister’s, they were tears of rage.

‘… And yet at the same time I wish he was still alive, locked up, rotting in prison. Can you understand that? I wish I could strangle him with my bare hands, I wish I could do everything to him that he did to our mother.’

Amaia nodded. ‘And even then, you wouldn’t feel any better.’

‘I don’t want to feel better, Inspector. I doubt anything in the world would make me feel good right now. I just wish I could hurt him, it’s as simple as that.’

‘Don’t talk that way,’ her sister implored.

Amaia laid her hand on the angry woman’s shoulder.

‘No, you wouldn’t. I know you think that’s what you want – and to some extent it’s normal, but you couldn’t do anything like that to anyone, I know you couldn’t.’

The woman stared at her. Amaia could see she was close to breaking down.

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘Because to do the things he did, you’d need to be like him.’

The woman clasped her hands to her mouth; from the horror on her face, Amaia saw that she had understood. Her younger sister, who had appeared the more fragile and defenceless of the two, placed one arm around her older sister, and encountered no resistance as with her free hand she gently tilted the woman’s head on to her own shoulder, in a gesture of reassurance and affection which Amaia was sure she had learned from their mother.

‘We assumed we’d get her back after the autopsy. Why is it taking longer?’

‘Our mother lay abandoned for five months in a frozen field. Now we need time with her, time to say our goodbyes, to bury her.’

Amaia studied them, assessing how resilient they were. Against all the odds, and despite evidence to the contrary, relatives of missing people show great resilience, which is nourished by the belief that their loved ones are still alive. But the moment the body appears, all the energy that has been keeping them going collapses like a sandcastle in a storm.

‘All right, now listen to me, but bear in mind that what I’m about to tell you relates to an ongoing investigation, so I’m counting on you to be discreet.’

The two women looked at her expectantly.

‘I’ve been honest with you from the start, from the day you asked me to authorise a search for your mother because you were convinced she hadn’t disappeared voluntarily. I’ve kept you informed every step of the way. And now I need you to carry on trusting me. We’ve established that Quiralte killed your mother. However, it’s possible he wasn’t the only person involved.’

Their anticipation gave way to astonishment.

‘You mean he had an accomplice?’

‘I’m not sure yet, but this case resembles another one I worked on in an advisory role, where a possible second culprit was also suspected. A different force was in charge of that investigation and so comparing the different elements and evidence will be a more complex and time-consuming process. We’ve been given the green light, but this could take hours, possibly days, I can’t say for sure. I know this has been very hard for you, but your mother is no longer in a frozen field, she’s here. And the reason why she’s here is so that she can help us to solve the crime of which she herself was the victim. I’ll be in there with her, and I promise you that no one respects the smallest detail she might be able to tell us more than these pathologists. Believe me, they are the voice of the victims.’

She could tell from the look of acceptance on their faces that she had convinced them. Whilst she didn’t need their consent, there was nothing to be gained from having irate relatives getting in the way of her work.

‘At least we’ll be able to hold a Mass for her soul,’ murmured Marta.

‘Yes. That’ll do you good. You know she would have liked that.’ Amaia proffered a firm hand, which both women shook. ‘I’ll do my best to speed things up. I promise to call you.’

Amaia swapped her coat for a gown and entered the autopsy room. Dr San Martín, stooped over a stainless steel worktop, was showing something on the computer to a couple of assistants.

‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘Or should that be good afternoon?’

‘For us it’s good afternoon, we’ve already had lunch,’ replied one of the assistants.

Amaia suppressed the look of disbelief spreading across her face. She had a fairly strong stomach, but the idea of those three eating before an autopsy seemed … improper.

San Martín started to pull on his gloves.

‘So, Inspector, which of the two do you want us to start on?’

‘Which of what two?’ she asked, puzzled.

‘Lucía Aguirre,’ he said pointing to the body draped with a sheet on a nearby slab, ‘or Ramon Quiralte,’ he added, signalling a table further away, on which she could make out a large shape still zipped inside a body bag.

Amaia looked at him quizzically.

‘Both autopsies are scheduled for today, so we can start with whichever one you like.’

Amaia walked over to the mound made by Quiralte’s body on the table, unzipped the bag and studied his face. Death had erased any vestige of good looks he might once have possessed. Around his eyes, dark purple spots had formed where small capillary veins had burst from the strain of vomiting. His half-open mouth, frozen in the middle of a spasm, revealed his teeth and the tip of his white-coated tongue, which protruded like a third lip. His swollen lips were covered in acid burns, and still streaked with vomit, which had trickled into his ear and formed rank clots in his hair. Amaia looked over to where the woman lay and shook her head. Only two metres separated victim and executioner; it was quite conceivable they would use the same scalpel to cut open both bodies.

‘He shouldn’t be here,’ she said, thinking out loud.

‘Pardon?’ replied San Martín.

‘He shouldn’t be here … Not with her.’ The assistants stared at her, bemused. ‘Not together,’ she added, gesturing towards Lucía’s corpse.

‘I doubt whether either of them care at this point, don’t you think?’

She realised that, even if she could explain, they wouldn’t understand.

‘I’m not so sure about that,’ she muttered to herself.

‘Right, then, which one do you want first?’

‘I’m not interested in him,’ she replied coldly. ‘Suicide, end of story.’

She zipped up the bag, and Quiralte’s face disappeared.

The pathologist shrugged as he uncovered Lucía Aguirre’s body. Approaching the slab, Amaia came to a halt, bowed her head in a fleeting prayer, then finally looked up. Stripped of her red-and-white pullover, Amaia barely recognised the cheerful woman whose smiling face presided over the entrance to her house. The corpse had been washed, but the multiple blows, scratches, and bruises she had suffered made the woman appear soiled.

‘Doctor,’ said Amaia, moving closer to him, ‘I wanted to ask you a favour. I know you follow strict procedures, but, as you can imagine, what really interests me is the amputation. I managed to get hold of photos of the skeletal remains the Guardia Civil discovered in the cave at Elizondo,’ she said, showing San Martín a thick envelope. ‘This is all they’ve given me so far. What I need you to do is compare the two sections where the bones were cut through. If we could establish a link between this and the Johana Márquez case, Judge Markina would authorise further measures that might enable us to make headway in the case. I’m meeting him later today – I was hoping I could take along something a little more convincing than mere theories.’

San Martín nodded. ‘All right, let’s get started.’

Switching on a powerful lamp above the body, he held a magnifying glass above the severed limb and photographed the lesion. Then he leaned in so close his nose almost touched the mutilated arm.

‘A clean, post-mortem incision. The heart had already stopped, and the blood was clotting. It was made with a serrated object similar to an electric saw, yet different; this is reminiscent of the Johana Márquez case, where the direction of the incision also suggested an electric knife or angle grinder. Since in the Márquez case it was assumed the culprit was the stepfather, no further inquiries were made into the object he might have used; a few tools from the house and his car were examined, but no matches found.’

Amaia lined up the photographs Padua had given her on the negatoscope and switched on the light, while San Martín placed the one the printer had just spat out next to them.

He studied the images at length, rearranging and occasionally superimposing them, giving low, rhythmical grunts that set Amaia’s teeth on edge and brought joking remarks from his assistants.

‘In your opinion, were the incisions made with the same object?’ Amaia asked, interrupting San Martín’s musings.

‘Ah!’ he exclaimed. ‘Now that would be saying a lot. But what I can confirm is that the same technique was used for all of them; they were made by a right-handed person who was very assured and also very strong.’

Amaia gazed at him, wanting more.

San Martín went on, grinning at the glimmer of hope he saw in the inspector’s eye:

‘Although I can confirm that the bones all belonged to adults, without any tissue attached, it’s impossible to pinpoint their exact age or sex from looking at the photos, still less whether these limbs were surgical amputations or taken from a desecrated tomb. It’s obvious at first glance that the incisions resemble one another, that the bones are all forearms … However, in order to be one hundred per cent certain, I’d need to examine the instrument that was used. We could make moulds of the bones themselves to scan and compare them. I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s the best I can do, based on photographic evidence. It would be different if we had the actual samples.’

‘The Guardia Civil have their own laboratories – that’s where the samples are kept. You know how reticent their top brass is about sharing information. I’ve been saying for years that until we set up an independent criminal investigation unit, with members from all the different forces, including Interpol, working together in the same laboratories, investigations like this one will continue to grope in the dark,’ complained Amaia. ‘Thank heavens for officers like Padua, who are genuinely interested in solving crimes, not in scoring points.’

Amaia walked back to the body, leaning over as San Martín had done to take a closer look at the wound.

The flesh looked withered and cracked, dried out. The skin had a pale, faintly washed-out quality compared to the rest of the body. Seeing the tiny serrations the blade had made on the bone, she suddenly thought she could make out a dark, pointed object embedded in the flesh.

‘Come over here will you, Doctor? What do you think this could be?’ she asked, stepping aside so he could look through the magnifier.

He glanced up, surprised.

‘I didn’t see that. Well done, Salazar,’ he complimented her. ‘I expect it’s a bit of bone that broke off during the amputation,’ he explained, extracting the fragment with a pair of tweezers. He examined the tiny triangle beneath the magnifier before placing it on a tray, where it made a definite metallic tinkle. He carried it swiftly over to the microscope, then raised his eyes with a grin as he made room for her. ‘Inspector Salazar, what we have here is the tooth of a metal saw – the saw used to amputate the victim’s arm. If we make a mock-up from this one tooth, we’ll have a good chance of establishing approximately what type of saw it was. And if you’re clever enough to persuade Judge Markina, we should be able to carry out tests to ascertain whether the same instrument was used on the bones discovered in the cave in Elizondo. And now, if you don’t mind, I’ll get on with the autopsy,’ he said, handing the tray containing the sample to his assistant, who immediately set to work.

8

Inmaculada Herranz was one of those women who earned people’s trust by appearing at once friendly and anxious to please. With her slight build and discreet gestures, Amaia had always thought of her as an ugly geisha; her soft voice and hooded eyelids disguised the stern expression on her face something upset her. Amaia had never warmed to her, despite, or perhaps because of, her affected politeness. For six years, Inmaculada had been Judge Estébanez’s efficient and ever-willing personal assistant, but the judge had no qualms about leaving her behind when she was promoted to her new post on the High Court in Madrid, even though Inmaculada was unmarried and had no children.

Inmaculada’s dismay soon gave way to glee when Judge Markina filled the vacant post, although from then on she was obliged to spend more of her salary on clothes and perfume in an effort to make Markina notice her. And she wasn’t the only one; there was a joke doing the rounds of the courtrooms about the increased expenditure on lipstick and hairdressers among female staff.

Amaia had dialled Markina’s number on her way to her car. Searching her pockets for a pair of sunglasses to ward off the dazzling light reflected in the rain puddles, she waited to hear his secretary’s mellifluous voice.

‘Good afternoon, Inmaculada, this is Inspector Salazar from the murder squad at the Navarre Police Department. Could I speak to Judge Markina, please?’

Her icy response took Amaia by surprise.

‘It’s two-thirty in the afternoon and, as you can imagine, the judge isn’t here.’

‘Yes, I know what time it is. I’ve just come from an autopsy, the results of which Judge Markina is waiting to hear. He asked me to call him …’

‘I see …’ replied the secretary.

‘I find it hard to believe he would forget. Do you know if he’s coming back later?’

‘No, he isn’t coming back, and of course he hasn’t forgotten.’ She paused for a few seconds, then added: ‘He left a number for you to call.’

Amaia waited in silence, amused at her blatant hostility. She sighed loudly to make it clear her patience was wearing thin, then asked:

‘So, Inmaculada, are you going to give me that number, or do I need a court order? Ah, no, wait, I already have one from the judge himself.’

She didn’t respond, but even over the telephone, Amaia could sense the woman pursing her lips and narrowing her eyes in that prudish way so typical of mousy women like her. She read the number out once then hung up without saying goodbye.

Amaia looked at her mobile in amazement. What a long streak of misery! she thought. She punched in the numbers from memory and waited.

Judge Markina replied after one ring tone.

‘I thought it might be you, Salazar. I see my secretary relayed my message.’

‘Sorry to bother you, your honour, but I’ve just come from Lucía Aguirre’s autopsy. The forensic report is conclusive, we have fresh evidence, which in my opinion warrants further investigation.’

‘Are you talking about reopening the case?’ Markina asked, hesitantly.

Amaia forced herself to be more cautious.

‘I wouldn’t presume to tell you how to do your job, your honour. However, this fresh evidence points to a new line of investigation, without prejudice to the initial one. Neither we nor the pathologist are questioning Quiralte’s guilt, but—’

‘Very well,’ the judge interrupted her, seeming to reflect for a moment. His tone suggested she had aroused his interest. ‘Come and talk me through it in person, and remember to bring the pathologist’s report.’

Amaia glanced at her watch.

‘Will you be in your office this afternoon?’ she asked.

‘No, I’m out of town, but I’ll be dining at El Rodero tonight at nine, come there and we can talk.’

She hung up, glancing again at her watch. The pathologist’s report would be ready by then, but if they were to arrive at a reasonable hour James would have to go on ahead to Elizondo with Ibai. She could join them there after her meeting with the judge. She sighed as she climbed into the car, thinking to herself that if she hurried she might make it home in time to give her son his three o’clock feed.

Ibai was crying erratically, alternating gasps and wails to show his annoyance. Between protests, he sucked at the bottle James was struggling to keep in his mouth, cradling him in his arms. He grinned sheepishly when he saw her.

‘We’ve been doing this for twenty minutes and so far I’ve only managed to make him take twenty millilitres, but we’re slowly getting there.’

‘Come to Ama, maitia,’ she said, spreading her arms wide as James passed the baby to her. ‘Did you miss me, my love?’ she added, kissing his face and giggling when he started to suck her chin. ‘Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry, Ama is very late, but I’m here now.’

She sat down in an armchair, folding the baby in her arms, then devoted the next half-hour to him. Ibai’s fretfulness slowly faded, he relaxed and grew calm as Amaia caressed his head, tracing with her forefinger his perfect, tiny features, marvelling at the clear, bright eyes gazing back at her with the intensity and wonderment of an audacious lover.

When she had finished breastfeeding him, she took Ibai to the room Clarice had decorated for him, changed his nappy, reluctantly acknowledging that the furnishings were comfortable and practical, although the baby still slept with them in their bedroom. Afterwards, she cradled him in her arms, singing softly to him until he fell asleep.

‘It’s not good for him to get into the habit of falling asleep like that,’ James whispered behind her. ‘You should leave him in the cot so he learns to relax and goes off on his own.’

‘He has the rest of his life to do that,’ she said rather brusquely. Then she reflected, and added in a softer voice: ‘Let me pamper him a little, James. You’re right, I know, but I miss him so much … And I suppose I’m afraid he’ll stop missing me.’

‘Of course he won’t, silly,’ said James, picking the sleeping child up and moving him to his cot. He arranged a blanket over him and looked again at his wife. ‘I miss you too, Amaia.’

Their eyes met, and for an instant she felt the urge to fling herself into his arms, into that embrace, which, over time, had become the unequivocal symbol of their union, their love for one another. An embrace that always made her feel protected and understood. But the urge didn’t last. She was seized by a sudden frustration. She was tired, she’d skipped lunch, and had just come from an autopsy … For the love of God! She was forced to rush from one side of the city to the other, she scarcely had time to be with her son, but all James could think of was that he missed her. She missed herself! She couldn’t remember the last time she’d had five minutes to herself. She hated him for looking at her with those mournful, dead sheep’s eyes. It didn’t help; no, it didn’t help one bit. She left the room, overwhelmed by feelings of anger and remorse. James was a darling, a wonderful father and the most tolerant man any woman could wish for, but he was a man, and therefore light years away from understanding how she felt, which drove her crazy.

She went into the kitchen. Sensing him behind her, she avoided his gaze while she made herself a cup of coffee.

‘Have you had lunch? Do you want me to make you something?’ he asked, going over to the fridge.

‘No, James, don’t bother,’ she said, sitting down with her milky coffee at the head of the table. ‘Look, James, a meeting has come up with the judge in charge of the case I’m investigating. I can’t put it off and he can only see me this evening, which is when I’ll have the autopsy report. It’s extremely important …’

He nodded.

‘We could drive up to Elizondo tomorrow morning.’

‘No, I want to be there first thing, so we’d have to get up very early. I think it’s best if you go on ahead with Ibai and install yourselves at my aunt’s house. I’ll feed him before you leave, and be there for the next one.’

James started to chew his upper lip – a gesture she knew he only did when he was anxious.

‘Amaia, I wanted to talk to you about that …’

She gazed at him in silence.

‘I think that slavishly following this schedule to keep him breastfeeding …’ she saw he was searching for the right words, ‘… isn’t really compatible with your work. Maybe it’s time for you seriously to consider weaning him off breast milk completely.’

Amaia looked at her husband wishing she could express everything that was bubbling inside her. She was trying, trying as hard as she could. She wanted to succeed, for Ibai’s sake, but above all for herself, for the sake of the child she once was, the daughter of a bad mother. She wanted to be a good mother, she needed to be, otherwise she would be bad, like her own mother. And suddenly she found herself wondering how much of Rosario was in her. Wasn’t the frustration she felt a sign that perhaps something wasn’t right? Where was the joy all those manuals on motherhood promised? Where was the perfect fulfilment a mother was supposed to feel? Why did she only feel exhaustion and a sense of failure?

Instead she said:

‘I already had this job when you met me, James. You accepted that I was and always would be a police officer. If you thought my job would prevent me from being a good wife and mother, you should have said so then.’ She stood up and deposited her cup in the sink, adding as she brushed past him: ‘I don’t need to tell you, this is a marriage, not a life sentence. If you don’t like it …’

James pulled an incredulous face.

‘For heaven’s sake, Amaia! Don’t be so melodramatic,’ he said, rising and following her down the corridor.

She wheeled around, pressing a finger to her lips.

‘You’ll wake up Ibai.’ She went into the bathroom, leaving James standing in the middle of the corridor, shaking his head in disbelief.

She couldn’t fall asleep, and spent the next two hours tossing and turning on the bed, trying unsuccessfully to relax enough to get some rest, while the murmur of the TV James was watching floated in from the living room.

She knew she was behaving like a shrew, being unfair on James, yet somehow she couldn’t help feeling he deserved it … Why? Simply for being understanding? Loving? She wasn’t quite sure what she wanted from him, only that she felt bad inside, and wished he wouldn’t simplify things so much, that he could unburden her, reassure her, but above all understand her. She would have given anything for him to understand her, to realise it had to be this way. Reaching out to touch the empty half of the bed, she dragged James’s pillow towards her, pressing her face into it to find his smell. Why was she making such a mess of things? She felt the urge to go to him … to tell him … to tell him … she wasn’t sure what, maybe that she was sorry.

She climbed out of bed and padded barefoot across the oak floorboards, which creaked underfoot. Poking her head round the door, she saw that James was asleep, propped up on his side, while a succession of adverts illuminated the room where the natural light had faded a while ago. She studied his peaceful expression, reflected in the TV screen. As she approached him, she stopped in her tracks. She had always envied his ability to fall asleep anytime, anywhere, but suddenly, the fact that he could do that when he was supposed to be upset, at least as upset as she was … What the hell! They’d had probably their worst argument ever, and he went off to sleep, as relaxed as if he’d just got out of the sauna. Two million light years away. She glanced at her watch: they still had to pack all the things Ibai would need in Elizondo. Leaving the room, she called out as she walked away:

‘James.’

After loading the car as if they were about to climb Everest rather than spend a few days fifty kilometres from home, she gave James a dozen instructions about Ibai, his clothes, how to dress him so he wouldn’t catch cold but wouldn’t sweat too much, then kissed the baby, who gazed at her from his car seat, content after his feed. He had slept all afternoon and would probably stay awake all the way to Elizondo, but he wouldn’t cry. He liked being in the car with its soft purring sound, and seemed to love the music James played, a little too loud, she thought, so that even if he didn’t sleep, he would enjoy a relaxed journey.

‘I’ll be there in time for his next feed.’

‘… And if not, I’ll give him the bottle,’ replied James, installed behind the wheel.

She was about to answer back, but wanted to avoid another argument with him. Partly out of superstition, she didn’t want them to part on an angry note. As a police officer she had witnessed all too often the responses of relatives when told that a loved one had died, how much deeper their grief was if at the time of that person’s death they weren’t on speaking terms because of a usually trivial argument that would resonate for evermore like a life sentence. She leant through the open window and kissed James tentatively on the lips.

‘I love you, Amaia,’ he said, making it sound like a warning, as he turned the key in the ignition.

I know you do, she thought to herself, stepping back. And I’m only kissing and making up because I couldn’t bear you to die in an accident when you were mad at me. She gave a half-hearted wave, which he didn’t see, and stood, arms clasped around herself to try to alleviate the remorse she felt. She watched the car roll slowly down the street, which was pedestrian-only at that time of day except for residents, until the red tail-lights vanished out of sight.

Shivering in the chilly Pamplona evening, she went back inside, glancing at the envelope that had been sitting in the hallway since a police officer delivered it an hour ago. More than anything she longed to soak in a hot bath. She opened the bathroom door and caught sight of herself in the mirror: eyes ringed in dark circles; hair dull and straw-like with split ends – she couldn’t remember the last time she had been to a hairdresser. She checked the time, felt a flash of anger as she postponed the longed-for bath and climbed into the shower. She let the hot water run until the screen misted up and she could no longer see out. Then she started to cry, as if some inner barrier had given way and a rising tide threatened to drown her from within. Miserable and helpless, she stood there, her tears mingling with the scalding water.

The restaurant El Rodero wasn’t far from her house. When she and James dined there, they usually walked, so that they could have a drink without worrying about driving. This time she took the car, in order to be able to leave for Elizondo as soon as she finished talking to the judge. She parked at an angle opposite Media Luna Park, crossed the street and walked beneath the arcade where El Rodero was located. The large, brightly lit windows and the understated décor of the façade were a promise of the excellent cuisine that had earned the restaurant a Michelin star. The dark wood floor and cherrywood chairs with cushioned backs contrasted with the beige panelling that reached up to the ceiling. The mirrors that lined the walls, combined with the pristine white tablecloths and crockery, added a touch of brightness, accentuated by the floral decorations floating in crystal bowls on the tables.

A waitress greeted her as she entered, offering to take her coat. Amaia declined.

‘Good evening,’ she said. ‘I’m meeting one of your diners, could you tell him I’m here?’

‘Yes, of course.’

Amaia hesitated, unsure whether the judge used his title outside of work.

‘Mr Markina.’

The young girl smiled.

‘Judge Markina is expecting you. Follow me, please,’ she said, escorting her to the far end of the restaurant.

They passed through the room Amaia had assumed they would be meeting in, and the waitress pointed her to one of the best tables beside the chef’s personal library. Five chairs stood around it but only two places were set. Markina rose to greet her, extending his hand.

‘Good evening, Salazar,’ he said, avoiding using her rank.

The approving look the waitress gave the handsome judge didn’t escape her.

‘Please, take a seat,’ he said.

Amaia paused for a moment, gazing at the chair he was indicating. She disliked sitting with her back to the door (a professional quirk), but she did as Markina suggested, and sat facing him.

‘Your honour,’ she began, ‘forgive me for bothering you …’

‘It’s no bother, providing you agree to join me. I’ve already ordered, but I’d feel most uncomfortable if you were to sit and watch me eat.’

His tone brooked no argument, and Amaia became uneasy.

‘But …’ she protested, pointing to the place set for a second person.

‘That’s for you. As I told you, I hate people watching me eat. I took the liberty. I hope you don’t mind,’ he said, although it didn’t sound as if he cared much whether she minded or not. She observed his body language as he shook open his napkin and placed it on his knees.

So that explained why Markina’s secretary was so hostile. Amaia could just imagine her making the reservation that morning with her cloying voice, lips set in a thin straight line. Recalling Inmaculada’s words, it dawned on her that Markina had made the reservation even before she called with the results of the autopsy. He knew she would ring him as soon as she got out, and had arranged the dinner in advance. She wondered how far in advance, whether Markina had even been out of town at midday. She couldn’t prove anything. It was equally possible he’d made a reservation for one and asked them to lay another place when he arrived.

‘This won’t take long, your honour, then I’ll let you dine in peace. In fact, if you don’t mind, I’ll start right away.’

She reached into her bag and fished out a brown file that she placed on the table, just as the waiter approached with a bottle of Navarrese Chardonnay.

‘Who would like to taste the wine?’

‘Mademoiselle,’ replied the judge.

‘Madam,’ she retorted, ‘and I won’t have any wine, I’m driving.’

Markina grinned:

‘Water for the lady, then, and wine for me, alas.’

As soon as the waiter moved away, Amaia opened the file.

‘Not now,’ said Markina, sharply. ‘Please,’ he added, in a more conciliatory tone. ‘One look at that and I’ll lose my appetite completely. There are some things one never gets used to.’

‘Your honour …’ she protested.

The waiter placed two dishes in front of them, both containing a small golden-brown parcel adorned with green and red sprouts and leaves.

‘Truffles and mushrooms in a golden parcel. Enjoy your meal, sir, madam,’ he said, withdrawing.

‘Your honour …’ she protested once more.

‘Please, call me Javier.’

Amaia’s anger rose as she started to feel like the victim of an ambush, a blind date meticulously planned by this cretin, who even had the nerve to order for her, and now he wanted her to call him by his first name.

Amaia pushed back her chair.

‘Your honour, I think it’s better if we talk later, once you’ve finished your meal. In the meantime, I’ll wait for you outside.’

He gave a smile that seemed at once sincere and guilty.

‘Salazar, please don’t feel uncomfortable. I still don’t know many people in Pamplona. I love gourmet cooking, and I’m a regular here. I always let the chef decide what I eat, but if the dish isn’t to your liking, I’ll ask them to bring you the menu. Just because we’re meeting as colleagues, it doesn’t mean we can’t enjoy a good meal. Would you have felt more comfortable if we’d met at McDonald’s for a hamburger? I know I wouldn’t.’

Amaia looked askance at him.

‘Please, eat while you tell me about the case, only let’s leave the photos until last.’

She was hungry. She hadn’t eaten anything solid since breakfast, she never did when attending an autopsy, and the aroma of mushroom and truffle from the crispy golden parcel was making her stomach rumble.

‘Very well,’ she said. They would dine if he insisted, but they’d do so in record time.

They ate the first course in silence, Amaia realising how ravenous she had been.

The waiter removed the plates and replaced them with two more.

‘Pearly soup with shellfish, seafood and seaweed,’ he said before withdrawing.

‘One of my favourites,’ said Markina.

‘And mine,’ she echoed.

‘Do you eat at this restaurant?’ he asked, trying to conceal his surprise.

A cretin and arrogant with it, she thought.

‘Yes, but we usually reserve a more intimate table.’

‘I like this one, looking at the other diners …’

And being looked at, thought Amaia.

‘Browsing the library,’ he explained. ‘Luis Rodero has a fine collection of books on cuisine from all over the world.’

Amaia glanced at the spines of a few, among them The Challenge of Spanish Cuisine, a thick, dark volume by El Bulli, as well as the splendid cover of Spanish Cuisine by Cándido.

The waiter placed a fish dish before them.

‘Hake in velouté with crab jelly, hints of vanilla, pepper and lime.’

Amaia tucked in, only half able to savour the subtleties of the dish between glancing at the time and listening to Markina making small talk.

When at last the table was cleared, Amaia declined dessert and ordered coffee. The judge did the same, but with visible reluctance. She waited until the coffee was on the table before once more producing the documents and placing them in front of him.

She saw him pull a face, but went ahead. She sat up straight, instantly sure of herself, on her own ground. Turning her chair slightly to one side so that she could see the door, she felt relaxed for the first time since she’d arrived.

‘During the autopsy, we found clues indicating that the Lucía Aguirre case is probably related to at least one other murder that took place a year ago near Lekaroz,’ she said, picking out one of the files to show to him. ‘Johana Márquez was raped and strangled by her stepfather. He confessed to the crime when he was arrested, but the girl’s body presented the same type of mutilation as that of Lucía Aguirre: amputation of the forearm at the elbow. Both Johana Márquez’s and Lucía Aguirre’s killers took their own lives and left behind identical messages.’

She showed Markina the photographs of the wall in Quiralte’s cell and the note Medina had left for her.

He nodded, his curiosity aroused.

‘Do you think the two men knew each other?’

‘I doubt it, but we could find out for sure if you authorised an investigation.’

He looked at her uncertainly.

‘There’s something else,’ she said, ‘which might be unrelated, but I’m pursuing a lead that suggests a similar amputation was carried out in a crime that took place nearly three years ago in Logroño. As with these two cases, the murder itself was a messy affair, yet the corpse was subjected to a textbook amputation and the severed limb was nowhere to be found.’

‘In all three cases?’ Markina said, alarmed, rifling through the papers.

‘Yes, three so far, but I have a hunch there could be more.’

‘Explain to me exactly what we’re looking for here. A bizarre fraternity of bungling killers who decide to imitate a macabre procedure they possibly read about in the newspapers?’

‘Perhaps, although I don’t think the press gave sufficient details of the amputation to enable someone to imitate it so precisely. In the Johana Márquez case, that information was withheld. What I can confirm is that the perpetrator in Logroño killed himself in his cell, leaving behind the same message on the wall: TARTTALO, with two “t”s. This in itself is noteworthy, because the usual spelling is with one “t”. This leads me to think that their actions are so specific that in themselves they point to a clear identity, the hallmark of a single individual. It’s improbable, to say the least, that the behaviour of these animals would diverge so substantially from the pattern of abusers who kill. The cases I’ve been able to look at tick all the profile boxes: connection to the victim, prolonged abuse, alcoholism or drugs, violent, impulsive personality. The only element that clashed at the crime scenes was the post-mortem amputation of the forearm – the same arm in each case – and the fact that the limb was missing.’

Markina flicked through one of the reports in his hand.

‘I myself questioned Johana Márquez’s stepfather,’ she went on. ‘He denied all knowledge of the severed limb, insisting he had nothing to do with the amputation, despite having confessed to charges of harassment, murder, rape, and necrophilia …’

Amaia watched Markina, who ran his hand absentmindedly over his chin as he pondered the information with a wistful expression that made him appear older and more attractive. From afar, the waitress who had accompanied her to the table was standing by the lectern at the entrance, also observing him intently.

‘So, what do you think?’

‘I think we’re looking at an accomplice, a fourth person who could be the link between these three perpetrators and their crimes.’

Markina remained silent, his eyes moving between the documents and Amaia. For the first time that evening she was beginning to feel truly at ease. Finally, she saw on Markina’s face that familiar expression, which she frequently encountered on the faces of her colleagues as well as her superiors, when putting forward her arguments: interest, the kind of interest that generated questions, a thorough analysis of the facts and theories that would trigger an investigation. Markina’s eyes grew steelier while he was thinking, his undeniably handsome face acquiring an air of intelligence that she found extremely attractive. She contemplated the perfect outline of his lips, reflecting that it was no surprise that half the female secretaries in the courtroom were vying for his attention. The thought made her smile, breaking Markina’s concentration.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘Nothing, sorry,’ she said, smiling again. ‘Honestly, it’s nothing … I was just remembering something. It isn’t important.’

He looked at her, his curiosity piqued.

‘That’s the first time I’ve seen you smile.’

‘What?’ she replied, slightly taken aback by the observation.

He continued to stare at her, his expression serious again. She held his gaze for a few seconds then lowered her eyes towards the manila file. She cleared her throat.

‘So?’ she said, looking up, in control once more.

He nodded.

‘I think you might be on to something … I’m going to give you my authorisation. But be discreet and keep it low-key: we don’t want the press getting hold of this. Theoretically, these cases are closed, so we need to avoid causing the victims’ families any unnecessary suffering. Keep me abreast of your progress. And if you need anything don’t hesitate to ask me,’ he added, looking straight at her again.

She didn’t allow herself to be intimidated.

‘OK, I’ll take things slowly. I’m working on another case with my team, so there won’t be much to report in the next few days.’

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ he replied.

She started to gather up the various papers spread over the table. Markina reached out and touched her hand for a split second.

‘You’ll stay for another coffee, won’t you? …’

She paused.

‘Yes, I have to drive, it’ll keep me awake.’

He raised his hand to order two coffees, while she hurriedly collected the papers.

‘I thought you lived in the old quarter?’

You’re well informed, your honour, she thought as the waiter brought over their coffees.

‘I do, but I have to travel to Baztán because of the investigation I mentioned.’

‘You’re from there originally, aren’t you?’

‘Yes,’ she replied.

‘I’ve heard the food is excellent. Perhaps you could recommend a restaurant …’

Four or five names instantly came into her head.

‘I’m afraid not. The fact is, I seldom go there,’ she lied, ‘and when I do, I tend to eat with my relatives.’

He smiled in disbelief, raising an eyebrow. Amaia took the opportunity to drink her coffee and put the files back in her bag.

‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, your honour, I really must go,’ she said, pushing back her chair.

Markina rose to his feet.

‘Where’s your car?’

‘Oh, not far, I’m parked right outside.’

‘Wait,’ he said grabbing his coat. ‘I’ll accompany you.’

‘There’s no need.’

‘I insist.’

He hovered while the waiter brought his card, then took her coat and held it up for her to put on.

‘Thanks,’ she said, snatching it from him, ‘but I never wear it when I’m driving, I find it bothersome,’ she added, her tone making it unclear whether she was referring to the coat or to all Markina’s attentions.

Markina’s expression clouded slightly as they made their way to the door. She held it open until he caught up with her. The temperature outside was several degrees colder, and the moisture in the air had condensed into mist above the thick cluster of trees in the park. This only occurred in that part of the city, causing the orange light from the streetlamps to form hazy circles in the floating mist.

They walked out from under the arcades and crossed the street, which was lined with parked cars, although there was little traffic at that time of night. Amaia pressed the remote, and turned to Markina.

‘Thank you, your honour, I’ll keep you informed,’ she said, keeping her tone professional.

But he stepped around her and opened the car door.

She sighed, trying not to lose her patience.

‘Thank you.’

She flung her coat inside and clambered into the driver’s seat. She was no fool; she had seen what Markina was up to hours ago and was determined to repel all his advances.

‘Good night, your honour,’ she said, grabbing the handle to close the door and turning the key in the ignition.

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