Kitabı oku: «Offering to the Storm», sayfa 5
10
They had spent the afternoon at the shopping centre on Carretera de Francia on the pretext of buying clothes for Ibai, and to escape the cold brought by the fog that was thickening as night fell; by the time they left for dinner in the evening, they could scarcely see beyond the far bank of the river. The Santxotena restaurant was relatively lively, the murmur of laughter and voices reaching them as soon as they crossed the threshold. They were in the habit of reserving a table by the kitchen that opened on to the spacious dining room, so that they could watch the orderly bustle of three generations of women, clad in starched white aprons over black uniforms, moving about the kitchen as if it were a formal dance they’d rehearsed a thousand times.
After choosing from the wine list, James and Amaia were content to enjoy the atmosphere in the restaurant for a while. They hadn’t touched on the subject of the funeral, and had avoided bringing to a head the palpable tension that had arisen between them that afternoon. They knew they needed to talk, but had made a tacit agreement to wait until they were alone.
‘How’s the investigation going?’ James asked.
She looked at him, debating how to answer. Since she joined the police force, she had been meticulous about never discussing her work with her family, and they knew not to ask. She had no desire to talk to James about the more disturbing aspects of her job, in the same way she felt there were scenes from her past it was best not to mention, even though he already knew about them. She found it difficult to talk about her childhood, and for years she’d buried the truth beneath a false veneer of normality. When the barriers holding back all that horror had burst open, driving her to the edge of sanity, confiding in James had been the chink in the wall of fear that allowed light to flood in, creating a place for them to come together – a place that had delivered her back to a world where, if she was vigilant, the old ghosts could not touch her.
And yet, she’d always known that fear never goes away completely, it merely shrinks back to a dark, dank place, where it waits, reduced to a tiny red light you can still see even if you don’t want to, even if you refuse to acknowledge its existence, because it prevents you from living. She also knew that fear is a private thing, that no amount of talking about it, or naming it, will make it go away; that the old cliché ‘a burden shared is a burden halved’ didn’t apply where fear was concerned. She had always believed that love would triumph over everything, that opening the door and revealing herself to James with all the baggage of her past would suffice.
Now, sitting opposite him, she still saw the handsome young man she had fallen in love with. The self-assured, optimistic artist no one had ever tried to kill, with his simple, almost childlike way of looking at things that enabled him to follow a steady path, safe from life’s cruelties. It allowed him to believe that turning the page, burying the past, or talking to a psychiatrist for months about your mother’s desire to eat you, would help her to overcome her fears, to live in a world of green meadows and blue skies sustained by simply willing it to be so. This belief that happiness was a choice struck her as so naïve as to be almost insulting. She knew James didn’t really want to know how her work was going, and that when he asked he wasn’t expecting her to explain that she had questioned a psychopath about where her mother or her vanished sister’s body were.
She smiled at him, because she loved him, because his way of seeing the world still intrigued her, and because she knew that part of love was making the effort to love someone.
‘Quite well. I’m hoping to wrap up the case in a couple of days,’ she replied.
‘I spoke to my father today,’ he said. ‘He hasn’t been feeling well lately. My mother insisted he have a check-up and they’ve found a lesion in his heart.’
‘Oh, James! Is it serious?’
‘No, even my mother is relaxed. Apparently he has a small blockage in one of his coronary arteries due to early stage arteriosclerosis. He needs a bypass to prevent future heart attacks. However, he’ll have to stop working. My mother has been pressuring him to hand over the day-to-day management of the company, but he likes to keep busy, so while his health held out he was content to carry on indefinitely. She seems almost happy about it, and is already talking about the trips they’ll make when he gets over the surgery.’
‘I hope it all goes well, James, and I’m glad you’re taking it this way. When’s the operation?’
‘Next Monday. That’s why I asked how your work was going. I was hoping the three of us could fly over there together. My parents haven’t seen Ibai since the baptism.’
‘Hm …’
‘We could leave after the funeral. Flora stopped by this morning to tell us she thinks it’ll be on Friday. She’s going to confirm tomorrow. We’d only stay for a few days. I doubt you’ll have a problem taking vacation at this time of year.’
Too many loose ends, too much that needed sorting out. Yes, the investigation would be officially closed in a few days, but there was that other business; she had yet to receive confirmation from the commissioner’s office about whether she’d be attending the seminars at Quantico, and she hadn’t even mentioned that to James.
‘I don’t know, James … I’ll have to think about it.’
The smile froze on his face.
‘Amaia, this is really important to me,’ he said solemnly.
She instantly grasped the implication. He had given her a glimpse yesterday. He had his own needs, his own plans, he wanted a place in her life. The image of the stalled works at Juanitaenea flashed into her mind, together with Yáñez’s words: ‘a house isn’t the same as a home’.
She reached across the table to clasp his hand.
‘Of course, it’s important for me too,’ she said, forcing a smile. ‘First thing tomorrow, I’ll put in a request. As you say, I doubt they’ll object, no one goes on holiday at this time of year.’
‘Excellent,’ he replied cheerily. ‘I’ve been looking at flights. As soon as you’ve got permission, I’ll book our tickets.’
James spent the rest of the dinner planning their trip, excited at the idea of taking Ibai to the States for the first time. She listened, saying nothing.
11
She was aware of his hot breath on her skin, of becoming intensely aroused as she sensed his closeness. He murmured something she couldn’t hear, but she didn’t care, something about his voice mesmerised her. It evoked the contours of his mouth, his moist lips, the smile she had always found so troubling. Inhaling the warmth of his skin stirred her desire; she longed for him, eyes closed, holding her breath, as her senses yielded to pleasure. She felt his lips on her neck, descending in a slow, unstoppable advance, like lava flowing from a volcano. Every nerve in her body was engaged in a furious struggle between pleasure and pain, pleading for more, wanting more, the hairs on the back of her neck prickling, her nipples contracting, a burning sensation between her thighs. She opened her eyes, glancing about, confused. The little light she always left on at night permitted her to recognise the familiar shape of their bedroom in Engrasi’s house. Her body tensed, alarmed. James whispered in her ear as he went on kissing her.
It was daylight, and Ibai was already awake. She could hear him moving, gurgling softly as he kicked his legs in the air, pushing off the duvet, which would end up at the foot of his cot. She didn’t open her eyes immediately; it had taken her ages to fall asleep again after they made love, and, eyelids still heavy, she relished the idea of lazing in bed for another five minutes. She heard James get up, gather Ibai in his arms and whisper to him:
‘Are you hungry? We’ll let Ama snooze.’
She heard them leave the room, as she lay there, trying in vain to relax into a peaceful, dreamless sleep. All of a sudden, the dream about Markina came flooding back. She knew better than anyone that we aren’t responsible for our dreams, that the most pleasurable fantasies and the sickest nightmares come from a mysterious, unreachable place beyond our control. Still, she felt guilty. Wide-awake now, irritated at having had to renounce those five extra minutes of peace, she analysed her feelings. She realised the sense of guilt came not from having dreamt about Markina, but rather because she had made love with her husband stimulated by the desire she felt for the judge.
As James entered the room, bringing her a cup of coffee, the mobile on her bedside table made an unpleasant buzzing noise.
‘Good morning, Iriarte.’
‘Good morning, Inspector. We’ve just had a call from the prison in Pamplona. Berasategui has been found dead in his cell.’
She hung up, leapt to her feet, dressing between sips of coffee. She hated drinking it like that; she’d got into the habit of drinking her morning coffee in bed back when she was a student and it remained her preferred way to start the morning. Rushing to get ready was something she detested; it always augured a bad day.
The prison governor was waiting for them at the entrance, pacing up and down like a caged animal. He extended his hand courteously, then invited them to follow him to his office. Amaia refused, requesting to see the body immediately.
A guard escorted them through the various security gates until they reached the isolation cells. They could tell which one was Berasategui’s from the guard posted outside the metal door.
‘The doctor found no signs of violence on the body,’ explained the director. ‘He was placed in isolation yesterday at Judge Markina’s request, and hadn’t spoken to anyone since.’ He signalled to the guard to unlock the door, then ushered them in.
‘But someone must have come in here,’ said Inspector Montes, ‘if only to confirm that he was dead.’
‘One of the guards noticed he wasn’t moving and raised the alarm. The only people to have entered the cell are the prison doctor, who confirmed that he was dead, and myself. We called you immediately. It appears he died of natural causes.’
The cell, which contained no personal effects, was clean and tidy, the bedclothes smoothed out, military fashion. Dr Berasategui lay face up on his bunk, fully dressed down to his shoes, face relaxed, eyes closed. The scent of his cologne filled the cell, yet the perfect neatness of his clothes, his hands clasped on his chest, gave the impression of an embalmed corpse.
‘Natural causes, you say?’ Amaia frowned. ‘This was a thirty-six-year-old man who kept himself in good shape; he even had a gym in his apartment. Not only that, he was a doctor, so he’d have been the first to know if he was unwell, don’t you think?’
‘I must admit, this is the best-looking corpse I’ve ever seen!’ Montes joked, nudging Zabalza, who was searching the perimeter of the cell with a flashlight.
Amaia pulled on the gloves Inspector Etxaide handed to her and approached the bunk. She studied the body in silence for a few minutes, until she became aware of Dr San Martín standing behind her.
‘What have we here, Inspector? The prison doctor tells me there are no signs of violence, and suggests death by natural causes.’
‘There are no objects in here with which he could have harmed himself,’ said Montes, ‘and whatever the cause of death, you can see from looking at him that he didn’t suffer.’
‘Well, if you’ve finished here, I’ll take him away. The results of the autopsy should be ready later today.’
‘Berasategui didn’t die of natural causes,’ Amaia broke in. The others said nothing, and she thought she heard Zabalza sigh. ‘Look at the way he’s arranged, right in the centre of the bed. Clothes smoothed out, shoes polished. Hands placed exactly as he’d want us to see them when we walked in here. This guy was a proud, vain narcissist, who would never have let us discover him in an embarrassing or humiliating attitude.’
‘Suicide doesn’t fit the profile of a narcissistic personality,’ Jonan ventured.
‘Yes, I know, that’s what threw me when we walked in. On the one hand, it fits; on the other, it doesn’t. Suicide may not be typical of someone with his personality, but if Berasategui were going to take his own life, this is exactly how I imagine he’d go about it.’
‘But the body shows no signs of suicide,’ protested Zabalza.
His curiosity piqued, San Martín approached Berasategui’s corpse, felt his throat, lifted his eyelids and looked down his throat.
‘All the hallmarks of a heart attack, but it’s true he was relatively young and in good shape. On the other hand, there are no lesions, no defensive wounds, or other signs of injury. Anyone would think,’ said the doctor, looking round at the company, ‘that he simply lay down and died.’
‘Quite right, Doctor. That’s exactly what he did: he lay down and died. But to do that, he needed help. How long had he been in isolation?’ she said, addressing the director.
‘Since approximately eleven o’clock yesterday morning, shortly after Judge Markina called me. I was away, but my deputy informed me fifteen minutes after he’d been moved.’
‘Are there any cameras in these cells?’ asked Montes, shining a flashlight into the corners of the room.
‘No, they aren’t necessary. Guards monitor prisoners in isolation through the windows in the cell doors. But we have CCTV out in the corridors. I assumed you’d want to see the tape, so I’ve prepared a copy.’
‘What about the two men who were guarding him yesterday?’
‘They’ve been suspended, pending an investigation of that other incident,’ replied the director, looking uncomfortable.
Montes and Etxaide, having no idea what this ‘other incident’ might be, turned to look at her, demanding answers. Ignoring them, Amaia approached the bunk once more and said:
‘Dr Berasategui had no wish to die, but his personality prevented him from permitting another to take his life for him.’
‘He didn’t want to die, yet he killed himself …?’
She leaned over the body, illuminating his face with her flashlight. Berasategui’s bronzed skin revealed a whitish residue confined to the wrinkles around his eyes.
‘Tears,’ announced San Martín.
‘Yes, sir,’ she agreed. ‘True to his nature as a narcissist, Berasategui lay down here, out of self-pity, wept over his own death. Copiously,’ she said, feeling a patch of fabric visibly darker than the rest. ‘He cried so much he soaked the pillow with his tears.’
12
Montes felt satisfied. The CCTV footage revealed a guard approaching Berasategui’s cell, and slipping something through the window, which, although it wasn’t visible on camera could easily have been something he used to kill himself. The guard had finished his shift and made himself scarce by the time they sent a patrol car to his house. He was probably in France or Portugal by now. Even so, knowing that bastard Berasategui was dead had made Montes’s day.
As he leaned forward to turn on the radio, the car swerved slightly, the front tyre touching the white line at the side of the road.
‘Careful!’ cried Zabalza from the passenger seat. He’d been subdued throughout the journey and Montes assumed he was sulking because he’d refused to let him drive. What the hell! No brat was going to take the wheel while Montes was in the car. He glanced sidelong at him, grinning.
‘Calm down, you’re as a tense as a teenage boy’s scrotum,’ he said, laughing at his own joke, until he saw that Zabalza was still irritated.
‘What’s the matter with you?’
‘She drives me crazy …’
‘Who?’
‘Who do you think? The fucking star cop.’
‘Watch your mouth, lad!’ warned Montes.
‘Didn’t you see that mystical act she puts on? The way she stood looking at Berasategui’s body, as if she felt sorry for him, waiting for the room to go quiet before she spoke, as if she was about to pass judgement. As for that bullshit about him crying – for fuck’s sake! Everyone knows that corpses cry, piss themselves, leak fluid from every orifice.’
‘Berasategui certainly didn’t piss himself … I imagine he was careful not to drink anything, because he wanted to be immaculate when we found him. Besides, the pillow was sodden. I think the guy really did weep over his own death.’
‘Rubbish,’ scoffed Zabalza.
‘No, it isn’t rubbish. You should be watching, not criticising, you might learn something.’
‘Who from? That clown?’
The two men were thrown forward slightly, as Montes stepped on the brakes, pulling over into a lay-by.
‘Why did you do that?’ Zabalza cried, startled.
‘Because I don’t want to hear you talk about Inspector Salazar like that again. Not only is she your superior, she’s an outstanding police officer and a loyal colleague.’
‘For fuck’s sake, Fermín!’ Zabalza laughed. ‘Don’t get so upset. You’re the one who coined the phrase “star cop” remember.’
Montes looked straight at him as he started the car again.
‘You’re right, and I was wrong. They say hindsight is twenty-twenty, don’t they? If you have any problems, you can always come to me, but I warn you, I won’t hear any more of this kind of talk,’ he said, joining the motorway again.
‘I don’t have any problems,’ muttered Zabalza.
As she left the cell, Amaia noticed the prison governor standing further along the corridor talking to Judge Markina, whose hushed voice brought back vivid recollections of her dream the night before. She concentrated on the brief summary she would give him before making her escape, but it was too late, the murmur of his voice had drawn her in, even though she was too far away to hear what he was saying. She stood watching his gesticulations, his habit of touching his face when he spoke, the way his jeans narrowed at the waist, how the blue of his shirt gave him a youthful air. She found herself speculating about how old he was, thinking it odd that she didn’t know. She waited for Dr San Martín to arrive and then joined them. She did her best to avoid Markina’s gaze while she gave a brief report, but without making it too obvious.
‘Will you attend the autopsy, Inspector?’ asked San Martín, with a sweeping gesture that included Deputy Inspector Etxaide.
‘Start without me, Doctor, I’ll join you later. Perhaps you’d like to go, Jonan, there’s something I have to do first,’ she added evasively.
‘Going home again today, boss?’ he teased.
She smiled, admiring his astuteness.
‘All right, Deputy Inspector, would you like to come with me?’
13
The receptionist at the University Hospital hadn’t forgotten Amaia, judging by the way the woman’s face froze the instant she saw her. Even so, the inspector fished out her badge, prodding Jonan to do likewise. Both detectives placed their badges squarely on the counter.
‘We’d like to see Dr Sarasola, please.’
‘I don’t know if he’s here,’ the woman replied, picking up the receiver. She gave their names, listened to the reply then, with a sour expression, motioned towards the lift doors. ‘Fourth floor, they’ll show you the way.’ There was a tone of caution in the woman’s voice as she said these last words. Amaia grinned at her and winked, then started towards the lift.
Sarasola received them in his office, behind a desk heaped with papers, which he pushed aside. He stood up, accompanying them to the chairs over by the window.
‘I imagine you’re here about Dr Berasategui’s death,’ he said, as they shook hands.
Few things happened in Pamplona without Sarasola’s knowledge; even so, Amaia and Deputy Inspector Etxaide were somewhat taken aback. Noticing their expressions, he added:
‘The prison governor has family ties with Opus Dei.’
Amaia nodded.
‘So, how may I help you?’
‘Did you visit Dr Berasategui in prison?’
They knew that Sarasola had visited him. She’d asked the question to see whether he’d admit it.
‘On three separate occasions – in a purely professional capacity, I might add. As you know, I have a special interest in cases of abnormal behaviour that possess the nuance of evil.’
‘Did Dr Berasategui mention anything to you about Rosario’s escape, or what happened that night?’ asked Etxaide.
‘I’m afraid our conversations were rather technical and abstract – although fascinating, needless to say. Berasategui was an excellent clinician, which made discussing his own behaviour and actions a daunting task. He thwarted all my attempts to analyse him so that in the end I limited myself to offering him spiritual solace. In any event, nothing he might have said about Rosario or what happened that night would be of any use. One thing I do know is that you should never listen to people who have embraced evil, because they only tell lies.’
Amaia stifled a sigh, which Jonan recognised as a sign that she was becoming impatient.
‘So did you talk about Rosario, or have you lost interest in the matter?’
‘Of course, but he immediately changed the subject. Knowing what you do now, Inspector, I trust that you no longer hold me responsible for Rosario’s escape.’
‘I don’t. However, I am beginning to suspect that this is all part of a far more intricate plan, starting with Rosario’s transfer from Santa María de las Nieves and culminating in the events of that night – which weren’t your fault, either.’
Sarasola leaned forward in his chair and looked straight at Amaia.
‘I’m glad you’re beginning to understand,’ he said.
‘Oh, I understand, but I still find it difficult to believe that a man like you didn’t notice that something untoward was going on in this clinic.’
‘This isn’t my—’
‘I know, I know, it’s not your clinic, but you know perfectly well what I mean,’ she snapped.
‘And I apologised for that,’ he protested. ‘You’re right, once I became involved in the case I should have kept a closer eye on Berasategui, but in this instance I, too, am a victim.’
She always found it distasteful when someone who wasn’t dead or in hospital referred to themselves as a victim. Amaia knew only too well what it meant to be a victim, and Sarasola wasn’t one.
‘In any event, Berasategui’s suicide doesn’t add up. I visited him in prison too, and I’d have said he was more of an escape risk than a suicide risk.’
‘Suicide is a form of escape,’ Jonan broke in, ‘although it doesn’t fit his profile.’
‘I agree with Inspector Salazar,’ replied Sarasola, ‘and allow me to tell you something about behaviour profiles. They may work, even for individuals suffering from mental illness. But they are far from reliable when dealing with someone who is the embodiment of evil.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean when I talk about a premeditated plan. What would drive a man like that to take his own life?’ declared Amaia.
‘The same thing that drove him to carry out those other acts: to achieve some unknown end.’
‘Bearing that in mind, do you believe Rosario is dead, or that somehow she got away?’
‘I know no more than you. Everything points to the river having—’
‘Dr Sarasola, I was hoping we had got beyond that stage in our relationship. Why not help me instead of telling me what you think I want to hear?’ she said.
‘I believe that, besides inciting those men to commit murder, Berasategui devised a way of drawing you into the investigation by leaving your ancestors’ bones in the church at Arizkun, that for months he was working towards Rosario’s transfer from Santa María de las Nieves, and her subsequent escape from this clinic. The plan was meticulously carried out, which makes me think that he took every possible contingency into account. Rosario may be an elderly woman, but after seeing the images of her leaving the clinic with Berasategui, I …’
‘You what?’
‘I believe she’s out there, somewhere,’ he admitted.
‘But why involve me, why this provocation?’
‘I can only think that it’s connected with your mother.’
Amaia took a photograph out of her bag and passed it to him.
‘This is the inside of the cave where Berasategui and my mother were preparing to kill my son, Ibai.’
Sarasola studied the image, looked at Amaia for a few seconds, then at the photograph again.
‘Doctor, I suspect that the tarttalo killings are the grisly tip of an iceberg aimed at drawing our attention away from a far more horrible crime. Something connected to these sacrileges that would explain the clear symbolic use of bones belonging to children in my family, why they wanted to kill my son and didn’t, and, I believe, the Church’s response to a desecration, which on the face of it wasn’t all that shocking.’
Sarasola looked at them in silence, then examined the photograph once more. Amaia leaned forward, touching the priest’s forearm.
‘I need your help, please. Tell me what you see in this picture.’
‘Inspector Salazar, you’re aware that you share the name of an illustrious inquisitor. When the witch hunts reached their apogee, your ancestor, Salazar y Frías opened an investigation into the presence of evil in the Baztán Valley, which spread across the border to France. After dwelling among the population for over a year, he concluded that the practice of witchcraft was much more deeply rooted in the local culture than Christianity itself, which although firmly established, had been bastardised by the old beliefs that held sway in the area prior to the foundation of the Catholic Church. Salazar y Frías was an open-minded man, a scientist and investigator, who employed methods of inquiry and analysis similar to those you use today. Of course, many of the people questioned were undoubtedly driven to confess to such practices to avoid being tortured by the Inquisition, the mere mention of which sent them into a panic. I admire Salazar y Frías’s decision to put a stop to that insanity, but among the numerous crimes he investigated, many remained unsolved, in particular those involving the deaths of children, infants and young girls, whose bodies subsequently disappeared. Such stories appear in several statements; however, once the cruel methods of the Inquisition were abolished, all the statements taken at that time were deemed unreliable.
‘What I see in this photograph is the scene of a sacrifice, a human sacrifice, the victim of which was to be your son. Human sacrifice is a heinous practice used in witchcraft and devil worship. It was the appearance of children’s bones in the desecrations at Arizkun that raised the alarm; it is common in devil worship to use human remains, especially those of children. However, the sacrifice of a living child is considered the highest offering.’
‘I know about Salazar y Frías. I understand what you’re saying, but are you suggesting a connection between the practice of witchcraft in the seventeenth century and the desecrations in Arizkun, or what nearly happened to Ibai?’
Sarasola nodded slowly.
‘How much do you know about witches, Inspector? And I don’t mean witch doctors or faith healers, but rather the ones described by the Brothers Grimm in their fairy tales.’
Jonan leaned forward, interested.
‘I know that they’re covered in warts and dwell deep in the forest,’ said Amaia.
‘Do you know what they eat?’
‘They eat children,’ replied Jonan.
Amaia laughed.
The priest turned to her, irritated by her sarcasm.
‘Inspector,’ he cautioned, ‘stop playing games with me. Ever since you walked in here, I’ve had the impression that you know more than you’re willing to let on. This is no laughing matter; stories that become folklore after being passed down through generations usually contain a grain of truth. Perhaps witches don’t literally eat children, but they feed off the lives of innocents offered in sacrifice.’
Sarasola was shrewd enough to have figured out that, as a homicide detective, she had more reasons for asking him about this subject than those she was prepared to admit.
‘All right, so what do they get in exchange for these sacrifices?’
‘Health, life, riches …’
‘And people actually believe that? I mean now, as opposed to in the seventeenth century. They believe that by performing human sacrifices they will obtain some of these benefits?’
Sarasola sighed despairingly.
‘Inspector, if you wish to understand anything about how this works, then you must stop thinking about whether it’s logical or not, whether it corresponds to your computerised world, your profiling techniques. Stop thinking in terms of what you think a modern person would believe.’
‘I find that impossible.’
‘That’s where you are mistaken as are all those fools who base their idea of the world on what they see as logical, scientifically proven fact. Believe me, the men who condemned Galileo for suggesting that the Earth revolved around the Sun did exactly the same thing: based on their centuries-old understanding of the cosmos, they argued that the Earth was the centre of the universe. Think about this before you reply: do we know, or do we believe we know because that’s what we’ve been told? Have we ourselves tested each of the absolute laws which we accept unquestioningly because people have been repeating them to us over the centuries?’
‘The same argument could apply to the belief in the existence of God or the Devil, which the Church has upheld for centuries—’
‘Indeed, and you are right to question that, though perhaps not for the reasons you think. Find out for yourself, search for God, search for the Devil, then draw your own conclusions, but don’t judge other people’s beliefs. Millions live lives based on faith: faith in God, a spaceship that will take them to Orion, the belief that by blowing themselves to bits they will enter paradise, where honey flows from fountains and virgins attend their every need. What difference does it make? If you want to understand, you must stop thinking about whether it’s logical, and start accepting that faith is real, it has consequences in the real world, people are prepared to kill for their beliefs. Now consider the question again.’
