Kitabı oku: «Offering to the Storm», sayfa 6
‘Okay, why children, and what is done to them?’
‘Children under two are used in ritual sacrifices. Often they are bled to death. In some cases they are dismembered, and the body parts used. Skulls are highly prized, as are the longer bones, like the mairu-beso used in the desecrations at Arizkun. Other rituals make use of teeth, nails, hair and powdered bone made by crushing up the smaller bones. Of all the liturgical objects used in witchcraft, the bodies of small children are the most highly valued.’
‘Why children under two?’
‘Because they are in a transitional phase,’ Jonan broke in. ‘Many cultures believe that, prior to reaching that age, children move between two worlds, enabling them to see and hear what happens in both. This makes them the perfect vehicle for communicating with the spirit world, or obtaining favours.’
‘That’s correct. Children develop instinctual learning up to the age of two: standing, walking, holding objects, and other imitative behaviour. After that, they start to develop language, they cross a barrier, and their relationship with their surroundings changes. They cease to make such good vehicles, although similarly, youths of pre-pubescent age are also prized by those practising witchcraft.’
‘If someone stole a corpse for such purposes, where might they take it?’
‘Well, as a detective I imagine you’ve already worked that out: to a remote place, where they can perform their rituals without fear of being discovered. Although, I think I see where you’re going with this. You’re imagining temples, churches or other holy places. And you’d be quite right if we were talking about Satanism, whose aim is not only to worship the Devil, but also to offend God. However, witchcraft is a far more wide-ranging branch of evil than Satanism, and the two aren’t as closely related as you might think. Many creeds use human remains as vehicles for obtaining favours; for example, Voodoo, Santería, Palo and Candomblé, which summon deities as well as dead spirits. They perform their rituals in holy places as a way of desecrating them. And, of course, Arizkun is situated in the Baztán Valley, which has a long tradition of witchcraft, and of summoning Aker, the devil.’
Amaia remained silent for a few seconds, looking out of the window at the gloomy Pamplona sky to avoid the priest’s probing gaze. The two men said nothing, aware that behind Amaia’s calm appearance her brain was working hard. When she turned once more to Sarasola, her sarcasm had given way to resolve.
‘Dr Sarasola, do you know what Inguma is?’
‘Mau Mau, or Inguma. Not what, but who. In Sumerian demonology, he is known as Lamashtu, an evil spirit as old as time, one of the most terrible, cruel demons, surpassed only by Pazazu – the Sumerian name for Lucifer. Lamashtu would tear babies from their mother’s breast to feed on their flesh and drink their blood, or cause babies to die suddenly during sleep. Demons that killed babies while they slept existed in ancient cultures too: in Turkey they were known as “crushing demons”, while in Africa the name translates literally as “demon that rides on your back”. Among the Hmong people he is known as the “torturing demon”, and in the Philippines the phenomenon is known as bangungut, and the perpetrator is an old woman called Batibat. In Japan, Sudden Infant Death Syndrome is known as pokkuri. Henry Fuseli’s famous painting The Nightmare portrays a young woman asleep on a chaise longue while a hideous demon crouches on her chest. Oblivious to his presence, the woman appears to be trapped in a nightmare. The demon has many different names, but his method is always the same: he creeps into the rooms of sleeping victims at night and sits on their chests, sometimes clutching their throats, producing a terrifying feeling of suffocation. During this nightmare, they may be conscious, but unable to move or wake up. At other times Inguma places his mouth over that of the sleeper, sucking out their breath until they expire.’
‘Do you believe …?’
‘I’m a priest, Inspector, and you’re still thinking about this in the wrong way. Naturally, I’m a believer, but what matters is the power of these myths. In Rome, every morning at dawn, an Exorcism Prayer is performed. Various priests pray for the liberation of possessed souls, and afterwards they attend to people who come to them asking for help. Many are psychiatric cases, but by no means all.’
‘And yet exorcism has been shown to have a placebo effect on people who believe themselves to be possessed.’
‘Inspector, have you heard of the Hmong? They are an ethnic group that live in the mountainous regions of China, Vietnam, Laos and Thailand, and who collaborated with the Americans during the Vietnam War. When the conflict ended, their fellow countrymen condemned them, and many fled to the United States. In 1980, the Center for Disease Control in Atlanta recorded an extraordinary rise in the number of sudden deaths during sleep: two hundred and thirty Hmong men died of asphyxia in their sleep in the US, but many more were affected; survivors claimed to see an old witch crouched over them, squeezing their throats tight. Alerted to what was happening, parents began sleeping next to their sons to rouse them from these nightmares. When the attacks took place, they would shake them awake, or drag them out of bed. The most terrifying part was that, trapped in their waking dream, the boys could see the sinister old woman, feel her crooked fingers on their throats. This didn’t happen in a remote region of Thailand, but in places like New York, Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles … All over the country, every night, Hmong men suffered such attacks. Those who didn’t succumb were kept under strict surveillance in hospital, where the invisible attacks, in which the victims seemed to be strangled by some invisible creature, were witnessed and videod. Doctors were at a loss to diagnose a specific illness. The Hmong’s own shamans concluded that the demon was targeting this particular generation of Hmong because they had become distanced from their centuries-old traditions and protections. Requests to perform purification rites around the victims were mostly refused, because they involved animal sacrifice, even though in cases where permission was granted, the attacks ceased.
‘In 1917, seven hundred and twenty-two people died in their sleep in the Philippines, suffocated by Batibat, which translates literally as “the fat old woman”. And in 1959 in Japan, five hundred healthy young men died at the hands of pokkuri. It is believed that when Inguma awakens, he goes on a murderous rampage until his thirst is quenched, or until he is stopped by some other means. In the case of the Hmong people, the phenomenon that claimed the lives of two hundred and thirty healthy boys remains unsolved to this day.’ His eyes fixed on Amaia. ‘Even science could offer no explanation: autopsies were carried out, but the cause of death could not be determined.’
14
In accordance with Amaia’s orders, Dr San Martín had started the autopsy without them. When she and Etxaide approached the steel table, at the centre of a room filled with medical students, the pathologist had his back to them, and was busy weighing the internal organs on a scale. He turned, smiling when he saw them.
‘Just in time, we’re almost done. The toxicology tests show high levels of an extremely powerful sedative. We’ve identified the active ingredient, but I won’t hazard a guess as to the name of the drug. As a doctor, Berasategui would have known which one to use and how much to take. Most are injectable, but the small abrasions on the sides of the tongue suggest he took it orally.’
Amaia leaned over to examine through the magnifying glass the row of tiny blisters either side of the tongue, which San Martín was holding up for her with a pair of forceps.
‘I can smell a sweet, acidic odour,’ she remarked.
‘Yes, it’s more noticeable now. Perhaps the cologne Berasategui doused himself in masked it. A vain fellow indeed.’
Amaia examined the body as she listened to San Martín. The ‘Y’ incision started at the shoulders, travelling down the chest to the pelvis, laying bare the glistening insides, whose vivid colours had always fascinated her. On this occasion, San Martín and his team had forced open the ribcage to extract and weigh the internal organs, doubtless interested to see the effects of a powerful sedative on a healthy young male. The startlingly white ribs pointed up towards the ceiling. The denuded bones had a surreal look, like the frame of a boat, or a dead whale’s skeleton, or the long, eerie fingers of some inner creature trying to climb out of his dead body. No other surgical procedure quite resembled an autopsy; the only word that came close to describing it was wondrous. She understood the fascination it held for Ripper-type murderers, many of whom were skilled at making precise incisions at exactly the right depth to enable them to extract the organs in a particular order without damaging them.
Amaia observed the assistants and medical students, listening attentively to San Martín, as he pointed to the different sections of the liver, explaining how it had stopped functioning. By then, Berasategui was almost certainly unconscious. He had sought a dignified, painless death, but even he couldn’t avoid the procedure, which, he knew would inevitably follow. Berasategui hadn’t wanted to die, he had certainly never considered taking his own life. A narcissist like him would only have accepted suicide if he were forced to relinquish the control he exercised over others. And yet she had seen for herself how he had surmounted that obstacle in prison. He’d done what he did, against his own will, and that constituted a discrepancy, an abnormal element, which Amaia couldn’t ignore. Berasategui had wept over his own suicide like a condemned man forced to walk a green mile from which there was no return.
Turning to share her thoughts with Jonan, she saw that he was standing back, behind the students gathered around San Martín. Arms folded, he was gazing at the nightmarish vision of the wet, naked corpse splayed open on a table, ribs exposed to the air.
‘Come closer, Deputy Inspector Etxaide, I’ve been saving the stomach until last … I thought you’d be interested to see the contents, although there’s no doubt he swallowed the sedative.’
One of the assistants placed a strainer over a beaker, and then, tilting the stomach, which San Martín had clamped at one end, she emptied the viscid, yellow contents into the receptacle. The stench of vomit mixed with the tranquiliser was nauseating. Amaia looked on as Jonan retched, and the students exchanged knowing looks.
‘Here we see traces of sedative,’ said San Martín, ‘indicating that he reduced his food and liquid intake in order to absorb the drug more rapidly. The contact of the drug with the mucous membrane stimulated the production of stomach acid. It would be interesting to dissect the intestine, trachea and oesophagus to see how it affected those organs.’
The suggestion was greeted with general enthusiasm except by Amaia.
‘We’d love to stay, Doctor, but have to get back to Elizondo. If you’d be so kind as to give us the name of the sedative as soon as possible; we already know one of the guards supplied him with it, and probably also removed the empty phial. Having the name would help us find out how he got hold of it and whether he acted alone.’
Jonan was visibly relieved at the news. After saying goodbye to San Martín, he walked ahead of her towards the exit, trying not to touch anything. Amaia followed, amused at his behaviour.
‘Hold on a moment.’ San Martín handed over the reins to one of his assistants, and, tossing his gloves into a waste bin, plucked an envelope from his pigeonhole. ‘The test results of the decaying matter on the toy bear.’
Amaia’s interest quickened.
‘I thought they’d take much longer …’
‘Yes, the process was problematic because of the singular nature of the sample. Doubtless a copy will be waiting for you in Elizondo, but since you’re here …’
‘What’s so special about the sample? Isn’t it saliva?’
‘Possibly. In fact, everything suggests that it is indeed saliva. The singularity resides in the vast quantity of bacteria present in the fluid, hence the ghastly stench. And, of course, the fact that it isn’t human.’
‘It is saliva, but it isn’t human? Where is it from then, an animal?’
‘The fluid resembles saliva, and it could come from an animal, although, judging from those levels of bacteria, I’d say a dead one. I’m no expert in zoology, but the only animal I can think of is a Komodo dragon.’
Amaia’s eyes opened wide with surprise.
‘I know,’ declared San Martín. ‘It sounds absurd, and, needless to say we have no sample of Komodo dragon saliva with which to compare it. But that’s what came to mind when I saw the amount of bacteria it contained. Enough to cause septicaemia in anyone who touched it.’
‘I know a zoologist who might be able to help us. Has a sample been kept?’
He shook his head. ‘It was relatively fresh when the toy bear arrived at the lab, but I’m afraid it degraded too quickly to be of use.’
Amaia always let Jonan drive when she needed to think. Berasategui’s suicide had taken them by surprise, but it was the conversation with Sarasola that was occupying her mind. The murder of Valentín Esparza’s little girl, his attempt to make off with her body, a body he insisted shouldn’t be cremated. But more than anything, it was the coffin weighted with bags of sugar that had brought back the painful image of another white coffin resting in her family vault in San Sebastián; only a month ago she had prised it open to discover that someone had replaced the body with bags of gravel.
She needed to question Valentín Esparza again. He had read out his statement before the magistrate, adding nothing new. He admitted to taking his daughter’s dead body because he wanted to be with her for a while. But it was his remark about giving up his daughter to Inguma, the demon that robbed children’s breath, ‘like all the other sacrifices’, that continued to echo in her head. He had smothered his daughter. Traces of his skin and saliva had been found on the toy; besides the mystery of the unknown bacteria, the method was painfully familiar.
She called ahead to Elizondo to convene a meeting as soon as they arrived, but otherwise she hardly spoke during the journey. It wasn’t raining that afternoon, although it was so damp and cold that Jonan decided to park in the garage. As she was reaching to open the car door, she turned to him.
‘Jonan, could you collect some data on the frequency of Sudden Infant Death Syndrome in the valley in the last five years, say?’
‘Of course, I’ll get on to it right away,’ he said with a smile.
‘And you can wipe that grin off your face. I don’t believe for a moment that a demon is responsible for the Esparza girl’s death. However, I have a witness who says that a sect was set up in a farmhouse here in the valley in the seventies, a sort of hippy commune. They started to dabble in the occult, and went as far as carrying out ritual animal sacrifices. The witness claims there was some talk about sacrificing humans, specifically newborn babies. When the witness stopped attending the meetings, she was harassed by some of the other sect members. She can’t remember exactly how long the gatherings continued, but in all likelihood the group eventually dispersed. As I say, it was clearly the father not a demon who killed that child. But in light of Esparza’s attempt to abduct the body, together with what Sarasola told us, and the proliferation of sects and other cults known to European police forces, I think it’s worth checking for any statistical anomalies in infant death rates here in the valley compared to other regions and countries.’
‘Do you think your sister’s body may have suffered the same fate?’
‘I don’t know, Jonan, but the feeling of déjà vu when I saw the photographs of that empty coffin convinced me we’re looking at the same modus operandi. This isn’t evidence, it’s just a hunch, which may lead nowhere. Let’s compare your data with that of our colleagues, and then we’ll see.’
She was about to enter the house when her phone rang. The screen showed an unknown number.
‘Inspector Salazar,’ she said, answering.
‘Is it nighttime already in Baztán, Inspector?’
She recognised instantly the gravelly voice on the other end of the phone, even though he was speaking in a whisper.
‘Aloisius! But, what is this number …?’
‘It’s a safe number, but you mustn’t call me on it. I’ll call you when you need me.’
She didn’t bother to ask how he would know when she needed him. Somehow their relationship had always been like that. She moved away from the house and spent the next few minutes explaining to Dupree everything she knew about the case: her belief that her mother was alive, the dead girl that had to be given up, Elena Ochoa’s behaviour, Berasategui’s message from her mother, and his staged suicide. The unusual saliva sample resembling that of an ancient reptile which only existed on the far away island of Komodo …’
He listened to her in silence, and, when she had finished, he asked:
‘You’re faced with a complex puzzle, but that’s not why you called … What did you want to ask me about?’
‘The dead girl’s great grandmother claimed that a demon by the name of Inguma entered through a crack, sat on the girl’s chest, and sucked the air from her lungs; she says that this demon has appeared on other occasions, and taken many children’s lives. Father Sarasola explained to me that Inguma exists in other cultures: Sumerian, African, and Hmong, as well as in the old, dark folktales of the Baztán Valley.’
She heard a deep sigh on the other end of the phone. Then nothing. Silence.
‘Aloisius, are you there?’
‘I can’t talk any more. I’ll try to send you something in the next few days … I have to hang up now.’
The disconnection tone reached her through the earpiece.
15
Ros Salazar had smoked from the age of seventeen up until the moment when she decided she wanted to become a mother. But apparently that wasn’t to be. Since separating from Freddy, her relations with men had amounted to a few half-hearted flirtations in bars; Elizondo didn’t offer too many other options when it came to finding a partner, so the chances of meeting someone new were minimal. And yet she still found herself increasingly obsessed about her prospects of becoming a mother, even though in her case that would probably mean going it alone. With that in mind, she had refrained from taking up smoking again, although occasionally, late at night, after her aunt went to bed, she would roll a joint. Afterwards, on the pretext of getting some fresh air, she would walk to the bakery. There she would sit in her office, peacefully smoking, enjoying the solitude of remaining behind in her place of business after everyone else had gone home.
She was surprised to see that the lights were still on, her immediate assumption being that Ernesto had forgotten to switch them off before locking up. As she opened the door, she noticed that her office light was also on. She reached for her phone, punched in the number for the emergency services, her finger poised over the call button, then shouted:
‘Who’s there? The police are on their way.’
She heard a sudden noise of things being moved, a thud followed by a rustle.
Just as she pressed the button, Flora’s voice rang out:
‘Ros, it’s only me …’
‘Flora?’ she said, ending the call and approaching the office. ‘What are you doing here? I thought we were being burgled.’
‘I …’ Flora faltered. ‘I thought … I was sure I’d forgotten something, and I came to see if I’d left it here.’
‘What?’
Flora glanced about nervously.
‘My bag,’ she lied.
‘Your bag?’ repeated Ros. ‘Well, it’s not here.’
‘I can see that, and I was just leaving,’ she said, pushing past her sister towards the exit.
A moment later, Ros heard the heavy door of the bakery slam shut. She scanned the office, scrutinising each object. She had surprised Flora doing something suspicious, that much was clear, something that had caused her to make up that ridiculous excuse about her bag. But what could have prompted her to sneak into the bakery in the middle of the night?
Ros moved the swivel chair out from behind the desk and placed it in the centre of the room. She sat down, felt in her pocket for the joint she had brought with her, and lit it. She took a long draw, which made her feel dizzy. She exhaled, leaning back in the chair and turning in a slow circle, letting each object in the room tell its story. One hour and several turns later, her eye alighted on the wall where her favourite painting of the covered market hung. She would often contemplate the scene, because of the calm it radiated, but that wasn’t what drew her attention now. The painting had spoken. She rose to make sure she had interpreted its message correctly, smiling when she saw the heel marks left by Flora’s shoes on the sofa below. She stood on the same spot, and lifted the frame, which was heavier than she’d expected.
She wasn’t surprised to see the safe, she knew it was there; Flora had installed it years ago, to keep the cash with which to pay their suppliers. Nowadays, she paid them by bank transfer, so, to all intents and purposes, the safe should have been empty. Resting the painting on the sofa, Ros ran her fingers over the wheel lock, although she realised there was no point in trying the combination. She returned to the chair, gazing at that box buried in the wall, musing over many things until the small hours of the morning.
It had started to rain before dawn. Amaia had been aware of the rhythmical pitter-patter against the bedroom shutters during the many micro-awakenings that plagued her sleep, and which she found particularly irksome now that Ibai had started to sleep through. Although the rain had stopped by the time she got up, the wet streets were uninviting, and it came as a relief to enter the warm, dry police station.
As she made her way in, she greeted Montes, Zabalza and Iriarte, gathered as usual around the coffee machine.
‘Do you fancy a coffee, boss?’ Montes asked.
Amaia paused, noting with amusement Zabalza’s sulky expression.
‘Thanks, Inspector, but there’s no pleasure in drinking coffee out of a plastic cup. I’ll make myself a proper one later, in a mug.’
Deputy Inspector Etxaide was waiting for her in her office.
‘Boss, I’ve dug up some interesting facts about SIDS.’
She hung up her coat, switched on her computer and sat down at her desk.
‘I’m listening.’
‘Sudden Infant Death Syndrome, or SIDS, is the name given to unexplained deaths among babies younger than one, but sometimes as old as two. Death occurs during sleep and is apparently painless. Two out of every thousand babies in Europe die of SIDS, ninety per cent within the first six months. Statistically, SIDS is the most widespread cause of death among healthy babies over one month old, although that is largely because if no other cause is discovered during autopsy, death is attributed to SIDS.’
He placed a printout on the desk in front of her. ‘I’ve made a list of the various risk factors, and how to minimise them, although they’re fairly wide-ranging; from prenatal care, breastfeeding and passive smoking, through to how the baby is positioned during sleep. Interestingly, most deaths occur in winter. The average number of deaths in Spain from SIDS is the same as in the rest of Europe. Seventeen children died from SIDS in Navarre in the last five years, four of them in Baztán – numbers which are also well within the norm.’
Amaia looked at him, considering the information.
‘In all cases, an autopsy was performed and the cause of death was registered as SIDS. However, in two of them, the pathologist recommended that social services investigate the family,’ he said, handing her a sheaf of stapled pages. ‘There’s no additional information, but it seems both cases were closed without any further action being taken.’
After knocking gently, Montes poked his head round the door.
‘I hope I’m not interrupting. Etxaide, are you coming for a coffee?’
Clearly surprised by the invitation, Jonan glanced at Amaia, arching his eyebrows.
‘Go ahead, it’ll give me time to read through all this,’ she said, holding up the report.
After Jonan had gone out, Montes poked his head round the door again, and winked.
‘Get out of here!’ she said, grinning.
As Montes left, Iriarte entered.
‘A woman has been found dead,’ he announced. ‘Her daughter drove all the way from Pamplona to check up on her because she wasn’t answering the phone. Apparently, when she got there the mother had vomited huge amounts of blood. She rang the emergency services, but paramedics couldn’t save the woman. The doctor who examined the body suspects that something isn’t right, so he called us …’
Driving across the bridge, she could see in the distance various vehicles belonging to the emergency services. It was only when they reached the end of the street that Amaia saw which house they were attending. In that instant, all the air seemed to be sucked out of the car, leaving her gasping for breath.
‘Do you know the dead woman’s name?’
‘Ochoa,’ said Iriarte. ‘I can’t remember her first name.’
‘Elena Ochoa.’
She needed no confirmation from Iriarte. A pale, distraught woman, looking like a younger version of her mother, stood smoking a cigarette outside the front door. Next to her, a man, presumably her partner, had his arm around her, practically holding her up.
She passed by without speaking to them, walked along the narrow corridor, and was guided to the bedroom by a paramedic. The heat in the room had intensified the pungent smell of blood and urine emanating from the pool surrounding Elena’s body. She was on her knees, jammed between the bed and a chest of drawers, arms clasped about her midriff, body leaning forward so that her face was resting in a patch of bloody bile. Amaia was relieved that Elena’s eyes were closed. Whereas her posture betrayed what must have been the agony of her final moments, her face appeared relaxed, as if the precise instant of death had been a great release.
Amaia turned towards the doctor, who stood waiting behind her.
‘Inspector Iriarte told me you’d found some anomaly …’
‘Yes, at first I thought she must have suffered a massive internal haemorrhage that filled her stomach with blood, causing her lungs to collapse. But when I looked closer, I could see that her vomit was made up of what appear to be tiny splinters.’
Amaia leaned over the pool of bloody vomit and saw that it did indeed contain hundreds of wood shavings.
Crouching down beside her, the doctor showed her a plastic container.
‘I took a sample, and this is what was left after washing off the blood.’
‘But, surely those are—’
‘Walnut shells, cut into razor-thin slices … I can’t begin to think how she swallowed them, but ingesting this amount would certainly perforate her stomach, duodenum, and trachea. Worst of all, when she vomited them up again, they must have torn her insides to shreds. She seems to have been prescribed anti-depressants. They’re on top of the microwave oven in the kitchen. Of course, she may not have been taking them. I can’t think of a more horrible way to kill oneself.’
Elena Ochoa’s daughter had inherited her mother’s appearance, her name and her hospitality towards guests. She insisted on making coffee for everyone in the house. Amaia had tried to protest, but the boyfriend intervened.
‘It will take her mind off things,’ he said.
From the same chair she had occupied during her most recent visit, Amaia watched the young woman moving about the kitchen. As before, she waited until the cups had been set out and the coffee poured before speaking.
‘I knew your mother.’
‘She never mentioned you,’ said the daughter, surprised.
‘I didn’t know her well. I came here a couple of times to ask her about my mother, Rosario; they were friends in their youth,’ she explained. ‘During my last visit, she seemed agitated. Had you noticed anything strange about your mother’s behaviour in the last few days?’
‘My mother has always suffered with her nerves. She became depressed after my father passed away. She never really got over it. I was seven at the time. She had good days and bad, but she was always fragile. It’s true that, in the last month or so, she was beginning to show signs of paranoia. On the other occasions when that happened, the doctor advised me to be firm, not to feed her fears. But this time I could tell she was genuinely terrified.’
‘You know her better than anyone. Do you think your mother was capable of taking her own life?’
‘You mean, did she kill herself? Never, not in a million years. She was a practising Catholic. Surely you don’t think … My mother died of internal bleeding. She complained of stomach pains when I spoke to her on the phone yesterday. She said she’d taken an antacid and some painkillers, and was going to try drinking camomile tea. I offered to drive up and see her after work. I’ve been living in Pamplona with Luis for a year,’ she said, indicating the young man. ‘We come up most weekends and stay the night. Anyway, she told me not to bother, that it was just a bit of heartburn. Last night, I called her again at bedtime and she told me the camomile tea had helped. But when I called early this morning she didn’t answer …’
