Kitabı oku: «The Legacy of the Bones», sayfa 5

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.