Kitabı oku: «The Legacy of the Bones», sayfa 6

‘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.’